Monster and seer continued on through a long hallway. The stone around them had transitioned to precisely cut and mortared squares. It was fine granite. Heavy. Old.

“Hey, big guy,” the smaller figure asked the great shadow behind her, ”how much do you wanna bet that when the new guy wakes up, he’s gonna show up crazy, and you’re gonna have to fight him?”

Rhode had been drifting in half-formed thoughts. He shook out of his trance. “I – what?”

He stopped and saw a strange, piercing look on the goblin woman’s face as she regarded him. It was probing, playful, and just a little unsure.

“Don’t even joke,” Rhode shuddered. There was an edge in his voice as he gnarled. “That’d be just my luck.” He pushed past her, and she (in turn) ran to overtake him again.

Rikva’s voice was thin, higher pitched. Walking backwards casually, she played at confidence, and chose to bluff. “How about three crowns, make it interesting?”

The homunculus froze, and then relaxed. “I’m glad I don’t have money,” he whuffed, “If it’s a bet with you? I’m not sure if that makes it more likely or less.”

They had walked loudly, and spoken even louder – perhaps, as if only to ward off the hanging, gnawing feeling of emptiness around them. As they reached the quarter-way-point though, an emerging glow brightened from the far junction ahead of them. Everywhere the lights did not touch, the dim seemed to deepen in contrast.

Rikva’s hand grasped at Rhode’s arm, too small to firmly grip around it easily. “Let’s go back this way,“ she began.

But Adjutant Fidelity Brand stepped into view. He wore his full livery, and best blacked-boots, and the dainty teacup he held burned with a candle inside. “Goodman Irving? Scholar Rikva? What are you doing down here?”

“Ah. Imp-toes. So that’s what happens.” The goblin sighed. With practiced ease, she dumped her cup and dice into a little bag she wore on her hip and snapped her fingers in frustration. “I really started to think I was gonna make it.”

“And how in blazes did you get past all the guards?” Brand demanded. “I’ve posted them everywhere.” He leaned into the intersections as he approached, as if he thought they held threats. Then he strode towards them with authority. The older goblin had rings under his eyes. His mustache was waxed so finely, and so securely stiff, that it possessed none of the characteristic life or charm of its bounce. He rested his free hand at his belt, on the pommel of his sword.

“I was taking the big guy here to watch the summoning,” Rickva declared. She sounded equally determined and resigned.

Doubt passed over the officer’s features. Just for a moment, he didn’t stand quite so tall. “Scholar Rikva, your expertise is deemed unnecessary for the ritual. After recent lapses, non-essential staff will not be allowed to gawk and loiter about core-mission procedures from here out. Your superiors should have made this clear.”

“Of course, Ser,” she bowed. It was so adroit and respectful, that the soldier was taken aback.

“But…” he rumbled, “this is a momentous day. Perhaps… it would not be wrong for Goodman Irving to attend.”

Fidelity’s sword-hand left his weapon and he scratched at his lower lip instead. He inspected Rhode’s attire with reluctance to approve, then caught himself from his undignified tic and sniffed.

“There was no explicit invitation extended to you, Goodman. But. I note that an inquiry was made… as to whether you would wake by today.”

Rikva victoriously struck Rhode on the chest with her palm. “So, you’ll take him?” she grinned.

“I will make no promises. I would have him change his attire into something more suitable, but – I suppose it has become something of common knowledge that Goodman Irving prefers…” his shoulders slumped, “casual dress.”

Then Thousand-Cut Brand squared himself back to full military poise. “Come along then, Goodman Irving, before I come to my senses. Scholar Rikva, though it is always a pleasure, I shall request you return to either your station or chambers.”

“At once, Ser,” the seer inclined her head. She turned. “See you later, big guy."

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Her arms wrapped around Rhode's belly. Her cheek pressed into him too. She was warm and he held her gently for no more than a second or two.

"Seriously though," he whispered to her, "did we do that whole thing just so we could run into Brand?"

She pulled away and grinned. "Ooh. That’s a fun question. I really do hope you don't die. See you tonight for nooses and knuckles? I’ll spot you your first round of dice.”

A creature from another world wrapped the tiny hand of his friend with his huge one. “I'm gonna say maybe. For the life of me, I can't decide if I'll never gamble you again - or if I'd be smarter to take the wager against you every time.”

Once the adjutant was whisking Rhode along, the homunculus realized just how much Rikva had been leading him in circles. Brand’s candle flickered a robust illumination, so Rhode closed his light-crystal into the comfort of his palm. A little bit of purple showed through his blood and flesh.

“Goodman Irving. It behooves me to ask about something I overheard. The good Scholar Rikva. What she said... Surely, she was joking about the Hero? If she were to foresee some difficulty or failure with the ritual, it would be imperative for her to share this information with Special Projects.”

Rhode blinked. He ran his free hand along the wall and felt the grain. It nicked little cuts into his skin. “I think…” he hesitated, and then he risked a tiny little piece of the truth: to the adjutant and to himself too. “I think I trust Rikva to do what she thinks is best.”

“If it was a matter that did not concern the turns of Fate, I might demand a clearer answer than that, young man,” Fidelity growled. He adjusted the hem of his doublet. Orange and black: the colors of his oaths.

"Ah. Yea. So," Rhode wondered, changing the subject, "we really ended up in the middle of nowhere didn’t we. How did you even find us?"

"Please," the adjutant scoffed. Because [bellows] was tickling his ears, and moved hairs on the back of his head. It echoed over distance and around corners; in every direction there was. "You are not particularly difficult to find."

They passed through an archway, and just like that, the halls were no longer empty. Rhode and his escort passed by a soldier, taking his leave on a low packing crate. The gentlegob set down the letter he was composing, and rose to salute – it was that same, strange little motion with the thumb that Rhode had come to recognize.

“Um, that reminds me,” Rhode cleared his throat. They passed by a cleaner-man, who gaped at Rhode as his broom swept the same spot like it was stuck on repeat. Rhode tried out the thumb salute and nodded to the old gob.

“Don’t do that,” Brand said. “The salute is for standing men-at-arms. If you are not wearing colors, whether of your lord, or a knightly order, it is considered rude.”

“Sorry,” Rhode mouthed. “But I wanted to find Yune. I mean, ah. Lady Ser Jern Hakkat-Yune. I kinda wanted to apologize for the whole, ah – I guess our fight.”

Brand’s steps slowed to a stop, and Rhode halted behind him.

“I am afraid that is not possible. Knight Hakkat-Yune of House Jern is no longer with us.”

“She’s DEAD?” Rhode hissed in barely controlled alarm. He’d almost shouted, and drew curious looks.

“No! Of course not,” the adjutant rebuked. But there were lines creased into his face. “She has merely been reassigned to another facility, another project.”

Brand resumed his pace, and Rhode matched him. There was a certain extent to which the homunculus’ towering form was blocking traffic, but the working goblins looked at the cause of their delay and chose to hold their tongues.

Rhode covered one side of his face with his hand. “I assume that’s bad?”

“She has received a promotion,” Brand replied too quickly.

“So that’s good!”

The adjutant’s pace increased. A sneer curled onto his lip as he stopped to upbraid his subordinates for their laxity, laziness, and lack of decorum. Rhode didn’t consider all of his accusations to be quite fair. They seemed like they walked a long way without talking.

“I am taking you to the healers,” Fidelity intoned. “We will request that their ministry be kept brief, but you have been insensate for some days. It will be wise to go now.”

Rhode frowned. This was just classic avoidance strategy.

“Okay. So then, it IS pretty bad,” Rhode blurted out. “Man, this sucks. I thought everything was going great? I guess she sort of beat the snot out of me, but I didn’t mean to get her in trouble.”

“No, do not apologize, Goodman Irving. Ser Hakkat-Yune is a woman of impeccable talent, commendable self-possession, and limitless potential. She is young. Her quality, and her future, shall outlast the shadow of any passing cloud.”

“Shit,” Rhode murmured, “now that just sounds worse.”

The door of the infirmary appeared before them. Porter gobs, scribes, and guards stepped aside to make way. The adjutant passed his teacup lamp into the hands of a servant, and stared resolutely ahead. But Rhode looked down and to his side, and saw a little uniform. It was orange over black. There was a neatly oiled little belt about its waist, and it bore a duteously polished little knife. And inside of that uniform was a little goblin, standing oh so proud and in full salute. Her hair was did up perfect, her buttons all in place. Her mail was all but shining, and so it drew the eyes. But if you were distracted by her armor, and overlooked her face –

It was easy, there in passing, to miss how much she’d cried.