“You owe them.”

“Do I really?”

“They have been working tirelessly on your behalf. Far more than your other patrons.”

“Tirelessly?” Tyron barked a laugh. “They’re gods, I’m not even sure they can tire at all. And, correct me if I’m wrong, but I gather that they’ve essentially not lifted a finger to help their people for several thousand years. I think they’re due for a little work.”

Munhilde glowered furiously at this disrespect, but Tyron remained unrepentant, glaring back as the now familiar fury kindled in his chest.

“They are the only thing shielding you from the eyes of the five pretenders. If they withdrew their support for a second, you would be seen by the oracles, and the armies of the province would march to cut you down.”

This statement angered Tyron, largely because she was correct. Without their protection, the purge would have been knocking on his door before he’d ever had the chance to learn about it. On top of that, the Crone had been responsible for reinforcing his false visage. There was no chance he could have gotten past the Magisters or resisted the efforts of the noble lady who’d attempted to break his facade. So far, all they’d asked in return was for him to lend his support to the growing rebellion, but he hadn’t needed to do much yet. This demand came right before he had a chance to discharge some part of his debt via working with the rebels in Woodsedge. Once he returned to Kenmor, he’d depend on their support again to protect his identity as Lukas Almsfield.

The fact that she was right didn’t do anything to diffuse his anger. Instead, it only seemed to fan the flames, and he struggled for a moment to contain himself.

“It’s the only ritual to speak with your patrons you haven’t performed,” Munhilde pointed out in a softer tone, perhaps sensing his mood.

He resisted the urge to snarl. There was a good reason he’d never done so. After they’d invaded his dreams and threatened Elsbeth to force him to side with them, they were lucky he hadn’t abandoned them completely.

“Fine. Fine. I’ll do it before I leave Cragwhistle.”

He wanted to be out of this conversation, and he wanted to be out of it now. Arguing with the priestess wasn’t going to get him anywhere. She was right, even if he didn’t want to hear it, and losing his temper here in the middle of town was not something he wanted to be involved in.

Munhilde opened her mouth to say something, but the Necromancer was already stomping away. He didn’t like being in Cragwhistle to start with. Despite spending almost no time in town, he was recognised almost everywhere he went. How was it possible? There were so few who he’d spent any amount of time with in town, but that didn’t seem to matter.

As he walked past buildings, people leaned down to whisper to their children, or watched him from the corner of their eyes. Heck, some just openly stared, not caring if he noticed. He could appreciate how open they were, but he hated being the centre of attention, which he inevitably was inside Cragwhistle.

Perhaps he should have brought fewer skeletons with him. But he wasn’t going anywhere without at least a handful of guards, since he wasn’t able to defend himself well without them.

Before he managed to get out of town, Ortan caught up with him, breathing heavily, as if he’d come running. Tyron didn’t break stride as the larger man gasped for air beside him.

“Thanks… thanks for waiting up,” Ortan wheezed.

“What do you want, Ortan?”

It took a few moments for Ortan to gather his breath.

“I wanted to ask when you were going to get back? There’s a lot of people who wanted to meet and speak with you. We’ve kept most of them away. Well, Elsbeth did most of that, but I helped.”

“What could they possibly have to say to me?”

“I don’t know. Some of these people look at you in an… unhealthy way.”

Tyron glanced at him sideways.

“Unhealthy? According to who?”

“According to straight common sense,” Ortan growled. “And do you really have to bring the undead into town?”

“Yes.”

“Ugh. Fine. Anyway, I told them I’d see if you’d speak with them before you leave.”

“No.”

“I figured as much. I’ll let them know. I expect they won’t be happy, but what are they going to do about it?”

“I’ll be back in a few months. If they really have something to say, I can hear it then. If that’s all, I’ll talk to you the next time I’m in town, Ortan. I have to go and prepare for an unpleasant conversation.”

“Oh? Who are you talking to?”

“Three pains in my neck.”

It delayed him by several hours, but he wasn’t prepared to perform a complex ritual like Dark Communion without dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s first. He may have come a long way as a Mage since he first attempted Pierce the Veil, but he hadn’t truly appreciated just how dangerous these rituals were at the time. He’d done almost no work to develop this ritual, since he hadn’t ever intended to cast it, so at the very least, minimal preparations were necessary before making an attempt.

He’d had to ask Elsbeth and Munhilde to entertain the students as he worked. As usual, the spell contained many similar elements to the other two he’d learned as an Anathema. Many dimensional elements, forging a connection between two places and opening the way, but as with those previous rituals, there were elements wholly unique to the patron on whom he was calling. The Dark Ones weren’t beyond a Veil, or within another realm, they were here, with him. Not directly, but their realm, the dark forest, or whatever they called it, was… local. Separate, but part of the place in which he lived.

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This created several key differences in the ritual that he found illuminating, but he didn’t have the time to chase down those loose ends. Right now, he wanted to get this ritual done as quickly as possible. Delaying his departure any longer than necessary was time wasted that he could ill afford to lose.

Right now, he huddled in a crevasse outside of Cragwhistle, sheltered from the near omni-present wind, frantically scrabbling in one of his notebooks. Different collections and orientations of sigils appeared on the page as fast as his hands could manage, but no matter how quickly he wrote, his mind was still faster. One pattern was only half completed before he discarded it and started on another.

It didn’t take as long as it might have for him to piece together something he considered workable. He was much better at this than he once was, but even so, this was quick. Normally, he wouldn’t dare enact this ritual with such flimsy preparations, but he almost disdained to give it that level of care. If the Three wanted to mess with him, there wasn’t an awful lot he could do about it, and he was confident enough in his ritual magick that he felt his rough and ready arrangement would work.

So he committed. He’d brought all the ritual components he needed on the trip, in case a need arose. With the help of his skeletons, he prepared a ritual circle, planted the staff his mother had prepared for him at the head, and began to cast.

Almost immediately after he began to speak, words of power thundering into the air, he felt the change come over him. After five minutes of casting, he could hear a sound, as if the wind around were rustling through the leaves of trees that he couldn’t see.

After twenty minutes, he could smell it, the deep loam and rotted leaf of the forest floor. After thirty minutes, he could feel gnarled roots under his feet. After forty, he could see it, the woods overlapping his own vision, rock and tufts of long grass mixed and blending with ancient trees. At this point, Tyron finally realised what the key differences between this ritual and the others really was. He wasn’t just connecting one place to another, he was travelling.

When he was done, and the last of the sigils was formed, the final words spoken, Tyron lowered his hands, relaxed his voice, and looked around.

The forest was just as he recalled it. An old, old place, the trees burdened with the weight of uncountable years. Mist and moisture clung to everything; the air itself was damp enough that his clothes became immediately uncomfortable.

He rolled his shoulders, ill at ease. This was their place, and he could almost see their power. It was everywhere, full and potent. Was he more sensitive now? Or perhaps the gods truly were more active, their strength waxing as they exerted greater influence on the world.

“I’m somewhat surprised they agreed to let you back in here, given what occurred last time,” a sinuous voice spoke from behind him.

Tyron whirled on the spot and found the thin, hooded figure standing apart from the trees, as if he had always been there. The Necromancer went to make a reply, then hesitated, raising a brow at the Messenger.

“You may speak,” the creature offered a long-suffering sigh. “Despite doing nothing to earn the privilege, you are permitted to profane this sacred place with your worthless utterances.”

“Fuck you too,” Tyron swore. “I haven’t forgotten what happened last time I came here. Haven’t forgotten the way your precious gods tried to break the rules.”

“This is bold talk from a little mage who hides behind the three like a child clinging to their mother,” the Messenger replied, sarcasm cutting like a knife. “You peek from behind their skirts and think yourself bold, but I can see you for what you are.”

“And what am I? Other than an unworthy vessel, in your eyes?”

For a moment the Messenger appeared at a loss.

“An unworthy vessel? You took the words directly from my mouth. That is exactly what you are. Nothing more.”

Tyron folded his arms across his chest.

“Your gods are the ones who demanded I come here. If the only purpose was for you to spit childish insults, then I’ll leave.”

“And how exactly would you leave?” the Messenger drawled from beneath the shadows of his hood.

“I’d rework the ritual to move myself back to the point of origin.”

Not easy to do on the fly, but he could do it.

“Would your magick, even work here? Do you truly understand what this place is?”

“I don’t see the point in speculating, since I don’t believe you have any intention of enlightening me. Since your name is ‘Messenger’, and not ‘Useless piece of shit’, I presume you have something to say to me. What is it?”

“If you do not cease with this disrespect, my gods will shatter your existence like glass!” the Messenger growled.

Tyron raised a brow.

“I’m being disrespectful to you, not them. I believe they know the difference.”

“What you believe bears little resemblance to what is,” the hooded figure hissed. He whirled in place and began to stride away between the trees. “Follow,” came the command, filled with derision and scorn.

There was nothing else to do, so the Necromancer shrugged and began to move forward, trailing after his mysterious guide.

It was such a strange place, this wood. The more he saw, the less certain Tyron became of what it actually was. Were these trees actually trees? Or were they something else entirely? Was it really dirt and roots beneath his feet? Was this place even real in any sense of the word? Time felt strange. Distance felt strange. Much like the Broken Lands, it was as if the normal rules that governed the existence of a being such as himself did not function in this place. What he saw wasn’t what he saw. What he heard wasn’t truly what he heard.

As he puzzled over it, trying to understand just what it was that he was experiencing, the Messenger led him to a clearing, in which he saw three statues.

Except there weren’t three statues.

A Crow perched upon a thin branch, watching him with eyes of thunder. A Rat crawled up from beneath a grasping tree’s roots, chittering with insatiable hunger. An old man, who was also a young man, who was also a newborn babe, who was also a decrepit Crone, grinned at him with a toothless grin, the madness of humanity crowded upon her face.

The Messenger bowed low to each in turn before stepping to the side, and vanishing into the shadows, leaving Tyron alone with the three. With the Three.

The Crow did not speak, and yet it spoke.

DO YOU KNOW, THE NATURE OF MAGICK, THE TRUE IDENTITY OF THAT WHICH INVADES?

All at once, the sheer power of the god washed over Tyron, as those words slammed into his mind. He staggered under the force of it, but held firm.

“No,” he replied when he had steadied. “No I don’t. Magick came through the rifts. Magick corrupts the realms it touches, creating monsters, making rifts, connecting the fallen worlds to their next victims. But I don’t know what it is, or where it came from.”

The Rat stood up on its hind legs.

ENTROPY AFFECTS ALL THINGS. REALMS. GODS. EVEN ENERGY. DO YOU KNOW HOW MAGICK CAN DIE?

The presence of Rot was just as overwhelming as that of his brother god. Tyron reeled before he gathered himself again. What did this question even mean? How to destroy magick? Magick? It was an ever changeable, ever malleable source of energy. It could become fire, water, light, dreams, even death. There was nothing in existence that it couldn’t mimic or influence, but it was never lost.

“I don’t,” he was forced to admit. “I’ve never heard of magick being destroyed, or vanishing. Even when consumed, it merely changes form, or dissipates, only to reform again later.”

The Crone laughed, and a thousand voices laughed along with her.

THEN WE HAVE MUCH WE CAN TEACH YOU.

She grinned.