Master Terrance rode slowly through the gates of Ironmire, his steed’s hooves clattering against the stone road that led out into the open fields beyond. The city walls loomed tall behind him, their gray stone slick with morning dew. The sky was a dull gray, heavy with unspent rain, and the air carried the sharp tang of iron and soot that always clung to the bustling city.
He glanced back once, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sprawling expanse of Ironmire’s towers and forges. It was a city of strength, a place where blades were honed and shields were raised. But in the halls of its most seasoned adventurers, Terrance had found only deaf ears and dismissive smiles.
He scowled at the memory.
“You think the Dread Architect has returned?” the old knight had said, his laughter like the scrape of metal on stone. Sir Darion, platinum-level adventurer and a veteran of more campaigns than Terrance cared to count, leaned back in his chair, his gray beard bristling as he chuckled. “Boy, the Dread Architect is a ghost story told to frighten rookies. A legend, nothing more.”
Another had laughed, a hollow, dismissive sound. “What’s next? A Master that can summon dragons in an introductory square? Your imagination is getting the better of you, knight.”
Terrance’s gloved hands clenched at his sides, the leather creaking under the strain. Fools, he thought bitterly. Comfortable fools, content to sit in their towers and let the world rot around them.
“Ryan’s square was not ordinary,” he’d insisted. “A novice Master cannot summon that many slimes. Eleven, Darion. Eleven slimes in an introductory square.”
The old knight waved a dismissive hand, his plated gauntlet clinking against the armrest of his chair. “Rookies exaggerate. Eleven slimes, twenty slimes—what does it matter? They’re slimes, Terrance. Not dragons.”
“And the traps?” Terrance pressed. “The organization? The strategy? Taking prisoners? This Master is different.”
Darion snorted. “Different or not, it’s still just a Master. Send your recruits, and they’ll handle it. If not, tell us and we will send someone stronger.”
Terrance’s jaw had tightened, his temper barely held in check. “If it is the Dread Architect—”
“It’s not,” Darion interrupted, his tone final.
Now, riding alone, Terrance clenched his jaw at the memory. The weight of his shield on his back felt heavier than usual, the familiar comfort of his armor a cold reminder of the isolation he carried. He’d given his report, made his case, and been dismissed. It was a feeling he was growing used to.
“They’re too complacent,” Terrance muttered under his breath. The Dread Architect may be dead, but the signs are there. A new Master, one who thinks, plans, and acts with precision. And none of them are ready to face it.
The memory of their faces—smiling, unconcerned—gnawed at him. He could still see their finely polished armor, their weapons that hadn’t seen blood in years. They were relics of an older era, warriors who had grown fat and slow in a world that still demanded vigilance.
But Terrance had not forgotten. He had seen what a truly cunning Master could do. He had fought in the Imp War, years ago, when the squares erupted in chaos and the land burned with their ambitions. He remembered the horrors of labyrinthine traps, armies of summoned creatures, and the deaths that followed.
The road stretched out before him, the faint outlines of hills and forests dark against the evening sky. The thought of Ryan—young, brash Ryan—only deepened his determination. The boy had potential, but he lacked the discipline to temper his ambition. And now, he was a prisoner, caught in the clutches of a monster that defied the rules Terrance thought he understood.
He adjusted the straps of his shield, the massive slab of steel and wood resting heavily against his back. It was a shield built for war, for holding the line against overwhelming odds. And now, it would be his companion as he marched toward the square, determined.
******
The wind rushed past Lyanna’s face, cool and sharp, carrying with it the crisp scent of pine and the faint tang of rain. Her translucent wings beat with rhythmic precision, fragile and gossamer-thin, yet strong enough to carry her through the skies. Below her, the forest stretched endlessly, a sea of green broken only by the occasional glimmer of rivers winding like silver veins through the land.
Far in the distance, Highhaven rose like a giant from the earth, its wooden towers stretching into the sky. The city was ancient, a masterpiece of fae craftsmanship, its walls and spires carved from living trees that had grown together over millennia. From the ground, it appeared as though the forest itself had conspired to create a sanctuary. From the air, it looked like a kingdom lifted toward the heavens, its higher levels brushing against the clouds.
Lyanna’s wings flickered faintly, catching the sunlight as she soared higher. The weight of her news pressed against her chest, heavier than the quiver of arrows on her back or the daggers at her sides. She had been gone too long, patrolling human lands, walking among their settlements with her wings hidden and her heritage muted by the ancient pacts. To fly near human villages was forbidden, but here, above the trees and far from prying eyes, she was free.
Her landing was swift, her wings folding against her back as her boots touched the smooth, polished wood of the upper platforms. The bustling activity of Highhaven greeted her, fae of all shapes and sizes darting between the carved arches and hanging bridges that wove the city together. The upper levels were a sanctuary for their kind, a place untouched by human or any other hands.
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“Lyanna,” a voice called, sharp and familiar.
She turned to see Oluru approaching, his stride purposeful. Her brother was tall and lean, his dark hair tied back, his features sharp and angular like her own. His wings, identical in translucence to hers, shimmered faintly as he folded them behind him. A faint smile touched his lips, though it did little to hide the tension in his posture.
“Oluru,” Lyanna said, striding toward him. “I bring bad tidings from Newvale.”
His brow furrowed, the faint smile vanishing. “Bad tidings? From the humans?”
She nodded. “A Master has risen near their village, one who does not behave like the others. He is cunning, strategic, with traps and minions that defy expectation. I fear…” She hesitated, the weight of the words almost too much to bear. “I fear he may be another Dread Architect.”
Oluru’s face darkened, his hand drifting unconsciously to the hilt of his dagger. “The Dread Architect,” he repeated, the name heavy with old fears. “It has been generations since that name was whispered in Highhaven. Are you certain?”
“No,” Lyanna admitted, her voice soft. “But the signs are there. The traps, the numbers, the cruelty. If he is not the Architect himself, then he is cut from the same cloth.”
Oluru sighed, his gaze drifting toward the horizon. The light of the setting sun bathed the platform in gold, casting long shadows across the polished wood. “Bad news seems to follow you, sister,” he said, his tone grim. “But things are no better here.”
Lyanna tilted her head, concern flashing in her dark eyes. “What do you mean?”
Oluru turned back to her, his expression weary. “You’ve been away too long, Lyanna. While you’ve been among the humans, Highhaven has faced its own threat. A Master has risen in the east, one unlike any we’ve seen before.”
Lyanna frowned, her wings twitching faintly. “What kind of Master?”
Oluru’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze steady. “His name is Avaris. The Gearsmith.”
Lyanna’s stomach tightened at the name. “The Gearsmith,” she repeated.
“He builds golems,” Oluru said. “Powerful ones. Numerous. His square is a fortress, filled with machines that don’t tire, that don’t falter. He has claimed smaller squares, expanding his influence.”
“We cannot stand idle,” Lyanna said at last, her voice firm. “If the Masters are rising, we must rise with them.”
Oluru nodded, his eyes meeting hers. “Then let us prepare. For whatever comes next.”
Lyanna looked out over the city, her wings twitching faintly at her back. The thought of Avaris and his golems, of the Master near Newvale, of the looming shadows of war—they pressed against her like a storm on the horizon. But in Highhaven, in the city that touched the clouds, she felt a spark of hope.
******
Grent stood at the edge of the square, his large muscles and even larger armor catching the faint light of the blue walls. His greatsword rested across his back, the blade a slab of steel as tall as a man, its edge honed to cleave through flesh and bone alike. The earth beneath his boots was soft with the night’s damp, the faint hum of the square’s magic vibrating through the ground.
The walls shimmered before him, stretching upward into the dark sky, their light unyielding. Grent’s eyes narrowed as he regarded them, his lips pulling into a scowl. The glow was serene, almost mocking in its calmness, a stark contrast to the fury roiling in his chest.
Difficulty: Introductory
“Introductory,” he growled, his voice a low rumble that carried in the still night air. The word tasted bitter on his tongue, its simplicity an insult to the danger he knew lay within. The Master of this square was clever, dangerous, growing—but the walls refused him entry, barring him with the simplicity of their magic.
He clenched his fists, his gauntleted hands creaking under the pressure. The thought of Ryan, trapped inside, gnawed at him. He’d faced countless Masters in his years, from cruel novices to seasoned tacticians, but never one who broke the rules so thoroughly. Too many slimes. Traps and ambushes. Prisoners. And now, this silent defiance.
“Coward,” he muttered, his breath misting in the cool air. His hand brushed the hilt of his sword, an unconscious gesture born of frustration. The blade would remain sheathed. Here, outside the square, he was powerless.
******
Inside the square, Kael stirred from his sleep, the faint hum of the walls tugging at the edges of his awareness. The shelter he had built was dimly lit by the glow of the orb and Blue that hovered nearby. Jello rested at his side, the slime’s soft, rhythmic pulses a comfort in the quiet.
Kael sat up slowly, his green skin glinting faintly in the orb’s light. His clawed hand reached out, brushing against the orb’s surface. It pulsed faintly in response, its glow illuminating the soft lines of his face.
And then, he felt it.
A presence beyond the walls, heavy and oppressive, like the weight of a storm gathering on the horizon. His breath caught, his heart quickening as he exited the shelter and turned his gaze toward the blue barrier. He couldn’t see beyond it, not clearly, but he didn’t need to. The presence was unmistakable, its strength a palpable force that seemed to press against the walls themselves.
Kael shuddered, his claws tightening around the orb. The image of the man beyond the walls flickered in his mind—a mountain of armor and fury, his greatsword certain death. The sheer weight of his power was suffocating.
Jello stirred at his side, the slime’s soft wobble breaking the silence. Kael glanced down at his companion, his chest tightening. Jello, loyal and growing but still small, still vulnerable. His other slimes, his traps, even the new will-o’-wisp—all of them together would amount to nothing against the might of the man beyond the walls.
“Skrindle,” Kael murmured, his voice low and strained.
The imp materialized beside him, his sharp-toothed grin dimmed by the tension in the air. “What’s the matter, Master?” Skrindle asked, though his tone lacked its usual mockery. “You look like you’ve seen an undead—one that you didn’t summon.”
Kael didn’t answer immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the blue light, his mind racing. “There’s someone out there,” he said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. “Strong. Stronger than anyone who’s entered before.”
Skrindle’s grin returned, though it was smaller, more cautious. “Well, lucky for us, they can’t come in. Introductory rules, Master. Your square’s still off-limits to the big fish.”
Kael nodded slowly, though the reassurance did little to ease the knot in his chest.
“He could destroy us.”
“Maybe, but he can’t. Not now anyways.”
******