From the pounding in Neil’s head, the night was at least a moderate success.

He didn’t like drinking, normally. A drink or three at parties—occasionally. Or family get-togethers, holidays, birthdays, and maybe the odd Friday night when there wasn’t anything better to do.

Neil’s stomach roiled at the memories, urging him to roll on his side.

The point was—he never drank alone. Never wanted to drink alone.

Neil groaned into the cold floor, eyes twisted shut, willing the details of the evening to make themselves known to him.

Amelia. She’s the one that did this to him, bless her heart. She tried to cheer him up with a game of drunk Go Fish—and succeeded—given a very loose definition of the word. Neither of them knew the rules for when to drink, but Amelia insisted for whatever reason. It very quickly devolved into the simpler game of Drunks With Cards.

A fun enough night, if he ignored the day behind it.

He groaned again, stretching his body out long, until his feet slipped past the warmth of the scratchy woolen blanket, and he curled up like a scared pill bug.

It was then that Neil realized two things.

The first, that Neil was already vaguely aware of—even through the headache—he was sleeping on the floor. Not a surprise, exactly, and while he definitely would have preferred a couch, at least he hadn’t woken up in Amelia’s bed. The last time that had happened… Well, he wasn’t eager to repeat it, especially not now.

The second thing he realized—he was naked.

Adrenaline displaced nausea at escape velocity, and he shot to a sitting position.

The third thing that he noticed—belatedly—Amelia wasn’t anywhere in sight. That might have been a small comfort to him, but neither was her bed, couch, floor, or the entirety of her apartment.

Neil was sitting in a stone cathedral, surrounded by a dozen men in white robes, chatting amongst themselves.

He could feel the blood drain from his face and freeze in his lower intestine.

Neil assumed it was some kind of cathedral. The cold and somber air, the droning echoes that infused a kind of musicality to every word whispered. There were windows on the fall wall to Neil’s right, opposite the robed men, streaming natural morning light. Beyond the men, was a massive wooden door that fit into a stone arch.

“The fuck is this!”

The chattering went silent.

Neil’s eyes widened on hearing the outraged voice, flicking across the faces of the—ten, he counted—robed figures. They weren’t looking at him.

Littered across the floor, several people-shaped lumps were covered in large brown blankets. One lump in particular had a woman’s head poking out of it.

Dark and storming eyes, a pale and angular face, and black hair that hadn’t been washed in several days. Neil knew the look.

No one had an immediate response to her yell. The robed figures—Neil hesitated to call them cultists, but that was his immediate impression—each had the look of vacant serenity that Neil had come to associate with customer service workers and people who spent too much time on their phones. They aimed their collective silence at the girl, who bristled at the attention.

The girl—or woman, she looked at least Neil’s age—glanced at Neil, chin raised, before scanning the rest of the figures in the room.

The people-shaped lumps shifted, peeling off blankets to reveal a smorgasbord of faces, each wearing an expression some shade between bleary-eyed and thousand-yard.

Neil looked at each of them, then down at himself. Five strangers—six with Neil—arranged in a large circle. There was writing on the floor, angular shapes carved into stone that reminded him of freshman calculus.

He frowned.

The process of thinking, Neil found, was greatly hampered by the pounding in his skull, and the diffuse full-body ache from a night spent on an unyielding surface.

He couldn’t remember how he got there.

That wasn’t a total shock. When you drink to forget, you don't deserve the luxury of being surprised at where you wake up. In hindsight, he should have expected this.

He looked around.

Well, some of this.

He let out a long breath from his nose.

Worse, he’d forfeited his right to act like he was a victim here. Whatever he’d done last night, this was where it brought him, and it was his own fault.

And Amelia’s, probably. He’d be sure to let her know, the next time he saw her.

Neil mentally assigned the people on the floor as friendly, if only because misery loves company, and they looked about as bad as he felt. He had something in common with them, at least.

Solidarity in nakedness. Who'd a thunk?

Moments ground together with the grace of tectonic plates as every member of the room glanced at one another.

The angry girl opened her mouth again, and was interrupted.

“Be calm, child. All will be revealed.” Said one robed figure, standing closest to their circle. His tone was as serene as his expression, and Neil’s frown deepened.

The robes behind him smiled together, echoing little platitudes about calmness and revelation.

He squinted at the front man. He was older: what remained of his blond hair was thin and receded, barely clinging to the man’s head. He had a deep voice and an accent that Neil couldn’t quite place.

He didn’t cut a very comforting figure, but Neil was well aware of his biases. He didn’t trust men in robes as a rule. Not that he was in a position to judge anyone’s clothes, given his lack.

Neil shivered, pulling his blanket tightly around himself. It had the color and texture of dry dirt, but it was better than the tickle of open air and strangers’ eyes.

It was not—Neil noted with intense dismay—large enough to form a proper cocoon, and his lower half was still exposed to the chill of a marble floor.

He stood. It was a shaky process—think giraffe on roller skates—but he managed without flashing anyone or succumbing to the riots in his stomach and skull. He turned to the apparent spokesperson of the robed figures.

“Is there a reason we aren't wearing any clothes?” He paused, thinking of several. “A good reason, I mean?”

“Clothing will be provided shortly.” The man smiled kindly.

The robes behind him chattered and nodded pleasantly.

Neil blinked. He glanced down at himself, at the blanket, pinching it between his fingers and frowning. He noticed that the man didn’t say “your clothing,” only “clothing.”

He also noticed that the man didn’t answer his question. He opened his mouth to ask again, when—

“Where are we?”

Neil glanced sidelong at the interrupting man, who was now also standing. A fair question, he thought, but moot for the real issues at hand.

‘As soon as I get my phone back, I’m texting Amelia to get me the heck out of here.’

Birthday suits, unfortunately, don’t come with the kind of pockets that Neil was willing to use. Which meant there was a pair of khakis somewhere around with his name on them.

“A safe place.” The robed man said like he was speaking to a child. His chorus smiled and nodded behind him.

Neil winced at the noise, bringing his attention back to the hopefully-not-cultists. He didn’t like this guy’s tone. Or his answer.

Still, as creepy as he was, he didn’t look like the type to threaten physical violence. He looked more like the type to hand out free pocket bibles, or talk to you about how proud he was of his niece.

“Bullshit.” Another woman—with dark skin and serious eyes—said in a low voice, staying seated.

“It is our honor, and our privilege, to have you as our guests,” The maybe-cultist insisted. “No harm will come to you, here.”

The woman moved slowly to her feet, watching the man like a hawk. The other three stood with her.

“Tell us where we are, and tell us why we’re here.” She said, in a voice that would make a bear do what it’s told.

Neil blinked. She was taller than he was. She shifted her blanket, wrapping it around herself like a towel from out of the shower.

Neil could think of several reasons that he’d ended up in this situation. One reason came immediately to mind: someone invited him to a second location, and he was dumb enough to say yes.

This woman didn’t look the type to do that. No one would be dumb enough to try it on her.

Calling the woman ‘huge’ would be incorrect, even if it was the first word that popped into Neil’s head. She was defined. Athletic. Sure on her feet.

She wore her ragged covering well. Better than Neil, who was suddenly conscious of the fact that he was huddled under his blanket like a Dickensian orphan.

The others… Neil glanced at them. Pallid faces, trembling legs, and general malaise, one and all. Even the angry woman with the storming eyes looked unwell, now that she was standing. Neil felt the same.

“The steward will answer all your questions.” Said the very-possibly-cultist, smiling knowingly. A chorus of positive-sounding chatter echoed out from the rest of the robed men.

The tall woman’s eyebrows twitched downward. “And where are they?”

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Like thunder, the door on the far side of the room rumbled and opened.

“Here, my dear.” The strained voice of an old man rolled across the room like the tide, drowning out the lingering echoes.

He was also wearing robes, Neil noticed, pressing his lips into a thin line.

The newcomer had thinning white hair and a wispy beard, his skin freckled and pockmarked with an advanced case of Extremely-Old-Age.

“Apologies for the delay,” he drawled, making a sign with his hands that Neil didn’t recognize. “Father Hogarth hasn’t been too horrible, I hope?”

The old man had a small smile, with bright and piercing eyes that swept across the room—briefly making contact with Neil’s—before landing on the leader of the chattering priests.

The leader—Father Hogarth, presumably—bowed to the older man. “Your guests have questions, steward, and desire answers.”

The men behind bowed after him, as one.

“So I hear.” The old man smiled, turning his piercing eyes across the group.

“You’ll have to forgive my entrance, I was in the corridor… collecting myself,” He made a show of smoothing out his clothes and exchanged a mild glance with Hogarth. “It is indeed our highest honor to be your host, my young friends, and it is my greatest pleasure to personally welcome you to my home.”

The old man bowed to the group, and Neil’s eyebrows locked firmly into the ‘surprised’ position.

‘What?’ Neil thought, staring at the man. ‘What?’

“I’m sorry,” started the raven-haired angry woman, not sounding very sorry at all. “Who the fuck are you?”

The old man inclined his head. “My name is Argus Callow, my dear. I’m the steward of this castle.”

That, Neil thought, was an odd thing to say. It couldn’t have been true, obviously. Neil didn't know why it couldn’t be true, or why this was obviously the case, but it just sounded so wrong.

‘Castle?’

Neurons fired through the damp fuzz clinging to the inside of Neil’s skull, and words struggled to take shape.

‘Oops. I think I might be in the wrong building, should I just show myself out?’

‘Wait, if you get to be “Argus Callow” then I want to be “Cornelius Flubberwalt.”’

‘Let’s all just take a moment and introduce ourselves, I’m tired of not knowing who any of you people are.’

‘If Amelia put you up to this to get back at me for the thing with the pirate sword, tell her touché.’

The angry woman—Neil committed himself to asking these people their names at some point, because this was getting ridiculous—beat him to it.

“Alright, follow-up question—what the fuck are we doing here?”

The woman’s face looked even sharper, now. Not quite gaunt, Neil thought, but pointed, almost catlike. Eyebrows like thin blades, a small and narrow nose, and a jawline that may well have been capable of drawing blood.

“What is this?” She continued, rolling her shoulders back to stare up at the ceiling. “Where is this? And I’ll ask again, ‘Argus,’ who—the hell—are you?”

Neil could have applauded. He might have, if his hands weren’t occupied with preserving what remained of his dignity.

The old man raised his hands as if it might calm the raging beast of a woman who couldn’t have been taller than five-foot-four.

“Peace, my dear. I’m a friend. We mean to help you in whatever ways we can.”

“Help us? Dude, I don’t even care how I got here, or who the hell these people are—”

She tilted her head back, indicating the space behind her. Neil assumed he qualified as one of ‘these people.’

“I just wanna get out of here. Like, now. So… either give me some cash, get me a ride, or call my dad. Or the police,” She shrugged. “I honestly couldn’t give a fuck at this point. Just get me out of here, please.”

Her body twitched as she spoke. Like she was used to using her hands to get her point across. Or, Neil thought, like she was restraining herself from flying on the man like an enraged hawk. He couldn’t tell.

Argus nodded along with the girl’s demands, blue eyes shining. He clasped his hands together. “Before all that’s settled, won’t you all join me for tea and sandwiches? Perhaps a change of clothes? It’s the least we can do.”

The raven-haired girl scowled but said nothing, glancing back. Her eyes met Neil’s, and he shrugged, casting his focus to the rest of their circle. It was almost funny, Neil thought, how the mention of free food could swing the mood of a crowd.

Neil’s stomach wailed in agony at the thought of being filled. In the battle between hunger and nausea, curiosity ultimately won out.

“What kind of sandwiches?” He asked. The others focused back on him. From the expressions on their faces, they were still wrestling with thoughts of food and didn’t appreciate his input.

The tall woman turned to Argus. “With all due respect, sir, I think we’d be more comfortable if we had a stronger grasp on the situation before…” her lip twitched with apparent disgust, and her eyes drifted away. “Before we do anything else.”

“Nonsense!” The old man declared. “You’re all clearly starving. Don’t they look starving, Hogarth?”

“Famished, steward.” The apparent priest chimed in, nodding serenely.

“Tea and sandwiches will do just the thing,” He waved a hand at the tall woman. “I insist. It would be my pleasure.”

She frowned, shifting her weight back as if caught off balance. Once more, this set off a chain of shared, helpless glances.

Neil rolled his eyes when no one immediately spoke up. Normally, he was all for following the will of the crowd, but this—he glanced down at himself—was ridiculous.

“Clothes first,” He countered, breaking the thickening silence. “If you’ve got my phone—our phones—we’d like those back too, please.”

He hated to think what would happen if they didn’t have his phone. How many people’s numbers did he have memorized, anyway? His parents? He’d sooner buy a new one than call his mom for help, and his dad wasn’t even in the state. Best not even think about that, he decided, unless this turned out to be a worst-case scenario.

“Then food,” He continued after a brief pause. “And talking, I guess. Please.”

He didn’t see what there’d be to talk about. Whatever happened last night, he didn’t think he wanted to know. Mistakes, poor decision-making, and a chronic inability to ignore opportunities to make a fool of himself.

“Of course,” The old man smiled brilliantly, before turning towards the door. “As I said, it would be my pleasure. Follow me, please.”

With deer-like hesitance, the group followed. The floor was cold and smooth under Neil’s bare feet. He stepped carefully around the inscribed circle on the floor, being the furthest from the door Argus led them, and he was the last to look back into the stone cathedral.

Hogarth looked back at him, unmoving, with a fixed smile. Neil shivered into his covering, tightened his jaw, and stepped past the door.

Behind him, he was sure, Father Hogarth and his gaggle of priests were smiling and watching.

…

…

While the Heroes ate, two old men stood in secret, in an empty room.

“That was not well done.” Argus glared at the fool of a priest, Eobart Hogarth.

“The will of the gods is oft inscrutable.” The dazed idiot spoke, still smiling.

Argus pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply.

The Gods and Their Fools, The Gods and Their Fools, The Gods and Their Fools. He thought, squeezing tighter.

The fool in front of him was a particularly literal example of the phrase. Supposedly, he was once quite brilliant. As brilliant as anyone else in the clergy, anyway. Age and elder forces softened his mind. It was a miracle—literally, Argus suspected—that the man was still alive, and relatively sane.

“Has it occurred to you,” he said in a measured tone, eyes screwed shut. “That your summoning was not a particular success? That there was an extra in the ritual chamber? Are you aware of what this means?”

“Five shall be the lords of light, and five each host of heaven. Five generals lead these legions’ might, five heroes bound to serve them.” Hogarth said, in a steady rhythm.

“Yes,” said Argus, “Five heroes. Five. How many did you count today? More, or less?”

Hogarth smiled. “You worry too much, steward. It was the Gods’ own efforts that lent us these children. I am a mere facilitator.”

“You worry too little, priest,” he hissed, keeping his volume low. “Do you know the havoc an errant demigod can wreak? The disorder? One of those little creatures is unbound from the scripture!”

“Freedom is the providence of light. Our heroes are not slaves, but willing servants,” The priest’s ever-present smile diminished. “As are we, steward.”

Argus forced his expression blank. That wasn’t strictly true, he knew, but this was neither the time nor place to hash out the old argument.

“What am I to do then, oh ‘father,’ with the spare Hero the gods have so generously gifted our kingdom?” He asked in a dry voice.

“I haven’t the faintest,” The man’s dreamlike smile resurfaced, as though it never left. “The will of the gods is oft inscrutable.”

Argus breathed in deeply and reminded himself that one must not strike a man of the cloth.

“However,” the priest continued, speaking slowly. Argus could practically see the gears turning in the dull man’s head. “I would imagine that the gods labored mightily over this miracle. It may be prudent to return our lost lamb to the light, so to speak, that the flock may be stronger as a whole, and the lords’ efforts be not wasted.”

Argus folded his arms, staring intently at Hogarth. There was something about the fleshiness of his lips, his high brow, or his haphazard scraggle of hair—set on his head like something a cat might have coughed up—that cast him as a lesser man.

‘A lesser man,’ Argus thought, eyes trailing over the priest's face like lines from a book. ‘And a coward.’

Argus could suffer fools with the best of them, but he had no patience for cravens who buried hard truths under whatever it was that let them pretend righteousness.

“A sacrifice,” Argus said, lightly.

Sacrifice was a nasty piece of business. Messy, complicated, and not Argus’s department—thank Heaven.

There was a reason he didn’t join the clergy, for all the power he might have had. The politics and blood he could have handled—the gods themselves he could not.

The priest dipped into a small bow. “Merely a death—neither ceremony nor ritual will be necessary.” He paused, tilting his head to the side. “Unless it’s convenient, I suppose. In either case, the church will need access to the body.”

Argus sighed. He could feel the beginnings of a headache touch the back of his eyes, and so he closed them again.

“Do you know which of them it is?” He tried, already knowing the answer.

“No,” the priest shook his head. “You would know this business better than I, one would think.”

“I’ll have to wait until they make themselves obvious.” Argus said, fingers returned to the bridge of his nose.

“So it would seem.”

“They won’t be as strong as the others, will they?”

“Not as strong,” The priest warned. “But not necessarily weak.”

Argus frowned, thinking deeply.

“It will take time,” He said at last. “Heroes manifest differently, and I can’t imagine the gods would be pleased if I accidentally killed one of their champions.”

At this, the priest said nothing.

“It’ll upset my plans,” Argus continued, speaking more to himself than Hogarth. “And it could go horribly wrong. This has happened before, hasn’t it?”

“Once or twice.”

“I’ll need to see the records,” He frowned. “This could go very horribly wrong.”

“The Gods and Their Fools laugh at us all.” Father Hogarth said helpfully.

Argus’s eyes snapped opened, sharp upon the other man. He wondered, not for the first time, if Hogarth was laughing at him behind those vacant blue eyes.

He forced a smile to his face, and he dismissed the rogue thought. “I have Heroes to tend to, father. I expect you can find your way out.” He turned, smoothing his robes.

“Light be with you.” The sanctimonious—literally—voice echoed behind him.

“Light be with you,” Argus growled, turning down the hall, not looking back. “Miserable little swine.” He muttered.

The little room receded behind him. He did not look back.