Kael stared at the golden card in his hand, its intricate runes glinting faintly in the light of the great hall. The weight of it seemed far heavier than its size, the promise it carried wrapping around his thoughts like a noose. He turned it over slowly, his mind swimming with the words of Avaris and the image of Lira’s mechanical wings.

The tap on his shoulder was light, almost imperceptible. Kael spun around, startled, to find himself face-to-face with a writhing vine of thorns. It swayed slightly in the air, the pointed tips gleaming with a faint, sickly sheen. The vine swayed gently, almost mockingly, and Kael’s eyes followed it upwards to its owner.

Pathox.

The little cloaked figure hung from the ceiling, his small, childlike frame crouched impossibly high above the floor. The tendrils moved with a life of their own, twisting and curling with the vine of thorns retracting into the mass behind him. Kael’s hand reached for his sickle.

“Kael,” Pathox said, his voice sweet like honey laced with poison. “A moment of your time.”

Without warning, he dropped from the ceiling, landing lightly on the polished floor. The tendrils on his back coiled and uncoiled, their movements smooth and unnervingly deliberate. His dark eyes in stark contrast to his pale white skin, locked onto Kael with an unsettling intensity.

Kael tensed, his grip on the sickle tightening. “What do you want?”

“To speak.”

“Speak about what?”

“You, Kael.”

Kael frowned, the golden card still clutched in his hand. “If this is about the Play of th—”

“Oh, it is,” Pathox interrupted smoothly. “But not in the way you think.” His tendrils swayed as he stepped closer, his childlike stature making the movement almost surreal. “That display of yours, Kael. That wisdom. It was… extraordinary.”

Kael raised an eyebrow, unsure whether to feel flattered or wary. “Wisdom?” he echoed.

Pathox nodded, his black eyes glinting. “Oh yes. Wisdom. The kind that few Masters possess. You didn’t rely on brute strength, magic spells nor did you squander your resources in a show of power. You thought, Kael. You planned. That is the mark of a true Master. The mark of the Dread Architect.”

Kael shifted uneasily, his gaze flickering to the tendrils curling lazily behind Pathox. He did not answer.

Pathox said, his smile widening. “You’ve heard of him, yes? The Dread Architect.”

“I’ve seen the leaderboard,” Kael said. “Fourteen billion kills in a week. Hard to forget.”

Pathox chuckled softly, his tendrils quivering with faint amusement. “Ah, yes. The record that everyone chase, yet no one gotten close,” he said. “But that was only one accomplishment. The Architect was more than numbers, more than a butcher. He was… brilliant.”

Kael frowned, his grip on the sickle loosening slightly. “Brilliant how?”

Pathox’s black eyes glinted as he took a slow step forward, his tendrils trailing behind him like the robes of a monarch. “The Architect didn’t rely on brute force or simple traps,” he said, his voice soft but compelling. “He understood the minds of his enemies. He used strategy, misdirection, and precision. He didn’t fight battles—he controlled them. He was a creator of chaos, a master of order. Your style reminds me of the legends told of the Architect.”

Kael took a step back, his mind racing. “Are you here to recruit me?” he asked bluntly.

“Yes,” Pathox said with a faint shrug. “And no.”

Kael frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Pathox said, his voice softening slightly, “that I will accept if you ask to join me. But I did not come here to extend an invitation.” His tendrils swayed, lifting Pathox so their eyes were evenly leveled. “I came to warn you.”

“Warn me?” Kael echoed, his grip tightening on the golden card.

“About Avaris,” Pathox said simply. His black eyes narrowed slightly, their sharpness cutting through the air.

Kael stiffened, his mind flashing to the granite Master and his golden card. “What do you mean?”

“Avaris plays the long game,” Pathox said, his tendrils shifting to form a rough circle around them, as though to shield their conversation from prying ears. “His conclave is a gilded cage. He offers you freedom, strength, but what he truly seeks is control. You will not join his conclave—you will belong to it.”

“And why should I trust you? I saw the commotion with Vor,” Kael said, his voice cutting through the stillness of the hall. “You didn’t exactly deny sabotaging him.”

Pathox chuckled, the tendrils on his back shifting like restless snakes. “I didn’t deny it. I’m not above... adjusting the balance of power when it suits me.””

Kael narrowed his eyes. “And yet you warn me about Avaris, as if you’re some kind of noble guardian.”

Pathox’s smile faded slightly, his expression shifting to something more serious. “Avaris is not like me,” he said, his tone quiet but sharp. “I will break a Master if it serves my purpose. I will cripple their armies, poison their lands, and unravel their plans if I must. But Avaris…” He shook his head, his tendrils curling inward. “Avaris will break those closest to him. He plays the long game, Kael, but his goal isn’t survival or victory—it’s control.”

Kael frowned, his claws tapping against the edge of the card. “He betrays his own conclave?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

“Betrayal is a tool for him,” Pathox said, his voice soft but firm. “Avaris doesn’t lead a conclave—he owns it. The moment you take his brand, you belong to him. Your square, your power, your very existence—it merely becomes a cogwheel of his grand machine.”

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Kael thought of Lira, of her bright smile and her mechanical wings. He thought of Rova, laughing as the brand seared his arm. And he thought of Avaris, his one eye gleaming with the cold precision of a craftsman inspecting a tool.

“Why tell me this?” he asked. “Why warn me? What do you gain from it?”

“What do I gain?” Pathox said. “Nothing. I don’t want to see that brilliance wasted, shackled to a Master who will snuff it out the moment it ceases to serve him.”

Pathox began to turn away, his tendrils shifting like a cloak around him. But as he stepped into the shadows, he paused, his voice soft but cutting.

“To solve a problem,” he said, each word chosen deliberately, “you must find the heart of the solution.”

Kael opened his mouth to respond, but Pathox was already gone, his form vanishing into the dim corners of the hall. He looked down at the golden card in his hand, its runes still glowing faintly.

The hall seemed quieter now, emptier. The other Masters had departed, their voices fading into memory. Kael stood alone in the vast space, his thoughts churning as he entered the portal.

******

The sun hung low over the hills, casting long shadows across the dirt road as Master Terrance rode steadily onward. His great shield gleamed faintly in the fading light, its polished surface reflecting the orange hue of the sky. His horse, a sturdy destrier bred for endurance rather than speed, trotted forward with a deliberate rhythm, its hooves stirring the dust with every step. Terrance’s eyes, shadowed beneath his helmet, scanned the horizon, his thoughts fixed on the square ahead.

It was then he saw the young man.

The cart came into view first, a creaking wooden thing pulled by a pair of mismatched mules. The cart was piled high with a strange assortment of objects—barrels, crates, and, most notably, a large chest that seemed to shimmer faintly with an inner light. The young man walking beside it was dressed in fine, if slightly gaudy, attire—a crimson doublet embroidered with gold thread, boots polished to a shine, and a feathered hat tilted jauntily atop his head.

Terrance slowed his horse as the young man waved eagerly, his grin wide and toothy. “Master Terrance!” the man called, his voice carrying over the quiet of the road. “A pleasure to meet you, sir!”

Terrance stopped his horse a few paces away, his shield resting at his side. “And who might you be?” he asked, his tone gruff but not unkind.

The young man swept into an exaggerated bow, his hat held to his chest. “Myke, at your service,” he said with a flourish. “Son of the esteemed Mrs. Keys. She sends her regards, by the way. Too old to make the journey herself, but she thought this chest might be of use to your efforts.”

Terrance’s eyes flicked to the chest on the cart. It was an ornate thing, its surface carved with intricate runes that pulsed faintly with magic. He had seen its like before—a magical chest that could produce keys endlessly, from the free brass keys for recruits to the platinum keys for the impossible squares.

“And what do you intend to do with it?” Terrance asked, his tone measured.

Myke grinned, patting the chest fondly. “Why, distribute keys, of course! A key for every adventurer, every would-be hero. No one should be left out of the glory, wouldn’t you agree?”

Terrance’s gaze narrowed. He worked with Mrs Keys closely, the old woman with a sharp mind and a knack for organization. She ran the key dispensary in Newvale like a general commanding an army, ensuring every adventurer had their means of entering the squares. Myke was different from his mother. Terrance had dealt with Myke’s kind before—merchants of opportunity, their loyalty tied more to profit than principle.

“This isn’t a market, boy. It’s a battlefield.”

Myke stepped aside, his grin unfaltering. “Of course, sir! Only here to help, I assure you.”

Terrance rode on, his thoughts already shifting back to the square ahead. The road began to slope downward, and as he crested the next hill, his eyes widened at the sight below.

The makeshift forward base sprawled across the plain like a hastily constructed hive. Rows of tents stretched in orderly lines, their canvas sides fluttering in the evening breeze. Fires burned in carefully arranged pits, their smoke rising in thin columns. Barrels and crates of supplies were stacked neatly near the larger tents, where officers and strategists huddled over maps spread across wooden tables.

Troops marched in formation through the camp, their armor catching the dim light as they moved in disciplined rows. Weapons were laid out for inspection—swords, spears, bows, all meticulously maintained. The clatter of steel and the bark of commands filled the air, a sign of battle to come.

Terrance guided his horse down the slope, his presence drawing the attention of the soldiers nearest to the camp’s edge. They straightened as he approached, saluting with practiced precision. He nodded in acknowledgment, his gaze sweeping over the camp with a critical eye.

Grent emerged from one of the larger tents, his broad frame silhouetted against the glow of lanterns within. His greatsword was gone, replaced by a hammer so large it seemed almost unwieldy, its head a massive block of iron etched with faint runes that shimmered with latent power. His shoulders carried the weight of command easily, but his face was harder to read—grim, resolute, and tinged with something darker.

“Terrance,” Grent called, his voice low but carrying weight. He hefted the hammer over his shoulder as he approached, his footsteps heavy against the dirt.

Terrance turned, his expression softening slightly at the sight of his old comrade. “Grent,” he said, nodding in acknowledgment. His eyes flicked to the hammer, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “A new toy?”

Grent snorted, rolling his shoulders as though testing the hammer’s weight. “The blacksmiths in Newvale insisted,” he said, his tone dry. “They’ve been turning out warhammers and shields ever since the rumors about this square started spreading. Figured if we’re dealing with slimes, we’d best have the tools to crush them.”

Terrance’s smile faded as his gaze drifted back to the square. Its walls, once a faint blue, now shimmered gray, signaling the absence of its Master. “And Ryan?”

Grent’s expression darkened, his grip tightening on the hammer. “No sign of him,” he admitted. “He hasn’t shown up at the Well of Reincarnation. That means he’s alive inside.”

A shadow crossed Terrance’s face, his grip tightening on his shield strap. “If he’s inside, he’s either a prisoner or worse,” he muttered. “You think the Master is holding him?”

“It’s likely,” Grent said, his tone heavy. “The others who reincarnated said this Master is different. Smarter. More cunning. Holding a prisoner would be a tactical move, especially one like Ryan who’s seen the inside of the square.”

Grent pointed toward the gray-lit square in the distance, its eerie glow a beacon in the dark. “The walls are gray now, so the Master is still at the Sunday meeting. But we’re ready for when he returns.”

“What have you gathered?” Terrance turned to face Grent fully, his shield gleaming faintly in the firelight.

Grent exhaled, his breath visible in the cool night air. “The recruits are here,” he said, his voice steady. “A hundred strong, from the sword school and magic school. Green as spring grass, most of them, but eager enough.”

“And the equipment?” Terrance asked.

“The blacksmiths in Newvale have been busy,” Grent replied, patting the hammer resting on his shoulder. “Warhammers, shields, the works. Not the finest craftsmanship, but sturdy enough to deal with slimes. And Serina’s parents… they’ve donated potions.”

Terrance glanced at him, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. “The cleric?”

Grent nodded, his expression somber. “They want to see justice done for their daughter. They gave what they could—health potions, enough for every recruit. It isn't the strongest potion, but it’ll keep these greenlings on their feet a little longer.”

Terrance let out a quiet breath, his gaze returning to the square. “A hundred recruits,” he murmured. “The moment the Sunday meeting ends, they’ll go in.”

“Do you think we’re ready?” Grent asked, his voice impossibly soft for a man his size.

“We’ll find out soon enough.”

******