Twain stared into the darkness expectantly. For a long time, nothing happened.

Sweat dripped down his back. This is a communication spell, right? If this turns out to be an attack, I'm going to look so dumb when I die.

Purple amidst the black. The line of a body, curving out of the darkness. A beautiful woman stepped out of the darkness, curves accentuated by the contrasting light, tall horns curving back from her forehead. The demon princess smiled at him, tipping her head slightly. “Hello, Twain. Or should I say, Mouse?”

Twain jolted. He plucked at his shirt awkwardly, pulling it out from his body so she couldn’t see his completely flat chest. “How did you know?”

The demoness smiled. She walked toward him, hips swaying hypnotically, a vial clasped in both hands. Dark liquid swished in the crystal, viscous and thick. An oily sheen swirled atop the liquid.

Twain stared. “Is that…?”

“Call me Lilith, friend. We have much in common. If you ever want to know the truth, seek me out.” She pressed the blight into his hands.

Oh right. She told me to come out to the old well if I wanted to know the truth. Between His Majesty and the Arena, I forgot about all that.

Confused, Twain curled his fingers around the vial, then looked at her. “You’re behind the blight…?”

Lilith smiled gently.

Immediately, Twain frowned. He put a hand on his chin. No, she can’t be. If the palace didn’t agree, they would have thoroughly investigated the blight. Instead, that sham investigation… and then… He met Lilith’s eyes. Her patron must be someone high up in the human government. The king? Or maybe…

“Why?” he asked. Why tell me now? I had no idea who was behind the blight. It would have taken me ages to trace it back to Lilith. Even if I found out that the demons were pushing it, I had no reason to suspect the princess, or suspect someone behind her. So why?

She folded her hands over his, pressing them to the cold crystal. “Drink. Understand.”

Lilith retreated. She faded into the darkness. For a few seconds, Twain stood alone in the dark, and then the Arena faded back in around him. Down the hallway, lanterns flickered with healthy flame. Fighters and assistants rushed by, hurrying this way and that. A skinny figure shoved past, shooting him a dark look from under the blanket draped over his head.

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Blankly, he gazed after Lilith, then shook his head and hurried out the door. Absent-mindedly, he shoved the vial in his pocket.

Fell and Spar waited for him, lounging against the wall. Spar stood first and clapped him on the back of the head. “Took you long enough. And you didn’t even get your jacket?”

“Forgot it was summer,” Twain muttered. Mind elsewhere, he fiddled with the vial in his pocket.

Spar slapped his hand. “Hey, enough playing with your balls. Let’s go get some real action.”

Twain met his eyes. For a moment, his were cold and distant, lost in thought. Then he smiled, breaking the ice. He pulled his hand out of his pocket. “Right. Let’s go.”

Spar jumped ahead, skipping down the road, head high. He smiled at all the pretty people passing by, a faint whistle on his lips, tuneless but not unpleasant. Fell scurried behind him, nervous but eager at the same time, watching vigilantly through the holes in his pillowcase. Somehow, Twain knew he smiled under the mask.

Pulling up beside Fell, Twain yanked at the pillowcase. “Why the mask, anyways?”

Fell pulled the mask back into place and flinched out of reach. “I, uh… I’m, I’m ugly.”

“Ugly? You aren’t ugly,” Spar opined.

“How do you know? He could be hideous under there,” Twain commented.

Spar nodded at the rest of Fell. “He can keep the pillowcase on if he’s worried about his face. The rest of him, though, not bad. Could use a bit more meat on his bones, but…”

Fell ducked his head, embarrassed.

“Stop harassing the man. Everyone isn’t horny all the time like you,” Twain said, slapping Spar on the shoulder.

Spar clicked his tongue. “You bipeds need to be more open with your desires.”

People wandered around them, laughing and chatting. Men draped arms around women’s shoulders. Women chuckled and leaned into them, big smiles on painted lips. At the sight of them, the men put up their guards, and the women startled out of their way. A few cast them dirty glances, but no one spoke up against them.

“Why’re people so afraid of us?” Spar wondered.

Twain looked around the group. Spar, massive, white, and mysterious. Fell, pillowcase-masked. And himself, the moon elf, a race most humans never saw in their lifetime.

“I wonder,” he deadpanned.

Spar shook his head, mystified. All at once, he straightened up and pointed. “Over there. That place looks nice.”

Twain followed his finger to a dingy hole in the wall. Thick bars covered the windows. The studded door featured a tiny steel-plated peekhole. A burly man large enough to rival Spar stood outside the door, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

“Er... nice?” Twain asked. Nice is not the word I'd use for that place.

Fell looked at Spar as well, equally uncertain.

Confident, Spar nodded. “The less fun a place looks, the more fun it is.”

Twain clicked his tongue. As long as there’s a bard and beer, I guess anything goes. He shrugged. “Well, if you say so.”

Lost, Fell glanced from one to the other. He shuffled closer to Twain and nodded as well.

Spar grinned, big teeth glimmering in the setting sun. “Let’s get this night started, boys!”

He marched to the door and kicked it wide open.