Rhode insisted on shaking Tarrop’s hand once more, and the scholar left him with one last piece of advice.

“Never forget the golden rule of goblin-kind, big guy. We do so at our peril.” But the gob did not explain himself, he simply squeezed around and opened the door.

As Rhode left the infirmary that wasn’t really an infirmary, he held either of his fists curled up in towards his chest. It seemed that once again, and in what was fast becoming a pattern, the earth-man had a Problem with a capital P.

Because deep in his heart, Rhode knew that Tarrop the goblin was a bad person. He knew it. The man was a slick, duplicitous smooth-talker. He was vain and indolent – a glutton of lavish wastes. He only talked kindly to the people he could gain something from, and that had included Rhode too. Anyone with eyes could have seen that this scholar (of few studies but self-interest) had treated every gob at Four Rings beneath him like dirt.

And what about Hakkat-Yune? The maniac that had cut him halfway dead? Or the pompous Adjutant: the rigid, judgmental mustache that was Fidelity Brand? What had changed?

So Rhode agonized. Because the problem was that despite it all, despite his instincts and the basic faculty of common sense – well, the Hero of Sacred was starting (despite himself) to like the people he’d come here to save.

“Hey, Brand,” Rhode spoke.

The soldier of many years, and the wavering daemon over his shoulder, glanced once at the homunculus. Brand nodded once, and then set off, motioning for Rhode to follow.

“Hey,” the living, breathing traffic jam tried again. But the lesser lord kept on, leading them around checkpoints armed with spear-women and dour-faced men with heavy clubs. They greeted him with salutes, and one or two wicked snickers at his expense, and waved the two along.

This section of the facility was lively: decorated with fine things, and the gobs hereabout were fiercely busy at pretending that they were hard at work.

As Rhode passed by one particular thin-haired man that was meticulously scooting plinths an inch further left, one by one, he leaned over and squinted. “I’m onto you, buddy,” he said.

Whether he was right or not, the man jumped nearly out of his skin. He hurried off into the distance; gone to mend his ways, or perhaps to loiter elsewhere and try his luck again.

There was a stairwell. It was nothing so impressive. Just a framed wooden set of steps leading upwards. Creaking, but sturdy enough to handle the movement of daily freight. It was not the only access which connected the palace above to the deeps below, but it was the first that Rhode had been allowed to see. As he spied the filtering rays of his very first natural light in this life, a blockage inside of his soul seemed to come loose, and he began to choke up.

“Brand. I think I know why I came here.”

“Yes, Goodman Irving, I would hope so. But we are already likely to be late.”

Long, half-elven legs vaulted up the stairs nimbly. Rhode looked upwards and tucked his healing crystal into his breast-pocket. He touched the bannister like it was a sacred relic of faith, and carefully ascended into daylight.

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

They passed together through a cramped, dark-paneled servants’ access: the recessed space clearly meant to hide the stairwell from the view of the attached open room.

Beyond that transition, the floor of the palace was tiled in an arcane geometry of viridian marble and coppery-gold rue-wood. The walls were papered everywhere with designs of coiling sea-lion-serpents and peacock-feathered crabs; and they were painted in gold over arsenic imbued paper, the lurid color of sheele’s green.

Dainty statuettes of jade occupied divot-ed little cubbies along the walls, and a chandelier of mirror-polished copper leafs hung overhead.

Along the far wall, windows the height of Rhode himself (taller, even) were spilling with sweet warmth and sunlight. Their velvet and lace curtains were tied with ribbons, and elegantly tucked to either side. A plush, avocado and ochre rug laid out ahead of him under his feet.

“Whoa,” Rhode said.

“You are impressed?” Brand smirked weakly.

“Yea, by how tacky this looks. Who owns this place?” Rhode blurted out, before he could stop himself.

The adjutant’s smile actually grew wider in approval, and his step was lighter too.

“Rikva told me I had to make a choice today. That was why she fetched me. I’ve been thinking about it, and now I think I know what I’ve gotta do.”

The probably-ex-adjutant slowed down a beat. “That is fortuitous, if true, Goodman Irving. Would it change the outcome for you to share this with me?”

Rhode slipped through a painstakingly ornamented doorway, as Brand held it open for him. “I don’t think so. I mean, I don’t know. But it’s about Tarrop. And about Yune, and ah, I guess about you too.”

Ser Fidelity looked up sharply. His daemon took shape and flitted ahead, keeping watch. The half-elf touched the homunculus arm lightly, leading Rhode aside and as much out of sight as was possible.

“Goodman Irving, I have come to believe – and forgive me for this accusation – that you suffer from something of a kindness of empathy for your peers. I… perhaps admire it. It is a rare thing, and a luxury that few of us can risk. But you should not worry about me. Please. You are already doing enough. A dawn is coming that we have never dreamed to see, a future where Sacred will see the threat of the west ended. The time will come when our country will grow fat and happy feasting on the corpse of Delight. A week ago, I had not thought it was possible. Now I know I will see it ere I even see fit to retire.”

Rhode shuffled his feet. He cringed with the uncomfortable closeness, and vulnerability of the admission. “Right, yea. That too,” he lied. The idea of fighting a war repulsed him, and he knew in his very soul that he would do everything in his power not to fight. “But in the meantime, maybe I can talk to somebody in charge. Maybe I can convince them to give you your job back, to keep Tarrop, and –“

“STOP!” Brand cried out. His face twisted into conflict, and he forced himself back to calm. “Leave it be, Goodman Irving. We are goblin; even I. Perhaps especially I. It is right to know our place.”

Rhode blanched in surprise from the sudden emotion, and a thought struck him. “Brand? What’s the golden rule of goblins?”

Fidelity’s face went white. His mustache shook and uncurled. Then his teeth bared and his claw jabbed into Rhode’s chest. “Never mention that idiot adage again. Not in public, not in private, don’t even breathe it. Do you FUCKING understand?” he snarled.

“Shit, man. Okay. Dang, Brand. I get it,” Rhode muttered. He held his hands up in surrender.

Brand glared for a moment longer, and then led a monster onwards. The desert shimmer of his aura trailed behind him as they went. Neither spoke a word as they followed the curving ring of the palace, until the ornate, double-door of the south-west ballroom appeared before them.

The Hero, Dreadlung of Irving (and his minder) had arrived.