"Hells to buttons," Kilbourn groaned as Garrick finished his story. "You should have come to me much sooner. This stinks—and I mean that in the metaphorical sense."

Garrick nodded.

"It was my first thought—to visit you, that is. But we were waylaid, and I … wasn't sure if you still ran this place. Trust me when I say this is the soonest we could have come to you with this."

Save for the brief bread detour when we got back to town…

"And you say Rozmera's got her mitts all over this, too?"

"A softer touch than that," Garrick said. "She's tasked me with finding out."

"Well, that settles it. We're doomed. Unless this ordeal can be punched into submission."

Garrick rolled his eyes.

"Give me a little more credit than that, Kilbourn."

"Twenty years ago? Sure," Kilbourn said. "But we both know how badly you got scratched. I checked you over myself, remember? You're little better than a bog standard laborer at this poi—"

"Anyway," Garrick interrupted. "We were talking about upcoming issues, not my annual medical check-up."

Kilbourn suddenly leaned forward, his stooped back reminding Garrick of a giant shrimp.

"Did she…erm, mention me?" Kilbourn asked hesitantly.

"Who?" Garrick wondered.

"Rozmera, of course, you silly lad!" Kilbourn sniped.

Garrick shook his head.

"Would you want her to?" He wondered. "I still hold the position that it's better to remain forgotten when it comes to deities and their desires."

Kilbourn cackled.

"Oh, if I fear anything, it isn't going to be the Goddess of the Lovely Bosom," Kilbourn said.

"She didn't mention you directly," Garrick said, sipping his long-tepid tea. "But she did say I'd need to find out the information however I can—and I have a hard time imagining she wouldn't know I'd be immediately sprinting to your place of business for assistance."

Kilbourn smirked.

"I'll take it! So, in that case…"

The old man drew himself up from his chair and began to pace the room, his head down in thought. Dashiell and Surith observed quietly, both seemingly profoundly interested in the pearls of information the librarian was sure to unearth. Ember had left Garrick's shoulder and was on the floor, slowly tailing a beetle that had somehow found its way into the chamber.

"I think the Fiend embryo is the first part to unravel," Kilbourn finally said.

"Is that so?' Garrick asked, intrigued.

"Yes," Kilbourn said, his head still turned toward his feet as he moved back and forth across the rug. "We have the most information about them. So…"

He turned to look at Garrick.

"What do we know about Fiend embryos?"

"Well, for one, they can't live long on this plane by themselves," Garrick began, his mind already sorting through the various snippets of lore and half-forgotten remembrances. "A few years at most. And they don't stay embryos for long, either."

He wasn't opposed to recapping known knowledge; often, it helped disseminate the important from the irrelevant.

"Exactly," Kilbourn said, nodding. "So, if the one in your pack has been here for a while..."

"Then, it can't have been hidden away by conventional means," Garrick finished.

Kilbourn harumphed.

"Which means someone has either found a way to preserve it far beyond its natural state, or it has, in fact, been brought here very recently."

"But why would someone need a Fiend embryo?" Dashiell asked. "If I am not mistaken, the two of you are implying its existence is necessary in some capacity. How are you so sure?"

"Well," Garrick continued. "Fiend embryos act as conduits for opening rifts between planes, amplifying power needed to break through the barriers."

"Is there not an easier way?" Dashiell wondered. "It seems like a dreadful amount of work just to bring a larvae into this world."

"Ah, youth…" Kilbourn mused. "Turning up their nose at a bit of elbow grease."

Garrick snickered.

"He's merely asking questions, you old goat. Don't disparage someone's inquiries just because they happen to be younger than you. That's practically everyone."

Kilbourn scowled at Garrick, then turned to Dashiell.

"It happens to be one of the easiest ways," he said. "Even if it isn't easy."

"So, is it possible a Fiend came through and brought along the embryo?" Dashiell continued thoughtfully.

"I hate to use the word 'impossible,'" Kilbourn began, "Actually—no, I don't. The idea of one crossing without an embryo is impossible at this stage. Even with one of their disgusting little babies, the only way Fiends can access our plane is through the power of an Imperial Fiend Lord."

"Which is why he's calling it impossible," Garrick clarified with a sigh. "Since there aren't any more of them."

"Precisely," Kilbourn said, pausing his pacing to glance at Garrick. "The last Imperial Fiend Lord died twenty years ago."

"Rasterion," Dashiell said. "We all know about how…"

The young man glanced at Garrick as well.

"…how he was destroyed. Though...perchance there is another Imperial Fiend Lord?"

"Doubtful," Kilbourn said. "It takes an incredible amount of time, and even more Deviant energy, to get to that level—and Rasterion made sure he was alone on that precipice."

"Then, is it possible someone has…harnessed his power?" Dashiell continued, sitting forward in thought. "There are things in the old stories like that, are there not?"

"Bah, I don't even want to entertain the notion that someone's siphoning Nasty Rasty's energy, somehow," Kilbourn said, "it suggests a disturbing level of knowledge and capability."

"Or," Garrick interjected, "it suggests that one of his sons survived. They were the only ones with enough potential power after the Imperial Fiend Lord purged all other competition during his rise."

Kilbourn stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"But you believe the sons were killed, don't you?"

"More than believe," Garrick said, forwning. "I know. A group of us finished Warzinaar together. And I was witness to Mastrenok's death."

"Maybe...have child not...know about?" Surith suddenly suggested. "Fiend king have...more?"

The last part was framed as a question.

Garrick looked at Kilbourn, who met his gaze.

"We had Claudette check," Garrick said, and Kilbourn nodded.

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Then he turned to Surith.

"We had someone very familiar with Fiends among our number. She confirmed that Mastrenok and Warzinaar were the only two surviving offspring of Rasterion."

"You trust her?" Surith asked, referring to Claudette.

"Implicitly," Garrick said, just as Kilbourn shrugged.

"Maybe...Fiend king have baby after she check?" Surith said.

That's a terrifying thought.

"Well," Garrick said aloud. "If there were another child—who happened to reach Imperial Fiend Lord status, even—or if one of his sons survived, that would be the strongest explanation for the embryo's presence."

"But who are the couple who gave the embryo to the hobgoblins?" Dashiell asked. "What do they gain from this?"

All eyes went to Surith, who scowled.

"I tell what I know about lady and hat man."

"Hat man?" Kilbourn asked, perplexed.

"Yes. Hat man," Surith confirmed. "Always wear hat, even in dark place. Powerful lady always with him. Talk like they know all. Askeran believe they know what they say."

Kilbourn exchanged a glance with Garrick that spoke volumes, most of which were in a language only they understood.

"Askeran?" Dashiell wondered.

"It's the hobgoblin word for 'hobgoblin,'" Garrick answered.

Dashiell nodded, his cheeks reddening with embarrassment.

Apparently, he must find his lack of knowledge on that subject shameful.

The old librarian glanced at Garrick again, who simply shrugged.

"This…hat man and powerful lady. What kind of things did they claim to know?" Kilbourn asked Surith.

"Say know how to summon Yildirim—" Surith started, then turned to Dashiell. "Great creator."

Dashiell smiled appreciatively at the clarification.

"Say use scroll, use big bug, Yildirim come," Surith continued. "We use scroll, we use big bug. Yildirim not come. Zeszerakiamak come."

Surith shivered, using his people's word for what must've meant 'plane devourer' or some equivalent.

"Any other distinguishing features?" Kilbourn asked. "Were they human? Elfish? Other askeran?"

"Shurenk—elf," Surith said, nodding thoughtfully. "Like lady at where find us."

Surith pinched one of his earlobes and the flesh of a nostril as if to indicate piercings.

"Fran?" Dashiell asked.

Surith simply nodded.

"Why did you not say anything while we were with her?" Dashiell asked, a suspicious scowl on his face. "She could have perhaps had an idea of their identities."

"Ah, yes—an elf that wears a hat and one that's a powerful lady! Would have cleared that right up, I'll bet," Kilbourn scoffed. "Boy, what are they feeding you at Montrose Manor? House paint? Not all elfish folk of a particular type know one another."

Dashiell bowed his head.

"Apologies, Master Kilbourn," he said demurely. "I was not attempting to imply such a thing. I, of course, know that they, the elfish, are a varied people—but with her help, it could have perhaps been narrowed down a bit more. She might have asked questions we would not consider due to who she is."

"Not tell scary elf lady because not know if she know them," Surith said. "Maybe work with them? Not know then. Still not know."

A bit racist… Garrick thought but then dismissed it. Things like that are a much more pervasive issue here than they are…elsewhere.

It had been quite some time since Garrick had even thought about that aspect of his former home. However, it had been pretty severe—at least in the part of the world he was from.

"Can I see the scroll?" Kilbourn asked, looking between the three of them.

"Sure," Garrick said and reached behind himself to untie the roll of parchment from the space wedged against his pack and his spine.

Garrick handed it over, and Kilbourn's eyes widened slightly as he noted the seal. His eyebrows rose even further, practically threatening to make a break for his hairline, as he clearly recognized the mark of the Necromancer of the Bleak. He didn't comment but gave Garrick a knowing look that said, "Really? You brought this to me?" without uttering a single word.

Garrick returned the look pointedly.

Kilbourn sighed theatrically, raising his hand with a flourish and beginning a Chant. The scroll floated into the air with an exaggerated wobble and started glowing with a blue light that probably had no business being as eerie as it was.

Garrick heard a sharp breath and looked to the loveseat. Surith and Dashiell winced, their faces contorted with the discomfort usually reserved for people sitting on hastily constructed furniture.

That's when he noticed all of the astaran echoes radiating from Kilbourn as he Chanted. This was what amounted to vented heat from a mason's kiln, except it was several hundred times more intrusive. It had hardly registered for him. But for Surith and Dashiell…

"Gods, man! Careful with your mantle, Kilbourn!" Garrick exclaimed, seeing their reactions. "You're pressing on them too hard!"

Kilbourn rolled his eyes with a sigh that could have powered a small windmill.

"Apologies," he said, sarcasm so thick you could spread it on toast. "I was merely testing the scroll for curses or entrapments that might not be immediately visible. I didn't realize the fragility of our guests."

"They're hardly even on the path, and you just go and set a mountain on them!"

"I said I was sorry, didn't I? What more do you want?" Kilbourn scoffed again. "Honestly, it was hardly a nudge."

"That's a thin excuse for completely unchecked mantle echo, and you know it," Garrick stated, raising an eyebrow.

"Sir, it's quite…alright," Dashiell said.

"Not alright," Surith countered, looking greener and yellower than usual. "Not like that."

Kilbourn groaned, and Garrick felt the astara recede until it was only where it deserved to be around the scroll.

The scroll continued to glow, flickering in and out like a poorly tuned radio station, as Kilbourn's astara probed it. Surith and Dashiell relaxed slightly, still looking like they had just licked a lemon.

"Anything?" Garrick asked.

Kilbourn's eyes narrowed as he concentrated.

"Nothing immediate, but the astara is complex."

There was a soft pressure in the air as the blue light turned green. Garrick thought he might've imagined a sound—a trill that accompanied the flash—like a microwave oven announcing it was done.

"There," Kilbourn declared. "Nothing nefarious—which is good news for you."

He winked at Surith.

"Nothing worse than a slow-crawling curse or the like to really ruin your life—for whatever is left of it."

Surith nodded.

"Not want to die yet."

"Alright, well, let's get to reading, shall we?"

Kilbourn took the scroll, examining the words with the scrutiny of a jeweler inspecting a suspiciously large diamond. He scanned through it, eyes darting over the script, before lowering it and peering at Garrick over the top of it with the kind of frustration usually reserved for traffic jams and tax audits.

"What's the issue?" Garrick asked, already suspecting the answer wouldn't be simple.

"It doesn't make any sense," Kilbourn grumbled. "I speak sixty-one languages, can read four times as many, and don't recognize a single word here."

Seems like an appropriate place to brag… Garrick thought sarcastically.

However, he was intrigued, so he moved to look over Kilbourn's shoulder. The old librarian pointed to the scroll, his wrinkled finger hovering over various characters.

"See these? They're reminiscent of ancient Endryan, but not quite the same. Here—" he pointed to something that looked like squiggles, "this one's a bit like later-era era cuniform. And these here—completely foreign. Not even a hint of familiarity."

For a brief, terrifying moment, Garrick had worried some of the script might be in a language from Earth and that was why Kilbourn couldn't read it. After all, stranger things had happened. But after spending a moment staring at it, he realized that wasn't the case. This was something else entirely.

"Could you use a Chant to identify it?" Garrick suggested. "Typographical Elucidation, or something similar?"

Kilbourn scoffed, a sound reminiscent of a cat trying to expel a hairball. "Already did," he replied. "Didn't show me boo."

"Oh, I didn't notice," Garrick said.

"That's because, after your tiny tantrum a moment ago, I wanted to make sure not to give the little ones any nauseousness."

Garrick rolled his eyes.

"Grow up, Kilbourn."

Dashiell piped up.

"So that is it, then? A dead end?"

Kilbourn tutted, shaking his head.

"Hardly. Just because the language is unrecognized doesn't mean the scroll is useless. While I hate to suggest that you take your business elsewhere…"

Kilbourn sighed, and Garrick had a feeling he knew the next suggestion. He would have smirked at the pain on Kilbourn's face at having to admit he was out of his depth—if the alternative wasn't something so out of the way that it would be irritating.

"The Guild?" Garrick offered, his assumptions plain.

Kilbourn snorted.

"Unfortunately…they might be your best bet."

"Guild?" Dashiell asked. "Which guild are you speaking about?"

"The Guild," Kilbourn said, apparently unhelpfully.

"You are speaking as though there is only one—there are countless guilds in Bastion alone. Am I missing something?"

"It's the only guild worth being called a guild at all," Kilbourn said. "The Guild of D—"

Kilbourn suddenly cut himself off, his entire body tensing. Garrick had felt it, too. Their eyes met. On the floor, Ember's ears twitched anticipatorily.

"What is it?!" Dashiell demanded, standing.

"Two?" Garrick asked Kilbourn.

The old man shook his head. His astaran senses were much sharper than Garrick's own. And for good reason.

"Three—one's smaller than the others—weaker, even, but it's there."

"I should go then," Garrick stated soberly, now standing.

"We should go," Kilbourn corrected, an evil grin forming on his face. "Do you know how long it's been? I need to stretch my legs a bit from time to time."

"Please, sirs," Dashiell protested. "What is happening? Why do you—"

"Can I get a lift?" Garrick asked.

Kilbourn smirked.

"Can't do it yourself, eh? Sure, pup, I'll ferry you along with me."

Garrick sighed.

They'd both felt it at the exact same time: planar portals had opened up inside the city.

In moments, the two old men had disappeared from the office, leaving behind a very baffled and worried Dashiell and Surith. After a moment, the hobgoblin glanced at the floor where a bug lay on its back, struggling alone as it attempted to flip itself over.

"Scary fox is gone," he said.

Dashiell gaped at the empty space where the vulpid had been toying with the beetle only a moment ago.

"They took her and not us?" he questioned. "What in the realms just happened?"