D’Argen was not sick. He was not crazy. He was not broken. He was not imagining things.

When Zetha’s shield rose up to protect Acela from D’Argen staff, the shield bent under the impact. It was made of the same soft gold as Acela’s sword and the only thing that kept it from losing shape during battle was Adda-on’s mahee, infused in the metal during its creation.

The stone staff D’Argen wielded cancelled that out completely. Zetha’s shield flew out of his hand. His sword, however, was not made of gold. He shoved Acela out of the way and slashed at D’Argen. D’Argen easily blocked it with the staff and then spun the stone between his hands, ripping Zetha’s sword out of his grip and sending it flying. Having sparred with Vah’mor for millennia, D’Argen knew how to handle such a weapon. He continued the momentum of the spin until the blunt edge of stone smacked Zetha on the side of the head.

He fell and did not move.

Acela knelt over him immediately. D’Argen spun the staff around and then brought it down hard on her back. She collapsed on top of her husband and did not move as well.

Before D’Argen could look for his next target, Vah’mor was once more on him. They moved slower, their steps not as secure, but it was Vah’mor that had urged D’Argen to learn how to fight without his mahee. In the other realm. In the real realm. Not this fake place.

D’Argen blocked and parried each of Vah’mor’s hits with an ease that surprised even him. The stone staff was heavier than he was used to, his feet were dragging along the marble, but Vah’mor was weighed down as well. D’Argen swung the staff out wide, forcing Vah’mor a step back. He searched the marble floor and found his sword. When Vah’mor attacked next, D’Argen tried to shift them both around to get closer to his sword.

A step away, and he used the same move Vah’mor had tried to use on him earlier. He stabbed forward with the staff and then let it go. It flew out of his hand right at Vah’mor. They hit it away with their glaive as they stepped back. D’Argen already had a toe under the blade of his sword and he kicked up, flipping it into the air. The stone staff clattered loudly on the marble floor.

When it stopped moving, everything froze. D’Argen had his sword once more. He saw Thar, standing behind Vah’mor with his sword of ice drawn. They were both too far away to stop him.

“You have to stop this.” It was Vah’mor’s mouth that moved but it was a different voice that came out. One that made him hesitate. It was Lilian. He scanned the crowd for them and saw them glaring at him. Along with the others. They all had their weapons raised. The subtle scents of each of their mahee surrounded him.

No.

They all advanced as one. He had no way of fighting them all. He was able to block a sword from Abbot and dodge out of the way of a hit from Yaling, but it led him right into Asa’s staff. If only he had someone on his side that could—

Another sword blocked the incoming attack that D’Argen would not have been able to dodge. The attacker stepped back in shock. Standing in front of them and dressed for war was…

Riss? D’Argen watched the mortal woman grin and then she yelled at the top of her lungs. The crowd around him thickened and then spread out as one as mortals started appearing as if they had always been there. Two or three of them each attacked a Never Born. Their glee was infectious.

And terrifying.

Mortals. Attacking the gods.

The all out brawl that started drowned out all other noises. D’Argen could only stare in shock. This was not what he had thought would—but then again, his thoughts were random enough. He noticed a leather cord like a whip flash above the fighting and a moment later a demon rose into the air. It had a humanoid form from the waist up but its legs were like that of a horse. It kicked through the air as its leathery wings raised it above the others.

Then a set of pincer-like arms flashed in the corner of his eye and blood went flying. It was a mix of both the thick stench of demons and the familiar copper scent that both gods and mortals carried.

When another demon was struck down, it fell with a piercing shriek that had almost everyone cover their ears. D’Argen’s mahee ate up the sound and it left a sour pinch at the back of his throat.

A body fell at his feet. D’Argen recognized Horis as the mortal’s eyes darkened with death. A moment later, those eyes turned solid black from edge to edge and he rose again. This time, he did not attack the Never Born. He turned his sword on D’Argen. D’Argen blocked the sword but then the mortal sprouted spikes from his body, like one of the demons he saw earlier.

D’Argen stepped back out of the way and right into another mortal. His sword slid through flesh like there was nothing there at all. The woman’s face slackened and a moment later her eyes turned solid black. With D’Argen’s sword still inside her chest, she lashed out at him with clawed fingers longer than daggers. One of her hands caught him across the face.

Too much.

Too many bodies.

Too many weapons.

Too much noise.

Too much—

He was always too something.

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D’Argen crouched with his hands over his head as a defense. There was just so much happening. The screaming and yelling, the sounds of death and fighting, it surrounded him. The marble walls of the hall echoed it back at him. His mahee opened wide to consume it. He—

Everything silenced.

A cold touch landed on the bare skin of his hand. He felt his skin freeze over under it. It tightened and started hurting. When he raised his eyes, his hand stopped hurting even though there was the dark spot of frostbite on the back of it.

The hall was not empty. Everyone was still in it. Mortals, demons, Never Born – they were all completely frozen on the spot. Thar held a hand out in front of him, palm up. D’Argen ignored it and rose by his own power. He looked around those closest to him and noticed that the bodies were all covered in a fine layer of frost.

“Did you…”

“You did,” Thar answered.

“How?” D’Argen dared to ask even though he knew the answer. He glanced down at his hand and the dark spot where Thar had touched him earlier was the same shade as the rest of his skin. No frostbite.

He was not crazy. He was not imagining things. He felt the ocean waves inside him lap at the edges of an iceberg so large that he could not feel all of it. He felt the breeze above the ocean’s surface chill him from inside.

The frozen figure closest to him was the mortal he had stabbed by mistake. Her hands were still outstretched and her frozen fingers were stained the same shade as blood on the tips. D’Argen hastily touched his face and did not feel any pain. There was no blood on his hand either when he inspected it.

Right behind the mortal woman—the mortal turned demon—was Vah’mor. Their face was twisted into rage like D’Argen had never seen it before. Their glaive was already in the middle of an attack, the sharp blade tainted with blood already and still in the air where D’Argen’s chest had been a moment ago before he crouched.

“Who are you?” D’Argen finally turned to focus on Thar.

“I am—”

“No,” D’Argen interrupted him before he could lie. “This is not real.”

Thar opened his mouth to argue and then… did not. He looked confused. He glanced around the hall and the hundreds of bodies crammed in together in the small space. They should not have fit. D’Argen’s thought was enough to make the hall’s walls shimmer a further distance away. Thar’s face twitched as he watched it. Then, it settled back into that impassive expression that often hid all his thoughts.

“I want to go home,” D’Argen said, bringing Thar’s attention back to him.

The impassive mask cracked when Thar furrowed his brows. D’Argen wanted to smile. Thar looked cute when he was confused. Then D’Argen motioned down. He did not know when he dropped his sword nor when Thar picked it up. Neither did Thar, if the shock that rushed over him was anything to say.

“How?” Thar asked, staring at the silver sword in his hand.

D’Argen gulped and looked around the frozen crowd. He could not spot Lilian’s tiny frame among the rest. He did, however, notice something move. A black tendril, like a snake or a whisp of ink, moved between the frozen bodies. It disappeared from sight when he tried to focus on it. A movement to the side had him turning so fast that his feet slipped out from under him. His mahee steadied him. He stared at the frozen tips of Vah’mor’s long black hair as they shifted to an unfelt wind.

It was not Lilian’s breeze.

The closer he looked, the easier it was to notice that it was not Vah’mor’s long hair that was dancing to a breeze. It was those same blank tendrils as the grass from earlier. It was the same consistency as the shades in the white space.

D’Argen was running out of time.

“Through the core,” he said quickly and rushed at Thar.

Thar stepped back out of reflex, raising the sword as if to defend himself. He stared at it once more in wonder, then at D’Argen in shock.

“What?!” he almost shouted.

D’Argen did not remember ever seeing such expressions on the man’s face in the other realm. Was it possible that he never would again? Was he imagining everything here, coming from a distant need to belong, and making it easier for him to understand those around him? He had a hard time looking most people in the eye. He had a harder time understanding what they felt without them saying it. Yet now, here, he could clearly see the shock and horror that pulled Thar’s usually emotionless features into different forms.

“Through the core,” D’Argen repeated, slower. He tapped his chest as if Thar needed clearer directions.

“No.”

“It’s the only way.”

“What? No! How do you even know that?”

D’Argen shrugged then smiled. “I told you once before why I disliked swords. I already know what it feels like to be stabbed by my own blade. That is what can get me out of this mess.”

“What if we just…” Thar trailed off. His hand was trembling and it echoed up to the tip of the silver sword. “Look, no. No! Just… can’t you just unfreeze everyone and…” he trailed off once more.

D’Argen smiled but it hurt. Thar never spoke like this. It was D’Argen’s own speech patterns, the pauses and breaks, the shortened words, the trailing off. Thar spoke so little because he was sure of every word he said.

“Through the core,” D’Argen repeated once more. He tapped his chest then spread his arms out. “Right here.”

Thar visibly hesitated. His grip tightened around the sword.

“Please,” D’Argen whispered the single word out. The blade stopped trembling the air.

D’Argen wanted to close his eyes. He already had enough horrible memories of Lilian splitting him apart. He knew he would have nightmares for centuries of fighting against Vah’mor. The thought of dreaming of Asa and Sa’ab as they died had him feeling sick. The feel of a staff in his hands, stone or not, would probably make him freeze for too long.

He did not want Thar to join those memories.

Yet he kept his eyes opened.

“Are you sure?” Thar asked a final time.

“You know,” D’Argen grinned at the man. “I think I do love you. I’m sorry it’s not the same way you love me.” His words were a shock that froze Thar on the spot. D’Argen stepped forward. Thar kept his grip tight and when D’Argen could not take another step forward, he reached out. His free hand landed heavily on D’Argen’s shoulder. He stepped closer, bending his elbow, and then he thrust.

D’Argen felt like his entire being was torn apart. He saw the black tendrils rise from behind Thar like some horrid halo of darkness, surrounding him in it and yet making the man’s pale skin and pure white clothes stand out all the more.

Lilian said this would break his mind. Acela told him he was already broken.

D’Argen… D’Argen was starting to believe them both.

The blade slid deep inside him and then out the other side. He did not feel the blood but it felt like everything inside him was being pulled toward that silver and the weaves inside the metal. The black tendrils behind Thar grew and grew and grew until there was nothing at all surrounding them both but the endless black void of nothingness.

It still felt more secure than the pure white.

Thar faded away, a shimmer in the air that turned transparent until it was not there at all. D’Argen’s eyes were heavy, so heavy. His entire body. He felt like he was holding Varuba’s staff again. But it was not that. The black tendrils were crawling up his legs, buckling his knees and then wrapping around his arms to pull him down.

And then…

One moment D’Argen was waiting to see what would happen and the next moment he opened his eyes to a familiar stone ceiling and gossamer sheets. He heard singing outside that his mahee readily lapped up and he scented freshly toiled soil. A seagull croaked not that far away and the breeze that came through the open window smelled of the sea.

D’Argen knew this place. He was in the Rube Islands.