If Karon was thinking the same thing as Booth, it didn’t show on his face. He regarded Lora with open doubt. “Soldiers. Disorganized, untrained, unaware even of what they’re supposed to be doing. How foolish is that?”

Lora’s smile turned cat-like sly once more. She didn’t turn toward Booth, but he felt like she was looking at him, just the same.

“There is an ancient order known as the Arms of the Sisters, which comes together when it seems the war between chaos and order is once again at risk of getting out of hand. Which draws together those most capable of fighting the war and organizes them.”

Hard as he tried, Booth couldn’t remember more details from the game’s preview trailer or opening cinematic. But Lora’s speech felt very much like it could have been drawn from either or both.

“Batzieh is a god of chaos,” Nildeyr said. “And the Scourge seems to think she’s a problem they need to do something about. Does that mean this Arms of the Sisters organization is going to become active, too?”

So Nildeyr chimed in now, too. It felt like a conspiracy. Were all the NPCs in on it?

Of course they are. The ones that are NPCs, anyhow.

Booth still hadn’t settled that question, either. He’d simply refused to keep obsessing over it.

Dorri piped up again. “Does that mean this Redemption War is about to get out of hand again?”

Booth stared at Lora, trying to decide what else was expected from him right now. Moments from the past week replayed, but he saw them in a clearer light, as if his vision had been blurred by smoke like the stuff from the incense braziers. The crystallizing of understanding which had begun earlier abruptly froze entirely into place.

“You deliberately brought us all together in Diairm.”

Lora turned her gaze toward Booth. She didn’t deny his statement, and no confusion marred her face, either.

This is the real puzzle I was supposed to solve.

“All along the trip from Diairm to here, you’ve been poking at all of us. Prying into what makes us who we are. And now, here… You conveniently know the answers to all our questions. It’s like you knew what we’d find here. You’ve been testing us. You brought us here.”

Still, Lora merely looked back at Booth, neither confirming nor denying.

“You’re one of them.” Booth was suddenly certain. “You’re with the Arms of the Sisters. You wanted us to bring you here so you could… what? Recover the Crown?”

“It’s not about the Crown. The Crown is not here.”

Dorri shuffled a step forward, frowning with a fierce intensity that startled Booth. “But you knew that, too, didn’t you. So why, then? What are you up to? What is it you want?”

“Us.” Karon’s narrowed gaze eased. He sounded as sure as Booth felt. “The Arms draws together the capable and organizes them. She wants us.”

Booth allowed Karon to speak the same conclusion which Booth had reached a split second before.

“The Arms of the Sisters do exist. They’re preparing for a new cycle of their Redemption War. And Lor’ariel is recruiting.”

There it was—the hook that led from the game’s first act and into the bigger overarching story. Booth was about to become part of this faction, the Arms of the Sisters. The need to get stronger to face down this dragon-god Batzieh and the Scourge and whatever else, all of that would be the excuse to do quests and level up.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Excitement and anticipation trilled along Booth’s spine. For the first time since character creation, he forgot how he’d gotten there or why he shouldn’t allow himself to just relax and enjoy himself. Dragons and gods and faction wars… This was going to be fun.

“Agents of the—”

Dorri stood just at Booth’s elbow. She spoke mostly to herself, but the words and the way she spoke them caught so hard at his attention that he jerked his head around to look down at her.

Dorri cut herself off. Her eyes widened, in surprise or alarm.

Alarm. Just like me earlier, when I about blurted out something OOC in front of an NPC.

Lora was an NPC.

“Agents of the Sisters,” Dorri weakly amended. “We’d be agents. Of the Sister-Gods.”

But Booth abruptly realized that wasn’t what Dorri had been about to say. His previous certainty returned—Dorri was a player character, just like Booth. She knew about the real world and had been about to say something about it until she’d realized Booth could hear her. And what Dorri had really been about to say slammed hard into his gut.

No OOC talk in front of NPCs or “other Agents of the System.”

Agents of the System. Arms of the Sisters. Both of them were AotS.

They were the same thing. Somehow or another, the real world game mechanics and in-game lore overlapped within that organization.

Booth tore his gaze from Dorri and looked at Lora.

Lora was watching him and Dorri. She was smiling.

A chime rang in Booth’s ears. Words drifted into the upper edge of his vision.

[You have reached Level 3!]

#

Galen propped a bolt of pale green silk with one arm and gestured with the other. “Highest quality and lowest price,” he assured the blond man who frowned down at the cloth, tipping his head side to side as he considered. Galen had already shown him five other bolts of cloth—all of which he’d have to restock if he ever managed to close this sale.

A delicate little bell chimed. It grated on Galen’s frayed nerves like a blaring klaxon. At the edge of his vision, a woman entered through the front of Arien’s Mercantile.

Fabrics, notions, dry goods, bits and bobs… And more boredom than anyone should ever have to endure.

In the aftermath of his way-too-dramatic first militia stint, Galen had worried what he’d say when people started asking questions about what had happened. There was no way he could’ve given them answers, because he didn’t have them. But whether by hand-waving game design or because the events of that day were more commonplace than Galen realized, what actually happened was that no one asked him anything.

“I’m not sure about the color. Do you have a nice blue?”

Well, they never asked him about anything important, anyhow. Galen forced a smile and managed not to point out that two of the bolts he’d already shown to the customer were blue. In the meantime, the second customer ran her fingers along various lengths of ribbon hung from pegs on the wall. From his experience working in real world retail, Galen recognized signs in her posture which indicated she, too, was about to be full of irrelevant questions.

I am so bored. Bored but alive, he reminded himself. Things could be worse.

That didn’t make him less bored.

The rumors which Galen had eventually overheard came from customers as they stood at the counter while Galen lugged bolts of fabric and skeins of yarn and laid out miles of ribbons and lace for them to mostly reject and all-too-infrequently buy. Listening to the gossip, he’d discovered that the raiders had mostly escaped that day, that monsters had or had not been witnessed in the wood where Galen and Brin and Danto had encountered the Shining One, and that the tunnel through which the raiders had come had been collapsed to discourage future use.

But Galen heard the rumors along with everyone else. He was a merchant’s son and apparently not important enough to keep in the official loop, even though he’d actually been there.

Town gossip had soon turned to other matters, like the possibility of a dragon roaming north of the Wild Road or renewed whispers about what Radiant might or might not be in residence at the Drowning Grove. Both possibilities sounded exciting—he never tired of high fantasy—but he was nowhere near high level enough yet to go chasing legendary creatures.

In the time that followed his return from militia duty, Galen’s life had fallen into a predictable pattern. The retail sim mini-game they’d made of his parents’ store was a prominent part of that pattern.

It had been days, Galen thought, since the Shining One encounter and Danto’s temporary death. He hadn’t bothered to count until he’d realized there was no calendar to help keep track of things. Five days, maybe. Possibly a full week. All Galen knew was that he’d been bored mindless after less than a day of the storekeeping sim. At this point, he was ready to do anything else, even risk his life chasing after more raiders.

According to Galen’s codex, Chanford Falls required militia service from all able-bodied citizens for a set number of days each month. Based on that ratio, he’d be stuck playing this store sim for at least seventy-five percent of his time.

It also meant he had another two to three weeks of storekeeping until his next militia stint rolled around and provided him with any relief.

Ugh.