Rivel stood over the dissected body of the crab spider and wiped his mouth in a sadistic gesture. Neith skittered away, disappearing into the many twists of the cavern. He sighed and whispered.

"Yet another problem. I bet that beastly tough is having a much greater time, not meddling with spider politics. Heh, spider politics, who would have thought that was a thing before today?"

The sweet taste of the devoured soul still kept him in a good mood, balancing his desire to go back and set the entire hive on fire with the absolute disdain he felt for the arthropod kind. He decided it was best to sort the matter in a way that fulfilled their promise and helped him wage his war. For all he knew, Malcolm could have amassed a fearsome army of hundreds, if not thousands, of trained warriors, and he had yet to gather a bunch of insects.

"If I leave them to their accords, they will starve out; it's not like I gave them a permanent solution or anything. High Magus Rivel, reduced to spider nanny." He shook his head. He felt above all this; none deserved his time. There was only one solution he could think of: finding and rallying the spiderlings' enemies to sweep in on time and save the majority of their population after the rallied minions destroyed the Queen and her consort under his instructions, of course.

But then again, these enemies may prove equally, if not more, treacherous than the spiders themselves, and he didn't even know how they looked. He scratched his cheek. Maybe just going to the surface and forgetting this whole thing would be better? Then he pictured himself running around empty valleys, miles upon miles of non-populated terrain, or worse, being chased by mundanes, making him lag even more in the competition. If he had more time, he could afford to do things his way; if it wasn't for the dumb mongrel, he'd be in his home enjoying a good glass of wine instead of crawling through caves covered in dirt and grime like a miner. He huffed and backtracked.

Assuming the guard-spider, as limited as he might have been, probably avoided contested territories to safeguard his life, Rivel walked for quite a while, feeling thankful the floor was made of dirt, not rock, as orientation in a cave was trickier than he thought.

Following footsteps was easier than trying to devise whether this gray rock differed from the others. Finally, he took a few turns until he reached a branching path that didn't lead to a dead end and started walking for what seemed an eternity. He sighed again, bored and frustrated.

"What kind of days are these, walking around in the dark, narrow grottos? There isn't even anything to see; it's just so annoying!" He laughed at how little his last kill helped his mood. Rivel muttered to himself, "He had his chance; it's not my fault if he decides to blindly follow orders. Who in their right mind would try to take down the man who just summoned magic beyond their wildest dreams? He even seemed resentful for some reason. I was perfectly civil and well-mannered, unlike those beasts."

His thoughts were interrupted as he walked into a gigantic chamber filled with vegetation - not just typical fungi, but pastures and trees. At the center, a glowing rock inscribed with unknown runes acted as a surrogate sun, nourishing the lush green around it.

Trees grew straight up, then leaned toward the stone, giving the landscape a surreal sensation, as if trapped within a crystal ball. The pale white grass and deep blue and purple flowers contrasted with a bush bearing poisonous black and green berries. A stream ran across the place.

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Rivel was stunned, caught by absolute surprise at the sudden appearance of lushness amidst his monochrome pathway! But moments later, he regained focus. Where there's water and food, there's bound to be creatures. He crouched, hiding behind the treeline, slowly making his way through the chamber's circumference. He noticed the place connected to other enormous chambers, stretching beyond the horizon.

"What on earth is this place?" he muttered. A rustle made him whip his head, but it was too late. A spear shaft ran through his throat, and ten creatures started piercing him from all sides. "It was a mistake to come here..." His last thought was how happier he would have been if he had left the warmongers to their brutish way, letting them die at their own accord so he could be at home, at peace. Then he passed out.

When he regained consciousness, he found himself observed like a fair monkey by disgusting, quitinous insects. He wanted to lash out and kill them all, having had enough insects for a lifetime, but he was tied and firmly secured to the ground through chains and shackles. He tried to utter his magic, but was gagged. Could this day get any worse? The creatures gazed at him with their beady, black eyes and clicked their goo-covered mandibles. Their cylindrical heads made them bizarre, especially when standing on hind legs and holding spears with three-fingered, functional hands.

Sometimes Rivel felt embarrassed at being similar to mundanes, but the sight of thick, whisker-like antennae on these creatures made him thank Zardoz for his anthropomorphic appearance. Extra eyes would still be appreciated, though.

A larger, brittle version of these creatures approached, opening the door to the wooden cabin. The familiar scent of burning flesh accompanied the elder, who wore golden and grassy ornaments. With a deep grumble, the elder spoke:

"Fateweaver, you've made quite the mistake by trying to infiltrate our land. You thought being a curse-wielder would let you take our battlefront alone?" The creature cackled. "Helping those disgusting creatures sealed your fate, O Fateweaver. Return to the cursed land you came from!"

The spear-wielding creatures approached Rivel with murderous intent, but he shouted and struggled, catching the elder's attention. The elder motioned for the warriors to stop and, speaking a warning, ungagged Rivel:

"Cursed one, whatever trick brought you back from the dead won't assist you again. Speak quickly, for your existence emanates queer energy easily mistaken for one of your incantations."

Rivel nodded, having had too many brushes with death for one day.

"I'm not the Fateweaver! I helped the Silkborne because they promised troops for my war, but they exiled me! I was betrayed!"

The elder chuckled, sympathizing.

"Fitting for those lowly beings. I once tried negotiating peace, offering enormous tribute, but returned with only scars." He pointed at his wounded carapace. "We weren't always at odds. There was abundance when soil sustained us both. I'm familiar with their faith; the Great Mother would take a two-legged avatar to aid them in need. My spies informed me of a two-legged man wielding curse magic in their capital. We set an ambush, thinking Nyxoria sent you to bring something from the surface to turn the war's tide."

The elder leaned closer.

"Since we're friends now, how did you survive our attacks?"

Rivel found himself in a pickle. Telling the truth would expose vulnerabilities; lying risked detection, as the elder suggested sensing magic, who knows what else can he sense. Half-truths seemed the way.

"My kind is known for hardiness; let's say we're not easy to kill."

The elder looked disappointed.

"No trust, then?" Before exiting, he said, "I'll keep you locked until I decide what to do with you."