The dim fog shrouding the palace grounds parted before Azora, and a helpful string of will o' the wisps appeared to guide her to her destination. Ti Am'arak had languished while its residents slept, yearning for admirers to praise its magnificence. Now that its audience had returned, the palace assembled a worthy display. Lilies sprouted along the pathway, pearlescent petals blooming in seconds, jade stems swaying mischievously, begging to be plucked. An ambrosial scent suffused the air, and somewhere in the distance came the hypnotic sound of running water.

Accustomed to these fantastic occurrences, Azora loped briskly down the path until she arrived at a reflecting pool. At the center of the waters rose a stone pillar atop which a pagoda rested. A peacock perched on the pagoda's roof stirred at the swordmaiden's approach. When she moved to cross the bridge, the bird alighted in front of her, crying out in territorial aggression.

"Calm down, stupid bird," Azora said as she sent the peacock a strand of spiritual essence to confirm her identity.

The construct's soulless, ruby eyes narrowed in disappointment. It clacked its beak once, as if imagining tearing a chunk of flesh out, then stepped aside to allow her passage.

Azora grumbled internally. Although she approved of Bart's zealous improvements to Ti Am'arak's security measures, the pagoda's supervising construct was an exception. She hated that thing. It was unnatural.

The interior of the pagoda housed Ti Am'arak's transportation node. The palace was expansive, and wandering from one section to the next could take days. Using the node for teleportation was far more convenient. As long as one had the correct clearance, they could travel anywhere. All that was necessary was to make contact with the node's pedestal and state a destination. Azora pressed her palm flat against the cold surface.

"Take me to Bartholomew's workshop."

The swordmaiden reappeared moments later inside a forest clearing. The trees comprising her surroundings had existed since the dawn of time, primordial giants tall enough to blot out the sky. The shack basking in their shadows seemed meagre by comparison. Built by Bartholomew as an escape from the boisterous confines of Ti Am'arak's halls, the shack served as both the home and the workshop of its builder.

Azora could hear Bartholomew inside cursing vehemently. Evidently, one of his experiments had gone wrong again. Smirking at his bad fortune, she let herself in.

"I knew this was where you'd be," she declared as she stepped inside. "You've never been one for crowds."

"Hm? Oh, it's you."

Bartholomew stopped cursing long enough to acknowledge her presence. He was preoccupied with an unlocked chest settled on the central workstation. Strange contraptions engraved with runes lay inside the chest. Their ethereal crystal circuits pulsed with power, each worth a veritable fortune.

Intrigued, Azora stretched out a finger to touch the nearest object, a slender rod with a series of shiny press switches running down its length. Bartholomew smacked the offending digit before it could make contact.

"No touching. With your luck, you'll cause an explosion," he warned, slamming the lid shut.

"Ha! That's true." The swordmaiden obediently backed away from the table and fetched a stool. "It's been a while since I've watched you work on your trinkets."

Bartholomew locked the chest and stored it on a shelf. "Only you call them that. Most would use the term 'priceless artifacts.'"

"They're... fascinating, if not practical," she added, running a hand absently along one of her sheaths.

Heaving a different chest onto the workstation, Bartholomew asked, "You spoiling for a fight?"

It was a rhetorical question.

She mulled it over. "Yes and no. Not with you, at least."

The boy relapsed into silence as he opened the chest and took stock of its inventory. It was his habit to speak sparingly, so Azora took no offense. On the contrary, it was a relief to share in someone else's company without having to explain a thing. The experience was a strange revelation. In the past, whenever she had needed help finding inner peace, she had never thought to turn to the youngest guardian. Perhaps prejudice had worked against her. Bartholomew might be wiser than his childish exterior belied.

* * * *

Bart rummaged through his inventions unaware of the guardian captain's musings. He could swear he had put that thing in one of the locked chests with the rest of his other, potentially catastrophic inventions. He certainly hadn't irresponsibly left it out where an insider with questionable intentions could find it. At least, that's what he told himself.

"Shit!" He banged his fist against the table. Where could it be?

"What's wrong?"

The boy rubbed his nose in habit. "I'm trying to find something, a prototype I finished right before we carried out the sacrifice. It ought to be in one of these chests."

"Maybe I can help. What does it look like?"

Bart shuddered theatrically. "You realize my inventions are fragile, right? They require a delicate touch."

Huffing, the swordmaiden kicked her stool aside. "Do you want my help or not?"

As terrible as the notion of Azora getting her grubby fingers all over his possessions was, Bart nodded. He really could use the help. "Yeah, I guess. It's a flat, oblong disk with an inscription around the edge and a cluster of nail-sized circuits in the middle. You can start by digging through this row. Here, let me unlock 'em for you."

He retrieved the master key from his pocket. Each chest required the key and his essence signature for authentication; he couldn't just hand the key over to Azora or she wouldn't be able to open them. When he was done, he regarded the sword maiden with great trepidation.

Breathing deeply, he half-ordered, half-prayed, "Don't press any buttons. Don't activate any runes. And please, for the love of Ti Am'arak, don't break anything, alright?"

"I take back what I said. Maybe I do want to spar with you," Azora growled menacingly. "Obnoxious midget."

Rolling his eyes, Bart turned his attention to the shelf on the adjoining wall. While he was certain he hadn't put the device there, it couldn't hurt to double-check. He started at the bottom row and worked his way to the top, moving items off the shelf as he went so as not to leave any corner unexamined. Mid-way through the search, Azora began probing him.

"So what's this missing device do, anyway?"

Uh-oh. Bart winced. Well, he hadn't expected to hide the truth forever, and he did owe the swordmaiden an explanation of some sort since she had volunteered to help him.

Weighing his words carefully, he said, "It's a soul splitter."

Seeing the look of incomprehension on his comrade's face, he elaborated. "Basically, it enables its user to fragment the soul of some specified target and store said fragment within its core. Stored fragments can then be transferred to a new target. So, in theory, one could use it to bestow life."

"I don't understand. You already have a method for that. You've made plenty of constructs."

"Hell no, not even close." Bart chuckled. Laymen could be so naïve. "I'm not referring to minor elemental manipulation, Azora. Higher order souls— souls encapsulated by an impermeable karmic membrane like you or me. I mean, theoretically this device could even fragment the divine souls of archfiends and gods."

The swordmaiden processed that information and reacted as well as Bart had expected. Which was to say not well at all.

"What?! Bartholomew, that's insane!" she scolded, losing interest in the chests entirely. "Why would you ever create something so dangerous!"

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

Shrinking, he offered, "For science?"

"Hellspawn save me from this lunacy!" The swordmaiden paced back and forth. "You didn't request Her Majesty's permission for this, right? Obviously not, she'd have never granted approval. She's going to be furious when we tell her about this."

Fretting at his lip, Bart interjected. "Don't be ridiculous! There's no need to let her know right away. I'm not even sure it works. I haven't had the chance to test it."

No longer pacing, the swordmaiden glared with her hands on the hilts of her weapons. "I don't want to tell her either, Bart, but you lost the right to secrecy when you misplaced a gods-be-damned soul splitter with the potential to incite an interplanar divine war!"

"Ugh, fine," he conceded, "but in my defense, it's bound to be around here somewhere. We just need to keep looking."

The best tactic he could come up with was to delay Azora for as long as possible in the hopes of winning her over. Then the situation might still be salvageable. Otherwise, he didn't even want to think of what would happen. Bart shuddered. The queen's lectures were long-winded, rambling, monotone affairs that lasted for hours and centered around ludicrous topics such as the ethical considerations for technological advancements. It was an unspeakably horrible form of torture.

In hindsight, Bart realized he should have just rejected Azora's help.

The artificer sagged dejectedly against his desk. The movement dislodged some of his blueprints, and they fell to the floor. Picking them up, Bart noticed an unfamiliar envelope stashed surreptitiously amid his designs. It was sealed with the royal crest, and the name Azora had been scrawled across the front in elegant cursive script.

"Weird. How did this get here?"

Bart glanced up. Azora was raving about the necessity of responsibility and transparency in the use of guardian allocated funds (she could be just as bad as Her Majesty), and it didn't look like she would wind down anytime soon. Curiosity trumped conscience. He tore the envelope open and skimmed the contents.

Dearest Azora,

Sometimes, after a man and a woman have lived in unholy matrimony for many, many eons, passions dim, and their relationship loses that special spark that initially attracted them to each other. When that happens, one or both parties may choose to terminate the relationship.

Ti Am'at will always hold a piece of my soul. I left it behind for her after using Bartholomew's new invention, and I hope she treasures it as a memento of what we once had. It was never my intention to hurt her, and had I been able, I would have preferred to explain these things in person. Unfortunately, she is far too obstinate. She would have tried to stop me.

I have teleported to one of the mortal worlds in search of a fresh start. Hopefully, the distance will mitigate any hard feelings.

Please don't feel responsible. Our separation was inevitable. You are a fine young lady, and I could not be prouder of the lethal weapon you have become. I look forward to seeing you again in a few thousand years when I return.

May hell keep you forever.

Love,

Ti Am'an

P. S. Do pass this information on to Ti Am'at. It will upset her, but your armor should protect you from her considerable wrath.

"— you understand. Bart? Bart, are you listening?"

The artificer's hands trembled. Instinctively, he tried to stuff the letter down his shirt, but it was too late. The swordmaiden had already noticed the object in his hands, and in a contest of strength between an intellectual and a brute, the brute would always win. She snatched the paper from him easily.

"You're incorrigible! I don't know why I bother." Azora looked down at the letter. "Hmm? This handwriting is familiar."

* * * *

"Look, pal, there's plenty of fish in the sea."

"You think so?"

Jacobin slammed his mug down. "I know so!"

Gesturing at the sorceress seated yonder, the archer staggered unsteadily to his feet. He had had a few cups, and the effects were beginning to show. "That, my friend, is a woman you can find on any street corner in the lesser planes."

"Really?" Cronk looked again at the sorceress. Born a mix of demon and fae, Lucinda had all the right curves in all the right places. Her caramel skin, so soft and smooth, was unmarred by any blemishes, and amethyst tresses flowed to her waist in luscious waves. Her crowning glory, a lovely, heart-shaped face, could inspire chivalry in any man.

"Whazza matter? You don't trust me?" The slurring archer assumed a worldly tone. "Listen up! I've been to the mortal planes toooons of times. Lucy's nice an' all, but she ain't special. You're just fixated 'cause we're stuck in this dinky little pond."

The golem had had less to drink and was understandably skeptical. "That's funny. Everyone else says the mortal planes are garbage. Nobody mentions the women."

"It's bias! Flaming bias, I tell you!" Jacobin lied shamelessly. "They despise mortals. But an open-minded guy like you, wearing shining armor to boot— no mortal woman could resist your charms! You'd have your pick."

Jingling his empty chip bag, the archer cleared his throat. "Say, could you cover me for this round? I'm wiped out."

"Alright, but just this once. You've given me something to think about."

"Damn straight. When have I ever led you wrong?"

Cronk stopped smiling. He looked at Jacobin, who looked at him with an equally chagrined expression. The golem pounced on the archer to reclaim his chips.

"Ah! Ow, stop! My spleen!" Jacobin cried out. "Thief! Help!"

"They're mine! Give them back!"

"You lent them to me! I'll give them back later."

The dead man set his toke down. He had catered to these two morons the whole night, playing the fool, pretending to be the ideal prey in a gambit to lower their vigilance. The time was ripe to collect on his investment. He swept the chips on the table into his bag while the pair wrestled on the floor, utterly distracted. Then he donned his fedora and melted into the crowd, just another unremarkable face in the sea of the damned.

On the other end of the room, a commotion disturbed the festivities. Azora had returned. She recklessly pushed and shoved her way through the crowd, furious features giving off a murderous vibe. Those who saw her leapt out of her way, and those who didn't quickly came to regret it. Her trajectory brought her close to the wrestling guardians whom she separated with a kick in passing.

"Ack!" Cronk called for a temporary truce, and the two friends helped each other up. "What's her problem?"

"I don't know, but we're about to find out."

For the second time that night, the guardian captain approached the dais of Ti Am'arak. Her body language was not that of deference, however, and in her fury she ignored the proper protocols. She did not kneel.

Ti Am'at's tentacles writhed in ire.

"You would disrespect us?"

An unseasonable cold chilled the room. The lights blew out, and the courtiers stiffened in place. The Deathless Court returned with a vengeance, inhuman growls rising from a thousand throats in a blood-curdling chorus directed at the guardians trapped in its midst.

Jacobin face palmed. Their violent, repressed, father-complex suffering leader had lost her mind. And clearly, she was keen on taking the other guardians out with her in a suicidal attack. Why did things have to turn out this way? He was too good-looking to die!

Azora drew her sword.

"Treachery, is it? Very well," said Ti Am'at. "I knew indulging your creation was a mistake."

The queen flexed her might, ethereal pressure coming down to bear in tangible coils that suffocated the guardians effortlessly, except for Azora. The swordmaiden's frame quaked, yet she hurled her blade in defiance. It sailed uselessly past Ti Am'at, sinking instead into the motionless body of Ti Am'an to her right.

"You missed. Pathetic," scoffed Ti Am'at. She opened her mouth to berate the former guardian captain but was interrupted by a collective gasp from the Deathless Court. The guardians gasped, too. Even Gretchen standing outside gasped.

Ti Am'an's form gradually dissolved into specks of light. The illusion lasted for a minute or two before terminating. The throne Ti Am'arak's monarch had occupied since its creation was empty save for a small crystal and the still-quivering blade.

Azora addressed the queen confidently. "It was fake."

Ti Am'at withdrew her power, allowing the guardians to breathe again. She floated closer to her husband's throne, studying crystal with morbid fascination.

"Explain," the queen ordered flatly.

"This letter should suffice. It was found in Bartholomew's workshop." Azora handed over the piece of paper. She observed sympathetically as Ti Am'at cycled through a myriad of emotions at the letter's contents. There was shock in the beginning. Then disbelief, followed by heartbreak and betrayal. Her compound eyes flooded with sorrow. Ultimately, however, these were replaced by a much stronger emotion. Rage.

Ti Am'at tore the letter to shreds.

"That philandering bastard!" she shrieked. "He thinks he can leave!?"

The maids left the room. The Deathless Court made itself scarce. Even Gretchen outside found a reason to leave the palace grounds. Jacobin, Cronk, Lucinda, and Relius wanted to do the same, but Azora preemptively ordered her fellow warriors to stay behind. It was a prescient decision. Before long, Ti Am'at had collected herself enough to remember the other people in the room. The ruthless queen of Ti Am'arak focused on her guardians and spoke.

"Find my fickle brother! Hunt him through the planes of existence, leaving no stone unturned, and drag him back! Through force or trickery, I care not. You have my permission to use chains of binding."

Insanity and resentment boiled from Ti Am'at, rending the courage of any who dared to oppose her will. The guardians bowed in acquiescence. In the center of the room, a portal filled with green lightning ripped through space and time. It pulsed and oozed with dark fog like an infected scab. The distant shapes of stars and planets could be seen within.

Azora knelt before the throne. "Your Majesty, we shall carry out your orders faithfully. This I vow."

The guardians filed through the portal one at a time. They would accomplish their mission, or, more likely, be killed by Ti Am'at upon their return. Their countenances were grim. When Relius had finished walking through the portal, Bart stealthily tried to follow, but a hand knocked him back.

Azora's torso loomed out of the portal. She grinned spitefully. “You're not coming with us. You're staying behind to manage the palace's defenses with Gretchen. Besides, I'm sure there's someone who'd like to have a few words with you."

"No! You can't do this!"

The swordmaiden laughed merrily as she passed through the portal, and it winked out of existence.

Bart stared forlornly after his companions with the desperation of a man in a desert looking at a fading river mirage. He was screwed. Completely, irrevocably, one hundred percent screwed. Groaning, he turned to face the consequences of his actions.

Ti Am'at scrutinized him intensely, her tentacles caressing the soul crystal in her lap. "Bartholomew. Bartholomew, Bartholomew, Bartholomew. How many times must we revisit this? The noble occupation of the artificer requires intelligence and imagination, and, most importantly, prudence..."