A luxurious red carpet. A crystal chandelier. Twin staircases running up to a balcony with large windows that looked out into stone darkness.

Deep in the Dungeon, there was a manor. But not just any manor — it was the grand entrance to Granavale Manor, down to the number of balusters on the staircases and the pattern of the chandelier.

All visible through a hole in the wall.

Archmund took a pebble from the ground and threw it into the manor.

It bounced — just once, before thudding to a stop on the carpet.

Then a shadow rushed across his field of vision and whisked it away into nothingness.

“What was that for?” Mercy said, with a cruel smirk.

“I wanted to know what we were up against,” Archmund said.

“Throwing a pebble won’t help with that,” Mercy said. “Zankto, I think we set up base here. I’ll contact the men and tell them to come straight here. No point clearing the upper subtiers.”

“Yes, sir!”

Mercy pulled out yet another crystal. He spoke a short, clipped message into it, too low for Archmund to overhear. Meanwhile, the men made camp, pulling out sleeping rolls from their bags. They didn’t set a fire, which was probably healthier, though they pulled out their waterskins and packs of dried crackers.

The sight of the food made him take pause.

He’d lost track of the time, down here in this lightless Dungeon, but surely it had been several hours. And yet he wasn’t tired, hungry or thirsty, and he didn’t need to piss.

“Why aren’t I tired? Why aren’t any of you tired?”

Mercy gave him a one-over. “You aren’t. I hadn’t realized. You’re more of a natural than I thought.”

“That… doesn’t sound right.”

“If I may interject, how much have you practiced with that Gem, milord?” said Zankto.

“Quite a bit.”

“I reckon it’s like this Gem armor. When you first get it, it sucks you dry, makes you feel slow, but then once you’ve got the hang of it, it keeps you strong.”

Archmund nodded. It made sense; each of the soldiers was Attuned to their armor, after all. Gems took your magic and stored it, and then that magic could feed back into you to compensate for fatigue or hunger.

It seemed a little overpowered, but he wasn’t complaining.

“So why bring food?”

“It’s still better to eat, milord,” Vurl said. “Otherwise you’ll be sick as all hell for a week after a Dungeon delve.”

He tossed a biscuit to Archmund. It was barely salty, dry, and almost cracked his teeth.

“You’ll want to soak it, milord,” Vurl said, his voice amused.

It was hardtack, and it was inedible unless wet.

“Alright,” Mercy said. “With the path we’ve blazed, it should take them about eight hours to get here. I suggest we get some rest.”

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He genuinely couldn’t sleep.

Eight hours until the men would get here, four of which had passed. Considering how much they’d backtracked, they’d been in the Dungeon for twelve.

Though the adrenaline had surged and then abated, and his nervous shakes had calmed, there was still an agitation in the bit of his stomach, a tightness in his chest, that kept his mind sharp. And a backflow of energy — his magic passively sustaining him from his Ruby. He couldn’t draw it out at will for a sudden wind, like a spurt from a hose. No, it was like the tides surging backwards up a river delta.

“You should sleep,” Mercy said. Archmund hadn’t heard him approach.

“Can’t.”

“You should rest at least,” Mercy said, and his voice wasn’t harsh or sarcastic for once. “You might feel awake, but…”

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Archmund waited.

“Those men are sworn to protect us, Granavale. To die for us. A thousand of their lives for even one drop of noble blood.”

His voice was sad. He pulled his hood down, revealing his hair in a bun. He undid the bun, and Archmund was shocked to see the long blonde hair fall to Mercy’s waist.

“What do you think of them?” Mercy said, voice neutral.

“They’re good men,” Archmund said. “Zankto’s got a good head on his shoulders. Vurl’s funny. I think he has contempt towards the whole idea of nobles.”

“Yeah. I hope he doesn’t slip up when he’s around anyone who would care.”

“You really care about them,” Archmund said, slowly.

“Every commander cares about her men,” Mercy said. “It would be monstrous not to.”

“You thought I would get them killed.”

“I always get one of them killed,” Mercy said. “Not the small group, but in what’s to come. They take their vows seriously. They’d rather throw away their lives for their vows of honor rather than let their commander be hurt.”

“Who knew Mercy Stirpstredecim de Omnio could command such loyalty.”

“Who knew, indeed,” said Mercy, voice somber. “Who knew.”

“Do you wish they wouldn’t do that?”

Mercy looked at him. “I was closer to my first cohort of soldiers. It would have been two or three years ago.”

“You were going into Dungeons when you were seven?”

“Right about.”

“That’s… very young.”

“It’s not like this backwater. For the Imperial family, competition is fierce and starts at birth.”

Imperial family. Stirpstredecim de Omnio. Thirteenth branch of Omnio. Of course. His suspicion was confirmed.

“Which tutors your parents choose, your early childhood achievements, your magical prowess, your class rank — if you don’t have everything, you’ll never be taken seriously as a contender for the Imperial Throne.”

That changed the equation. Of course the men of the Sacred Guard were willing to die for a contender to the throne. If an Imperial Prince — or, it was seeming increasingly likely, Imperial Princess — were to die on an increasingly dangerous quest, their lives would be forfeit anyways.

He wondered if Mercy knew that.

But it galled him.

Conspicuous consumption. In his past life, the way the rich showed off their status was through buying and using luxuries that they didn’t need. Mansions, yachts, private personal planes. The game of status was so vital and necessary that many of the “middle class” would go into debt to pay for their unnecessary symbols of status and power.

Yet this world was even worse. Branches of the Imperial Family needed so badly to show that their scions, their offspring were the worthy contender to the title of Emperor or Empress that they were willing to throw away lives.

And those men gladly agreed, because they could gain superhuman strength and power and luxury in the process.

“Sometimes I’m jealous,” Mercy said. “Getting to grow up out here, and not knowing about any of that. Not knowing what any of that’s like. Not having the ghosts of your ancestors scream knowledge into your brain when you’re four years old.”

“Is that why you don’t speak like a kid?”

She gave him a strange look. “I guess so. But you don’t speak like a kid either, really.”

“Oh, yeah, uh, it was the Crylaxan Plague.”

Technically, that was true. Mercy seemed to buy it and gave a long sigh.

“Sometimes I wonder if I could’ve turned away from that, chose to live a different life, maybe settled down on a farm with a nice husband.”

“Husband…?”

“Yes…? Oh.” Mercy let out a long, belabored sigh. “You thought I was a boy.”

“You don’t have to explain it. I imagine a squad of men take your commands more seriously if they think you’re a boy.”

“They die for you more recklessly if they think you’re a girl.”

Her voice was hard and gloomy. It was clear she wouldn’t say any more.

“You could still… change where your life is going?” Archmund said, feeling like the world’s biggest hypocrite. It was advice he wished he’d been given in his old life, in that world of cubicles and screens and spreadsheets. To change his life, turn away from the rat race, and live a life he’d dreamed of. Whatever that was.

“And let down everyone? My sponsors, my parents, and my men? It’s just a dream for a reason, Granavale. It’s a nice dream from a country boy out here in the sticks. But for an Imperial heir it’s literal suicide.”

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Mercy said she wouldn’t sleep. Instead, she meditated, sitting cross-legged with Gems in each hand.

Archmund watched her. He admired her for being able to meditate for two hours straight, though her head was starting to droop sideways in the haze of sleep, and she might’ve been drooling.

She had been cold, the logic of an elitist and the necessary cruelty of a battlefield commander, but those roles had been forced upon her, even if she was good at them. He couldn’t, in good conscience, let good men die because of him. If Zankto, Vurl, Wrest or Yald died saving him, he’d never shake off the guilt.

What burdens did she carry?

If he was being honest, he feared death less than was healthy. This was his second life. If he died, there might well be another.

And he wasn’t nearly as valued or loved as her.

The men would die for her out of love. They would die for him out of duty.

He hated that idea. He remembered what it was like to live life a certain way because he held to a duty given by someone else.

If he could take out as many Monsters as possible, then he might save a great many lives.

His Infrared Lance was lethally efficient, a one-shot kill on most Monsters on this floor. Mercy’s power was undeniably great. Zankto, Wrest, Yald, and Vurl could hold their own, because they were the elite, the cream of the crop. Each had almost a full set of Gem gear, compared to some of the Sacred Guard who still used leather and metal.

This wouldn’t be a last stand. It would be tactical culling.

He threw another pebble through the corridor into the Dungeon manor.

Again, it bounced once on the carpet.

Again, a shadow surged, and the pebble vanished.

He threw another.

Again, it bounced before thudding to a stop.

Again, the shadow took it.

He readied his Ruby. The tetrahedral Gem levitated before him, idly rotating with the passive currents of his power.

He threw one final pebble.

A single bounce. The thud.

The slightest stirring of shadow.

He fired an Infrared Lance.

A smooth Gem dropped onto the carpet, as a Monster fell.

As its shadows dissipated, a hundred other shadows amassed.