The space outside of Danara’s lair was a tangle of cloth, vines, and chains, leading to the exterior of the circle. Moka and Carwen fled in a straight line, heading for a pinprick of outside light. A massive chain passed over their heads, snapping through vines and battering down cloth walls. They stumbled, the woven vine floor buckling and dropping several inches. Moka dragged Carwen forward, supporting herself with her staff. The chain swung back in the other direction, displacing a wave of air that pushed them over, Moka’s staff insufficient to keep her on her feet. She never stopped moving, getting back up and pulling Carwen with her.

The elf scrambled to keep up, a heartbeat slower to react. Each halting decision added up, fractions of a second turning into stretching moments. She fumbled with her knife, her sweaty palm slipping on the hilt as she tried to keep her feet under her and leverage herself upright.

Two untransformed goblins stepped out from the crevices they hid in, lunging from the shadows at Moka. They flanked her from either side. Each wore a sleeveless blazer, stained in ash. They eschewed the buttons, choosing to belt the oversized garments closed, so they hung like tunics. With daggers in each fist, they ran headfirst, chittering war cries.

Carwen tripped and fell flat on her face as Moka released her hand, hefting her staff. The goblin to her left was faster than the other Moka targeted him first, thrusting with the claw end of her staff and activating [Triple Strike]. She buried three long thorns in his chest, six additional holes appearing in a pyramid pattern across his torso. Moka power through the strike, stepping in and pushing with her back hand like she was punching with all her strength. The ball end of her staff followed her fist in a tight arc as the thorns ripped free from the first goblin’s chest. She hit the second goblin in the collarbone, his legs whipping out from under him like he had run headfirst into a morning star.

Azarus scratched Zag’s warm and fuzzy cheek, noting how quick Moka had picked up the staff. She used it as effectively as a spear and mace combined. He chalked it up to her Excellent Knack, but he was eager to decipher her baseline. So far, each of the Classes he chose for her had included a gift of Knack.

The ground shook as Moka and Carwen ran past the bodies, the tremors of the giant hobgoblin and quilted naga’s battle spreading through the vines. Carwen yelped as she overbalanced and fell, dropping her knife. She tried to grab it, but was too slow. Moka grabbed her by the elbow, hauling her to her feet. Overhead, a dim light shimmered, betraying the [Autumn Pixies] position. Moka growled at Carwen, her eyes never leaving the shadowy ruins of the path to the exit.

“Each step is a victory.”

Bloody staff in one hand, Carwen in the other, Moka marched onward. With every step, the distance seemed to grow further, even as the sounds of battle shrank. The shadows seemed to stretch forever, dark pools laying in opposition to the pinpricks of glowing flowers and the distant purple blaze. Ahead of them, the exit shone like a guiding star, promising a thousand-mile journey.

Moka’s ears and nose twitched, her Moderate Perception working overtime. She let go of Carwen’s elbow, taking up her staff with a preemptive twirl. Harsh laughs and quiet chittering echoed through the shadows. Five figures stepped out, surrounding the pair.

Four wore ash stained blazers, daggers glinting in their hands. The fifth towered over the rest, a hooded figure wearing a dark red velvet cloak, its hands hidden. The hooded hob nodded, and the four goblins sprang into action, lunging for Moka and ignoring Carwen.

Choking her grip on the claw end of her staff, Moka spun in a tight circle, chittering a familiar war cry. The staff acted as a long handled mace. She swung a wide, sweeping blow at the oncoming goblins, her chest plate shifting as her muscles strained. The first goblin stutter stepped, dodging the swing. His silhouette blocked the vision of the goblin to his side, allowing Moka to catch them in the shoulder. As the ball end of the staff made contact, crushing bone, Moka triggered [Triple Strike].

The goblin’s bare arm exploded into a pink mist. It died from the blunt trauma before Azarus saw the blow register in its eyes. The force of the three strikes in one sent his body catapulting into the goblin next to him, hitting him hard enough to knock him over, and into the last attacker. They fell in a tangle of limbs. Moka was already moving, sliding her hands down her staff and punching out with the claw end of her staff.

The first goblin, who had dodged, deflected the thorns with his daggers. He dashed in for a counterattack, daggers aimed at Moka’s throat. Moka moved her staff like a double-sided oar, using the deflection to bring the bloodied ball end of her staff up and over her shoulder. She brought it down, crushing the goblin to the floor.

The hob’s sleeves twitched. Moka brought up a vine-covered arm to shield her face. Three mismatched daggers sprouted, vibrating, in a tight formation by her elbow. Moka cursed. She mimed ripping her last grenade off her bandolier and throwing it at the hob. The hooded figure flinched. Moka pivoted to the side where the two remaining goblins were untangling themselves. She lunged forward, thrusting her staff like a lance. Aiming for where they were closest to each other, she activated [Triple Strike]. The prone, tangled goblins did not stand a chance. Her staff’s thorns and their ethereal twins stabbed them both at once.

Moka spun to face the hobgoblin, holding her staff at an angle in front of her. By chance, she turned at the right time and angle to sweep a set of three daggers out of the air. Another three hung in their shadow, slipping past Moka’s staff to strike her chest. The mismatched daggers ricocheted off her wooden breastplate, flashing into the darkness. Moka adjusted the staff in her hands, subtly scrapping her claws along the black streaks of tar-like substance staining the haft. She gave the hooded hob a grim smile, motioning for them to lay down their weapons.

“I have enough mercy to leave survivors.”

The hob was silent, impassive behind their cloak. They did not say a word as they retreated, vanishing back into the unnaturally long stretch of shadows. Moka reached for her last grenade. She hesitated, allowing the hob to slip away uncontested. Azarus did not blame her. Wasting a precious resource on a risky attack against a single enemy with uncertain prowess was unwise. Part of him was proud of her judgment. Another portion wondered if he would have rolled the dice in her shoes.

The god let a single emerald flame dance across his fingertips, watching his champion venture into the unknown, trusting Carwen to follow close behind. He thought no, we would not have made that gamble. Despite his weakness for betting, he found it to be more of a pastime than a compulsion. Binding the emerald flame to his forefinger, Azarus traced out a sketch of Moka’s face. He created the portrait with a few quick twists of his wrist, his finger trailing viridescent fire.

With Moka’s Excellent Luck, he had something to compare his emerald flame to. He was finding many similarities, but he could not shake the feeling they were just coincidence. Without more experience using the flame, he could not find the difference. He was certain there was one, and when he found it, he would have an epiphany about himself. It was a strange feeling to have, knowing he was a stranger to a part of himself. Azarus reached out to touch the fiery portrait, adding a dash of gold and gray to Moka’s eyes.

In the mirror, Moka and Carwen jogged toward the exit, eyes peeled for another ambush. Azarus’s attention flicked from the portrait to the mirror, then back. He noticed the goblins Moka had killed sported slit throats, confirming their deaths. With a breath, he blew the portrait away, causing the emerald flames to transform into sparks that burnt out before they reached the ground. He understood Moka’s urgency. They were not running fast enough to escape those lying in wait for them, and they limited their ability to spot them by rushing. However, the memory of the [Raid Warleader’s] blitzing attacks hung over them like a pall, pushing them faster. She was out there, in the shadows, waiting for her opportunity.

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The pair passed a section of familiar looking wall. Azarus reviewed the pattern of sheets and dresses sewn together, recognizing it. They had already passed it twice. However, this time, something changed. A wave of ambient light filled the passageway, lightening the shadows by a degree as it settled. The shadows retreated a fraction, appearing to grow more shallow. In the distance, the exit grew larger, as if they had gotten halfway to their destination in a single step.

Moka’s lips twisted into a frown. She looked at the retreating shadows, her brow furrowing. Sparing a glance behind her, she waved Carwen forward. Both the elf and her illusion responded, increasing their pace to keep up. Moka spoke over her shoulder as they ran.

“Big ambush incoming. Run for the exit. I’ll deflect and follow.”

Carwen’s illusion moved its mouth in sync with her words, her voice coming from an arm’s length away.

“I can help! I still have a grenade and look!”

The illusion held up a long dagger, on the verge of being classified as a short sword. A splatter of the former owner’s blood covered the hilt. Moka turned her head to see what the elf was talking about. As she did, four shadow goblins in sleeveless blazers stepped out in front of them. Their lanky arms were like ropes of sinewy muscle dipped in ink. Their blazers were each a bright pastel, stainless and fresh pressed.

Moka’s head changed direction, her neck clicking. She skidded to a halt, reaching for her grenade. Three mismatched daggers flew from the shadows, forcing Moka to abort the plan and block them with a twirl of her staff. A rasping voice followed the daggers out of the darkness.

“Nowhere to run. We surrounded you. Surrender.”

Carwen made the mistake of looking behind them, searching for evidence to support the voice’s claims. Moka jumped backwards on instinct, raising her staff in a defensive position. Two shadow goblins plummeted from the ceiling, feet first, daggers close behind. The four goblins arranged in a blockade burst into action, charging after the two dropping in on Moka.

The first falling goblin missed, hitting the ground with the dull snap of a broken leg. The second had been more patient, tracking Moka’s movements before releasing its hold on the ceiling. It hit Moka feet-first, knocking her onto her back. Three daggers passed through the air and into the cloth and vines, piercing through where her face had been moments ago. Moka and the shadow goblin went down together, her staff trapped between them. Arms coming down like bladed whips, the shadow goblin pressed closer. It stabbed its daggers a finger’s width into Moka’s breastplate, wedging them just beneath her collarbone.

With a roar, Moka angled her staff and jerked it up. Her staff pressed against her as she stabbed the shadow goblin beneath the chin, a thorn scratching her cheek but not drawing blood. Leveraging her staff, Moka hurled the goblin off of her. The shadows fled from its skin, returning its natural green color as its corpse sailed through the air. The body crashed into the goblins bringing up the rear, knocking them over and buying Moka a precious second.

Azarus noted each improbable instance that played out to Moka’s advantage, seeking a pattern in the Luck. It seemed like a series of unlikely events strung together in her favor, but he knew it was something more. Luck was a deep concept, such that it made Azarus doubt he was a god of Luck. If his domain was that pure, he would not have three aspects of himself. He watched as outcomes that appeared to be poor, turned for the best, studying how one connected to the next, like how being knocked over inadvertently caused Moka to dodge a sneak attack.

Moka awkwardly struggled off of her back, her rucksack making her resemble a flipped turtle. She got her hands on the ground, three daggers sprouting out of her bag a fraction of a second after she finished turning. Her staff rolled in her hand, sliding out of her grip and rolling across the floor. She ignored it, pushing herself to her feet. The staff made it just out of arm’s reach, the claw-end angled up like a sky-facing rake.

Nearby, in the tangle of fallen shadow goblins, a raider detached themselves from the cluster of limbs. Rising to their feet, they sprinted for Moka, trying to finish her before she could stand all the way up. They stepped on the claw-end of the [Ironthorn Staff], their foot acting as a lever to bring the ball-end straight up. The haft of the staff cracked their skull, shadows leaking from their skin to deepen the surrounding pools.

Azarus took a paintbrush and marked a note detailing the importance of timing, and perhaps Time, in the domain of Luck. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught something, the gold aspect of his domain flaring in response. Carwen’s illusion was charging the four regrouping [Silk Shadow Goblins], dagger held high. Azarus squinted, inspecting her true image. She was holding her grenade high, charging straight at the group of goblins. A miniscule ember of fire, the product of concentrated light, burned at the end of the grenade’s fuse. It smoked, laboriously catching light after several paces.

The hobgoblin’s cloak rustled, and six daggers were flying toward Carwen’s illusion. She ran straight through them, her chest rippling as they passed through. Moka was standing now, having retrieved her staff. The four remaining shadow goblins were spreading out, choosing to fight a war of attrition, one with a noticeable limp.

Carwen ran straight into Moka’s back, knocking the goblin forward. The elf’s form shimmered into visibility, her illusion running past them and at the goblins. She grabbed Moka by the arm, lobbing the grenade overhead with her other hand. Pumping her legs with all her might, she ran, pulling a confused Moka with her. She screamed at the goblin, her tone somewhere between delivering a stern lecture and desperate pleading.

“We run together! Let the grenade deflect them.”

Moka’s eyes widened. She stumbled forward, her eyes fixing on an arcing trail of smoke as she processed Carwen’s words. The hobgoblin cursed, a series of daggers shooting out to intercept the projectile, but it was too little too late. Carwen’s invisibility had allowed her to surprise everyone.

The clay orb hit the ground next to the limping goblin, exploding on impact. A flash of purple fire, followed by a wave of burning hot air, filled the space, forcing back the shadows. Carwen screamed as a large ember landed on her back, burning through her silks. Moka brushed off the [Faefire] that landed on her, now the one dragging Carwen toward the exit. They raced away from the screams behind them. Azarus saw four goblins on fire, but no sign of the hob.

Carwen tripped, slowing Moka down. The goblin whirled, grabbing the [Village Beauty’s] face in both hands. Moka pressed Carwen’s cheeks between her palms, popping the petal she held in her mouth. Carwen shuddered, a wave of rejuvenation passing through her. It extinguished the purple flames, reversing the damage to her body. Her cloudy eyes cleared, sharpening.

Moka wasted no time, retrieving one of her own petals with one hand, and pinching Carwen’s cheeks with the other, her staff resting in the crook of her arm. She stuffed the new petal into Carwen’s mouth, using her finger like a hook to tuck it in her cheek. Carwen gaped, much like a fish, to Azarus’s amusement.

Then they were running, the purple flames spreading behind them as they charged for the exit. The shadows seemed to fade, bringing the outside light closer, until it seemed just within reach. Behind them, the sounds of battle returned.

A figure stepped in front of the exit, the light framing their silhouette. They stood with one hip cocked, running a blade along their face. Moka slowed to a jog, her hand drifting toward her final grenade. Danara held a hand up, forestalling her. The [Raid Warleader] looked displeased as she looked down her nose at the goblin. She snorted.

“All that, and barely a scratch.” Twirling her dagger in her claws, Danara’s eyes glinted. “What god did you say you served again? Not many that don’t mind our kind.”

Moka straightened her posture, half her focus on Danara and the rest trying to find the inevitable ambush. Speaking slowly, she answered the warlord while searching for the telltale signs.

“My god is Azarus, but I don’t think you would suit each other.”

Danara laughed, her sharp teeth lengthening as shadows crawled across her skin. She sneered at Moka, maintaining her passive stance.

“Such conviction.” She flicked her blood red hair over her shoulder. It glistened as if wet. “What is he the god of?”

Moka bounced on the balls of her feet, shifting from side to side. She adjusted her grip on her staff several times, her eyes searching the shadows. Her gaze flicked back to Danara, checking the progress of her transformation with obsessive regularity. She licked her lips, watching the hobgoblin’s arms lengthen, then snap, only to click back together with an extra joint. Meeting Danara’s eyes, she shrugged, her shoulders tight.

“I don’t know.”

Danara grinned, wild and feral.

“I guess it doesn’t matter. He may as well be [God of the Dead].”

Fully transformed, Danara stepped into the shadows, vanishing. The exit was less than fifty paces away, wide open and tempting. Moka clutched her staff and Carwen her stolen dagger. All around them, the shadows moved, unnaturally defying the light.