The threshold was only lightly guarded: just a single pair of wary spearmen watched Rhode’s approach. Ser Brand saluted them, and they returned the gesture crisply.

“He is expected,” Brand declared.

The guards gave only the slightest hint of approval, and their grim expressions never slid from their faces.

Ser Brand regarded the doors behind them expectantly, and sighed. He stepped towards Rhode.

“May I?” Brand asked, indicating his collar.

“Sure.”

The adjutant made some small adjustments to Rhode’s attire where he could, and then stepped away unsatisfied.

“Goodman Irving,” he started. Then he reconsidered, and began again. “Rhode.”

“Yea.”

“You’ve got something in your hand.”

“Oh, yea. I kinda forgot I have the potion?” Rhode admitted. He held it up and shook it gently. “Should I just take it now?”

Fidelity Brand shook his head. He reached and took hold of the vial from out of Rhode’s enormous hand. “No, I will take it. With your leave, I shall secure it in your chambers for when you return.”

“Kay. Thanks Brand.”

“Mind your manners. Mind your mouth. Do what you’re told.”

“Yea, I get it.”

“It is important.”

“I know.”

“It is important.”

“I KNOW.”

“Good,” Brand said. He stepped further away. He hesitated. “Good. Then I’ll be off.”

He stopped again. Rhode spread his arms impatiently.

Ser Fidelity bowed. “Gods will it, your countryman shall join you shortly. Ere tonight, you will be one of two.”

“Yea. Thanks, Brand. Fingers crossed,” Rhode smiled. “Catch you at dinner, then.”

The guards stepped aside, and he walked through the door.

The earth-man did not know what he expected. Probably gloom. Probably smoke. Probably even a smaller room.

Instead, there was a great ballroom which stretched out ahead of him. It was emptied of any furniture. Its decorations and accouterments had been stripped. But the panels and the ceiling were ornate. At regular intervals around the perimeter, there were mirrors set into the wall.

The floor thumped under Rhode’s feet as he crossed it. Out of the entire space around them, only one small corner was in use.

Journeyman Scholar Yagget looked up from his task first. The old man gaped, and then shook his head. No, he could not be interrupted. Not for Rhode. The goblin held a small, velvet bag, and he paced out a wide, carefully marked circle. He poured a thin line of powder – tracing behind him as he went.

The Translocationist was present and dressed in a large, featureless, and ill-fitting taupe suit. He stood inside the outer circle of the diagram at a small podium, and flipped through the pages of a book while silently mouthing the words to commit them to memory. Set next to the book, he kept one hand rested on top of a fabric helmet (the same color as his suit) that had a clear panel at its face. Strange. If Rhode had not known better, he would have said it resembled nothing moreso than a hazmat suit.

In fact, there were three other figures wearing the same attire. But they wore their hooded face masks and Rhode could not name them. He observed them in a huddle at the very center of the circles that Yagget was drawing, where together they obstructed the view of a prone body beneath them.

Rhode moved forward. He tried a different angle. Gauzy, loose white linens clothed the sleeper. A sparse tuft of soft black hair sprouted from its head. Its arms were crossed over its chest, and it had pale, bluish-white skin. Even in repose, the body made the others above it look like children.

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Rhode’s breath caught – [bellows], gone silent for an agonizing moment.

It was a person. It was a corpse. It was dead, but maybe it didn’t have to be.

None of the five stopped working to greet Rhode. They labored on their tasks in eerie silence.

But there was yet one more soul present. There was a sixth attendee who stood apart from them all.

The earth-man looked about for guidance – he found none. So he approached the stranger instead.

“Hey, uh, hello? Excuse me, I don’t think we’ve met,” Rhode whispered.

He received no reply.

This man was tall, he realized. More than just tall. Rhode’s body had dwarfed the goblins around him so completely that he had forgotten what it meant –

To see one another eye to eye.

A head began to slowly turn.

“Do you mind if I stand here with you? I kinda… I mean I kinda don’t know where to put myself.”

Black shoes fitted over black stockings. Black stockings fitted into black leggings. His belt was black, and his doublet also. His sleeves, and his gorget lace too. His hair was silken midnight, and pinned with ebon sticks atop his head with a knot.

There was only one single splash of color on the whole of the man, and it appeared at his lapel. He wore a solitary flower there, and its petals bloomed in vibrant orange.

Eyes were fixed on Rhode, and their pupils were unusually round.

“Goodman Irving,” the voice said.

“Yea, hey. Uh, wow. Okay,” Rhode stammered. “I guess you’re probably important.”

The head tilted, ever so fractionally.

“I guess you’re a lord, then? I should probably call you Ser or something.”

Yagget’s hands were shaking violently as he finished his circle. He’d laid concentric rings of silver-powder, ash, salt, and sulfur. He struggled pitiably with the cord that tied his fifth substance. He fumbled so badly he nearly spilled it.

Rhode wrung his hands together. “Ser. Sorry, I didn’t think that was an unfair question. I don’t mean to be rude.”

The three suited figures wiped fluid off of the corpse’s face with a cloth and stepped to equidistant points around the circle. They shared glances with one another in fright.

“I guess, uh. Anyway, I’m sort of looking at you, Ser. And it’s got me wondering, just because you look so different than anyone I’ve met so far – and please, just go ahead and tell me if I’m out of line here for asking,. But are you what an elf’s supposed to be?”

The first crack of a smile appeared on a pale face. “Surprisingly apt. Though not your intention.”

Rhode smiled back. Why shouldn’t he? He was getting somewhere.

“We are not elf, in fact. We are Vodyonoi.”

“Oh.”

“It means: they who came from waters. For Our ancestors, who sailed the sea long ago.”

“Well that’s cool,” Rhode encouraged.

“The goblin tongue names Us ‘true’ elves. Or sometimes ‘high’ elves. Thus, you spoke correctly. We are what elves are meant to be.”

Rhode tried to unpack that. Something in his heart rebelled against the callous eugenics of what he was hearing. The idea of it violated every sense of fairness, or brotherhood, or equity that he believed in. But still, there was just something about how he said it that sounded, “Badass. You’re like a super-elf. That’s cool. I’m Rhode.”

The homunculus held out a hand. And held it. And held it. It fell.

“I mean, you knew that. You just said my name.”

“Goodman Irving, We make allowances for the peculiarities of your culture. Your people make a game of informality. The lowest scum of your society would look upon the highest echelon; at one who holds their very fate in their hand, and that villain would dare address their given name.”

“Hey, man. Ser, I mean, that’s not fair. I mean, that’s true. But it’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

Yagget slumped to his knees in despair. The Translocationist dropped his helmet on the floor with a clatter.

Rhode looked helplessly around him. He was confused, he was angry. And maybe he even knew what came next. “Seriously, man. Who even are you anyway?”

“We are Second of the Sacred Crown’s last living issue. Third in succession to Suntide Throne. We are Prince of the realm.”

“Llanthinanumen.”