With a pop of noise and a ripple of unnaturally displaced air, the Coterie’s Hand apparated before us.

Unlike Romulus, this foe, I sensed, remained beyond me.

“Group fourteen, group fourteen, LOVELY GROUP FOURTEEN!” Pylon’s blaring voice, not discordantly robotic like Cirque’s, yet no less jarring in how it seemed to emanate from every direction at once, made the three of us flinch.

The Hand clapped his grey-gloved palms together in that loud, startling way of his, rubbing them excitedly as he exaggeratedly glanced us over.

“Group fourteen, standing tall, sole survivors of the crawl,” he sang softly to himself whilst he looked us over, nodding as he did so. He didn’t ask what had happened to the other members of our party. He didn’t seem surprised that we were the only ones left.

Strange.

“Little CALEB!” He exclaimed, instead, in that bizarre, jovial, eclectic manner of his, all of a sudden clapping a thin, gloved palm upon my companion’s shoulder, making him jump. “Why, how brilliant you’ve become! Shining! Glorious! Good for you!”

Pylon chuckled, elbowing the fellow Immortal in a comedic, faux-conspiratorial manner, as if the rest of us couldn’t easily hear and see him do so. “Popped your cherry, I see. At long last. Ah, I…I always knew you had it in you.”

Caleb just stared back at him, flummoxed, mouth hung open like a lowered drawbridge.

Alyss did, too. As did I. The Ancient man wasn’t quite so taken aback, but then, that was probably just because he didn’t speak our tongue.

This was…wrong.

Inappropriate, even for Pylon. It wasn’t just erratic, or eccentric, it was offensive. Disrespectful. Out of place. Almost cruel.

Our current circumstances were near entirely the Coterie’s fault. An exotic Dungeon should never have been used for the Agoge. Vox should never have been able to pass the exam. Given Cirque’s words in the second Floor, and Pylon’s tasteless limerick just now, I could only assume that all the other groups had perished, at Dragon’s hands. That was over seventy people. Seventy Blessed.

Dead, because of the Coterie’s failings.

It shouldn’t have happened. It shouldn’t have been allowed to happen. Or, at the very least, there should have been some acknowledgement of it.

But, apparently, Pylon didn’t care.

Not at all. Not a bit. He didn’t seem worried. He didn’t seem troubled. He wasn’t interested in consoling us, or asking us what happened.

Why, it almost felt like he didn’t need to ask.

Like he really wasn’t confused, or worried. Like, somehow, he already knew the whole story.

But that would be impossible.

Quick as a whip, and before any of us could raise a word in inquiry, or in outrage, Pylon twirled about to address the surrounding throng.

“GENTLE–MEN!” He bellowed sharply, clapping his hands in that uncouth manner of his, this time so loudly that it made many in the crowd of mismatched gossipers jump in their greaves.

“The show,” Pylon muttered, more softly now, “is, as they say, over.” His words seemed to whisper from just beside my ear. “No danger, here. No more. No loitering.”

He waved a palm dismissively at them, once. Twice. His song pulsed erratically.

“Off you go.”

And so they dispersed.

Just like that. Without dawdling, without delay. No one hesitated. No one questioned the Hand’s command. Poor Pike glanced our way one last time, shaking his head, before making to depart, as well.

“Not you.”

The wood-armored knight froze. Pylon’s head didn’t move, but I got the distinct feeling he was staring at the scared-stiff form of the poor, frightened, retreating Blessed.

“Not you,” he repeated, with an unusual gravity, an intensity. “You stay right where you are.”

Face pale, knuckles whitened about his wooden stave, Pike shuffled in place, nodded his head, and bowed subserviently. Caleb’s shocked expression twisted into a scowl.

But, again, before he could say anything, Pylon whipped back around, spinning on his heel with all the grace and dexterity of a ballet virtuoso, returning his attention wholly and succinctly to the four of us.

“NOW,” he began, clapping his hands and snapping his fingers, a measure of levity recapitulated in his disposition, “I’m sure the two of yo–”

Pylon stopped.

His head drew back.

“The…two of…”

His spine straightened.

“The…”

His posture changed.

But it wasn’t an overt, or obvious thing. No, it recalibrated in a convolution of minute shifts and microscopic mutations, morphs and transfigurations likely near-invisible to the naked eye but laid quite bare before my accelerated perception. It was so bizarre, and yet, it was familiar, too, reminiscent of the metanoia he’d displayed once during my own entry exam, and for a second time, before bidding us farewell to delve.

In the space between seconds, an entirely different person stood before us.

“The four of you.”

Pylon spoke slowly and steadily. His words almost seemed an accusation. But then, how could they be?

“Four of you survived,” he repeated, deadpan, for some reason restating the obvious. Was he expecting something different?

“I–indeed. Or, not quite,” Alyss replied somewhat stutteringly, nevertheless finally putting an end to the Immortal’s monologue. And immediately, if I was reading the expressionless helm that was his head correctly, drawing Pylon’s now far sharper focus.

Even subject to the Godkin’s full attention, she continued undaunted.

“Our delve was…exceptional,” she stated dryly, more than a hint of biting reproach infecting her report. “As you notice, we did, unfortunately, lose colleagues to the World Titan’s depths. I apologize, great Hand, but know at least that whilst we were unable to save everyone,” she spoke the words with a genuine grimace, “we did manage to rescue one, in turn.”

So saying, she gestured behind her, and stepped to the side.

Revealing our Ancient Armsmaster in full.

Colin, squinting slightly against the sun’s blinding rays and looking altogether uncomfortable with his current circumstances, still somehow managed to intuit what was presently required of him. He stepped boldly forth, offering out an awkward hand to the Hand of the Coterie, in greeting.

“A Tinker?” Pylon asked, quizzically, grasping tight the proffered palm. “How unusual…where did you co–”

MY KING, DECEPTION!

Acceleration’s words washed over me in a flood of rage and lightning, and time slowed to a creeping crawl.

My Major Shard roared in anger, and I felt it join with me once more, but only partly, spinning up to match the nearby influence I’d not even managed to notice. It increased quickly, five, ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty-times speed, and then held still.

Allowing me to feel it.

The other presence.

The deception.

A thick, nigh-impermeable fluid of aqueous yet immaterial humor that bubbled out, grotesquely from in front of me. It rendered the world within it semi-opaque and blurry. At its edges and around its rippling, oozing contours, light and colour bent unnaturally, warping and whickering, space itself struggling to behave as normal. It didn’t need to hear its song to know what effect this translucent bubble had on our reality. It, unlike the bubble’s media, was clear as day.

It was a domain of temporal dilation.

And it was mapped with clinical, surgical precision to the thin, tall, lithe profile of the Hand of the Coterie.

Pylon had, mid-sentence, accelerated his personal flow of time.

He’d done so abruptly, without any manner of prelude or warning. In fact, had my Major Blessing not taken action, not warned me, I’d never have even noticed him doing it.

And, in this hastened time, he was speaking.

Speaking to someone.

“–y lady, of course, I–”

His conversation, so temporally accelerated that none other might have possibly heard it, was nevertheless oddly disjointed, as if the Godkin conversed only with himself, or else with none at all. Yet his helm was angled oddly, off somewhere into the far-reaching distance, as if staring at what I couldn’t see.

“No, no,” he continued, “I don’t–

“not two, I know, but–

“no, no Tinkers should’ve survived th–

“well, yes, I–

“yes, I can. I will.

“Yes, right away.”

Pylon’s gaze returned to reality with a shuddering, quivering SNAP, his helm turning to face us with a determined set, staring firmly and directly at the Ancient man.

“As you say, Troupemaster,” Pylon obeyed. “I’ll bring him now.”

With that, and as if it was the most normal thing in the world, Pylon raised his arm despite the greatly-slowed time, and snapped his fingers, producing a faint, metallic, tink.

Pop.

Pop.

And then there were three.

Two more Pylons appeared right beside him, each one a mirror copy of the other.

I struggled to keep my eyes from widening, to fix my face into a blank, impassive mask. Without speaking a single word to one another, the two clone-Pylons strode forth, clearly and unmistakably making for the Ancient man. Intent on taking him in the slowed time.

Before any of us could do anything about it.

Ignoring my shock and concern, I pushed Acceleration even further, half-capacity, fifty-times normal speed, slowing the movements of the approaching Pylons to a crawl.

Giving me a moment, if only a moment, to think.

My throat had gone dry. My heart was racing, pounding in my chest. I didn’t know what was going on. This shouldn’t have been happening. I’d been expecting someone to make a move on Colin, we’d been expecting it, but never this. Never like this.

I didn’t know what to do.

What could I do?

Frowning anxiously, I examined the approaching Immortals, now moving at a snail’s pace. Ever so slowly, ever so gently, ever so tentatively, I waved an outstretched palm in front where I could only presume their faces to be.

And was met with no response.

None of the three Pylons demonstrated any recognition of my movement, nor any increase to their own acceleration factor. I breathed a mammoth sigh of relief, briefly closing my eyes and thanking the Gods that, in the respect of speed, at least, it seemed I still had one over on the Hand.

But, why?

For whatever reason, unlike my Blessing, Pylon’s accelerative power apparently gave him no intuition at all about what I was doing. Why? Why wouldn’t it? Because my speed wasn’t chronokinetic, in nature? Because my Shard trumped his own?

No, that couldn’t be it, I decided.

My eyes flickered towards him, though, just to make sure.

~~~

Pylon, the Manifold Paradox

Attunement: Replicant(Ma) 19

Grain: Decentralization

Marble: Spatial Exchange

Core: Temporary Superposition

~~~

Pylon’s Shard was the same as ever. The same as before. Major, just like mine.

Upon a whim, I reached out gently with adept tendrils of groping song, and tasted it. And heard it. And knew it for what it was.

~~~

Save Slots:

* Haemokinetic Enhancement(Mi).

* Prestidigitation(Mi).

* Replicant(Ma).

* Empty.

* Empty.

~~~

And yet, doing so only made me more sure.

Replicant was a potent, duplicitous, and complex Shard, no doubt, yet its nature was spatial, through and through. Not temporal. Not at all. And indeed, as I looked closer, deeper, towards the three identical bodies of approaching Immortals, I noticed something odd.

They weren’t even using it.

Or, at least, not actively. Not to enhance their own motion. This field of personal temporal dilation, whatever it was, was not brought about by Shards. In fact, as I peered in closer still, fixating on the movements of Pylon’s song, on the whorls and eddies of his Immortal, stuttering Entropy, I realized he was using it, but–not to fuel his power.

Instead, the raging, rushing rapid emerging from his soul was being funneled somewhere else entirely, vanishing into a space, a place, a location just halfway down his bicep, obscured by the plush fabric of his suit.

I narrowed my eyes, drawing closer, and closer, and closer, really focusing on what I could just barely hear…

~~~

The Nornband

Forwards, backwards, standing still.

The weave of time bends to your will.

~~~

My eyes widened, my brow raised, and I drew back, confused.

Indeed, this was no Blessing. Not at all.

But, then…what was it? The contours of its song were nowhere near so nuanced, or multitonal in nature as a true, genuine, Shard. It had a will, an underlying intent, certainly, almost a personality, and was therefore doubtless a masterpiece of Entropic engineering, but–not one born of the same source as Blessings. Near as I could guess, it was…an object, of sorts. A runic object, perhaps.

But, one that granted powers? A Relic? Except, though I knew precious little of such things, I’d never heard tell of a Relic that might be observed in the same manner as a Blessed’s Name, or Title.

Was this a well-kept secret, or another quirk of my unique Grimoire?

My ears twitched, my head tilted, and I looked down. Another song serenaded me from far below, fainter even than its brother, and though not currently being fed Entropy, it was just barely audible, all the same.

~~~

The Seven-League Boots

One step, two steps, three steps, spin!

Now return to where you’ve been.

~~~

Each of the Pylons had one.

I could hear them, each of them, perfectly. Each flawless copy of the Immortal Hand also held in their possession an equally immaculate replication of the Nornband, and the Seven-League Boots. Except, if they really were Relics, that was impossible. Relics didn’t work like that. They were, one and all, one-of-a-kind.

I shook my head. I was wasting time.

My Major Shard’s cost scaled exponentially with effect, and right now, at fifty-times acceleration, my reserves were already half-empty. I needed to focus. I had to make a decision, now.

Should I stop this?

Should I save Armsmaster?

It was an impossible choice to make. I didn’t have enough information. All I had were questions. Questions, and questions.

Why would Pylon do this? Why, without even mentioning it to us? He’d spoken the word ‘Troupemaster.’ Did that mean this was Sybil’s command? But, why would she care for the Ancient man? Why would she recognize him? How could she have even known that all of this was happening? Could she somehow see us from afar?

What on earth was going on?

I shook my head, again, growing only more frustrated. I had power, now, to be sure, but this problem could not be solved by merely punching it especially hard.

What did the Coterie have in store for the man? Could I trust them? If their intentions were, indeed, benign, then–then why do this, at all? Why bother with the time-dilation? With the secrecy?

What were they trying to hide?

I grimaced, and scowled at the sluggishly-moving Godkin. Ultimately, I decided, it didn’t matter. Even supposing I somehow managed to defeat the legendary Hand, about whose power I still understood frighteningly little, in combat, my companions and I would then no doubt be forced to fight the sum total Blessed in all this encampment.

And then, the Coterie entire.

We’d have nowhere to run.

Armsmaster seemed like a fine man. Fine enough. Doubtless, he represented a veritable treasure trove of information, to boot. But we’d already asked him those most valuable questions, the ones we most desperately needed to know. I wasn’t ready or willing to fight all the Coterie on his behalf.

Not yet, anyway.

In fact, in an ironic sense, this might genuinely have been the best thing for him. His existence would be protected now, known only to a select few, and the Coterie would certainly be better able to shield him from outside influence than would the three of us.

Better them, than the Faith.

Better them, than the Devoted.

Nodding once, I wiped the grimace from my face, schooled my expression, and promptly dropped Acceleration, allowing time’s flow to continue, unadulterated. Reality returned, space blurred and flickered, and both the Pylons and Armsmaster disappeared.

Immediately, my companions reacted.

Alyss jerked backwards as if scalded. “Wh–” she began, her mouth hung open, her head whipping about, the edges of her body flickering with shadow but swiftly calming themselves.

“–at the fuck!?” Caleb shouted, continuing her outcry with a face that exploded into shock, and sudden, vicious fury.

Perhaps his greatly-enhanced reflexes had allowed the Inquisitor to pick up on some small sliver of what had just transpired. His gaze snapped onto Pylon’s featureless mask, and countless emotions cycled through his expression at a blistering pace, before one finally dominated them all.

Betrayal.

“What did you–how could you—why would you–” the Immolator stammered, voice shrill, about to erupt into stellar flame, before it was cut mercilessly off by the Hand’s own.

“Armsmaster is a powerful and dangerous Tinker.”

Pylon intoned the words robotically, confidently, despite demonstrating no knowledge whatsoever as to the man’s identity not moments ago. “As such,” the Hand went on, “he has been remanded into the Coterie’s custody, lest he fall prey to the foul machinations of others.”

The Immortal leveled a distracted stare our way.

“Rest assured,” he stated, unconvincingly, “we will treat him with the utmost caution, and respect. We only mean to protect against those that would do him harm, and harm he would do to all.”

Alyss’s mouth worked silently, looking infuriated, outraged, about to speak out, before managing to clamp itself shut.

Smart lady, I thought, not for the first time.

She glanced my way, eyes flashing, incensed. As she’d done to me before, I treated her with an ever-so-slight shake of the head, to which she mutely nodded in reply.

Caleb, on the other hand, remained furious beyond belief.

“What?!” He hissed, light flickering dangerously from between his tight-grit teeth. “You only mean to protect him? What kind of ludicrous–why, then would you not let him decide–”

“Armsmaster is Ancient,” Pylon interrupted once more, coldly, curtly ignoring the Immolator’s outcry. “And confused.” He paused a moment. “And the enemy’s eyes are everywhere.”

He paused once more. His speech was jilted, distracted, almost as if he was listening to something. Or, perhaps, to someone.

“But–” Caleb tried.

“The matter is settled,” he dictated, in a tone that brokered no argument, yet speaking awfully quickly, almost urgently. “You will report to a detachment of Chronicler Thinkers for debriefing, and to arrange your reward. Present yourselves at the central pavilion,” he gestured towards a particular large tent at roughly the center of the outpost, “just there.”

Then he looked down at a still-quivering Pike. I’d almost forgotten about him.

“You. Master-Stranger. At once.”

Pike shivered, grimaced, and acquiesced, trudging off to Gods knew where. Pylon glanced back our way, and nodded once, sharply.

“Congratulations–” he began.

“There was an agent of the Devoted among us.”

Pylon stopped short.

“A Master,” Caleb continued, but more quietly than he’d spoken before. And yet, despite his softness, there was a promise of something deadlier than any amount of fury lain beneath his words.

“A Master, embedded in our ranks,” he continued, forcing out the words slowly, steadily, venomously, and with a considerable effort. “Vox. He attacked at the end of the first Floor. Nearly killed us. Resulted in our separation.”

I saw Caleb’s jaw clench unimaginably tight before he continued.

“If not for him,” the Immolator said, “Rover and Quarrel might have survived.” His eyes narrowed.

“How.”

He spoke the inquiry without inflection, for it was no question.

It was an accusation.

Pylon said nothing, at first. His expression, as always, was invisible. Hidden from view. His hands he held loosely behind his back, as if at ease, but I noticed one of his fingers tapping against the rest, quickly. Very quickly. Tension? Anger?

Once more, I got the feeling the Hand’s responses were not his own.

“How did he escape your notice, Pylon?” Caleb pressed once more, speaking informally, disrespectfully, insistent.

“Our protocols are not perfect,” Pylon replied, with a neutrality that felt rather forced, this time, a thimbleful of emotion leaking into his otherwise apathetic demeanor. “There will always be those who evade our detection.

“We have already begun investigating the incident,” he went on, curtly. “All the same, we do apologize for your troubles.”

“Our troubles,” Caleb choked, increasingly incapable of cloaking the anger he still harbored over Rover’s death. “Is that what they are?”

“Yes, that is what they are,” Pylon snapped, responding with an abrupt rapidity this time, as well as a surprising degree of anger, though not all of it seemed outwardly-directed. “You–”

“How did Rover get past the entry exam?” Caleb interrupted him, eyes flashing, stabbing a finger into the Hand’s chest with a boldness that shocked me and Alyss both.

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“You knew he was with us! You walked us to the Maw! How did your people miss that the Dungeon was exotic?! Over fifty people, dead, and you have the gall to laugh about it? To refer to ours as troubles, a–”

Caleb went on, and on, lambasting the Immortal Hand. Though his outward posture remained as unaffected as ever, I watched with a growing dread as Pylon’s already-disturbing song began to weep, to wail, to writhe against the chains that already scarcely confined it, spearing outwards, piercing powerfully, erupting with anger, and anxiety, and…

And guilt.

“–ou, have no honor, or–”

“Caleb, that’s enough.”

Alyss hissed fearfully, gripping the Inquisitor’s shoulder hard from behind. Her face was pale and tight, her eyes dancing nervously between the two Immortals. Her sudden action seemed sufficient to shock Caleb from his furor, at least, for a moment.

“I…I must apologize, lord Hand,” Alyss stammered, quickly, “for my companion’s words. For his insubordination. It has…it has been a long delve. For all of us. As I’m sure you can imagine. We’ve need of respite. We’ve need of rest. We mean no offense.”

So saying, she glanced at Caleb urgently, meaningfully, but the Immolator merely continued to scowl forwards, staring daggers at Pylon with his chin stuck firmly out. Unapologetic.

His song was awash with a trust deeply wounded, a past made brutally false, and a Faith well abandoned, by now. The Hand, by contrast, said not a word, and remained as motionless as ever. Slowly, methodically, the raging sea of sharpened, wailing Entropy encircling him was drawn back inwards. Sheathed.

But not entirely.

Caleb’s words had hit their mark.

The pregnant silence festered amidst the frigid, Frontier air. I didn’t know if Pylon was still listening to something, to someone, or simply thinking. I couldn’t tell.

Finally, he spoke.

“Congratulations on completing the Agoge,” Pylon recited, emptily.

Then, with a tinny pop, he disappeared.

Caleb was still panting, wracked by raw emotion. His hot breath emerged as little clouds of vapor, condensed by subzero temperatures. He looked angry, and confused, and betrayed. Alyss swallowed, still mostly afraid.

She glanced my way, perhaps in search of comfort, but I’d none to give.

This was far from the Hero’s welcome I’d expected.

~~~

The scenery around Colin Wallis warped and twisted staggeringly, disorientingly, without warning, suddenly depositing him in an all-new locale.

Whereupon he fell promptly to the ground and retched.

Fuck, he hated teleportation.

It’d never really agreed with him, not ever. Strider’s was the best of a bad lot, and even that left him queasy. But this instance was the worst he’d suffered in a while. Rougher than usual.

He heaved, over, and over, and over again, venting the contents of his shrunken stomach, pathetic as they were, onto the cold, dark floor which now lay below him. All the while, he clutched tight, desperately tight, to the only thing that really mattered; Dragon’s newly-disembodied form.

The only thing he truly cared for. The only thing keeping him sane.

“Sxyly.”

That bizarre speech, a distorted, ugly melange of English, and Mandarin, and perhaps a hint of Arabic, disturbed his wretched retching.

It came unnaturally, unnervingly from the mouth of one of his two bizarrely-dressed, identical, impromptu kidnappers, presumptively, though he couldn’t be sure. Their metal helmets covered up their faces completely, making it impossible to tell.

The imagined speaker continued, nevertheless, sheepishly rubbing the back of its head. “Pra Xeeve antd’t yaslwl jnitnawd us os uste keen phar,” it warbled, unhelpfully.

Then the other one smacked the first, abruptly, on its helmeted cranium.

“Oh, right, sorry,” the first piped up, sheepishly, again. “I’m sorry. Right, she said you speak English. Well….anyways. Sorry about the…y’know.”

The speaker, which had somehow seamlessly transitioned into Colin’s native tongue, gestured vaguely to the pile of cooling sick he’d left on the ground, wincing as it did so.

“The Boots don’t really play well with others,” it explained, as if the words it spoke meant anything at all to him.

Colin’s eyes widened.

“Y–you speak English, too?” he asked, shocked.

But, in lieu of any reply, one of the kidnappers just looked at him, nodded once, as if satisfied, and then, with a lightly popping sound, disappeared.

The other one, the first one, quirked its head his way, as if amused, and chuckled. Its hand raised up, single digit extended. Pointing forth. Pointing outwards. Pointing at something Colin couldn’t see.

Nevertheless, Colin followed the direction of its grey-gloved finger obediently, cautiously surveying his novel environment. For what he assumed could only be a prison cell, it really wasn’t half bad.

It was made of clean, even rock, forged so flawlessly that Colin instantly recognized it as cape work. But, good cape work. Downright incredible, in fact. Certainly better than anything he’d seen before.

“God damn.”

A voice rang out, but it wasn’t Colin’s. It came from the darkened far side of the room. Immediately, his head snapped towards it.

“Fuck, it’s…it’s you. It’s really you. I mean, of course it is, but…”

This voice, much like those of his cape kidnappers, was speaking English. His English. Somehow. But, unlike them, its tenor was light. Airy. Inquisitive. Playful.

Feminine.

“You’re still fucking alive, you old bastard,” the speaker muttered, stepping out into the light. Allowing Colin to recognize it. And Colin did recognize it.

Colin recognized her.

The realization was fuzzy at first. Vague. Colin’s memory was good, very good, but not eidetic. Still, as his eyes probed ever deeper into the many dimples of her face, and dimensions of her figure, and nuances of her countenance, it became clearer, and clearer, and clearer, until there could be no doubt left, none at all.

The long, blond hair had darkened slightly, several streaks of a rich, honey-brown muddying its strands and tassels. The callow, youthful, vulpine facial features that once belied a dizzying intellect had softened now, deepened, and in some places creased and begun to wrinkle, if only just. And the freckles he remembered had vanished, entirely.

But her eyes were the same. Just the same. Clear. Bottle-green. And positively seething with knowledge.

The girl, now a woman, smiled at him, and snorted.

“You look like shit, halbeard,” she snarked, sarcastically.

Colin’s jaw dropped.

“Tattletale?” He breathed.

“Actually, I go by Sybil, now,” she corrected, giggling as she treated him to another trademark grin. “Lot more mysterious,” she contended. “Lot more imposing–don’cha think?”

As she said so, a hint of mischief twinkled in her eyes, drawing about in Colin a startlingly and abruptly aching nostalgia for times past, long past, never to return.

And yet, there was something…off about it, too.

Back in Brockton, Tattletale had been but one of many, and little more. One of many, too many, thorns in his side. Arrogant. Narcissistic. Obsessed with proving her own mental superiority to all and sundry.

Thinkers were of a type, in that.

But, back in Brockton, the girl’s arrogance had been…endearing, almost. That look she gave. The look that let you know she thought she was the smartest in the room. The smartest in any room. The smartest in all the world.

Arrogant.

But endearing, too.

“But you?” The woman sang, playfully. “You’re an old friend. You can call me Sarah. If you’d like.”

Her smile danced about her face, twisting and twirling, curving entrancingly. Her posture shifted in all the ways she knew would set you off balance. The ones you loved, or maybe, the ones you hated. The ones that put you on edge, gave her the advantage. Teasing, and probing, and flirting, and genuine. Always genuine, and always not.

And always watching your response.

Back then, it’d been endearing. Annoying, but endearing.

Not anymore.

There was this…edge to her look, now. The charm was not so charming, anymore. This was not the girl he’d once known. No. Colin knew better than that. He’d seen world-class Thinkers before. He’d worked with them. This was no arrogant, cocksure young girl. No ringleader of the Undersiders. She might look it, but she wasn’t.

She’d become something else.

Something terrible.

A creature, wearing a young girl’s skin. A monster, parroting a teenager’s mannerisms. A God, hiding in the body of a human. Before, Tattletale had thought she knew it all.

But now, she really might.

She really might know everything.

“That’s…not your name,” Colin murmured, slowly, frowning. “Your name is Lisa. Lisa Wilbourne.”

A glimmer of searing, scalding pain flashed across the blond goddess’s visage, there so briefly, and gone so absolutely, Colin couldn’t say for sure he’d really seen it.

“No. It’s not,” she replied, an iron to her words. “Not anymore.”

She spoke definitively, authoritatively, someone who couldn’t remember the last time they’d given an order that wasn’t followed. She reminded Colin of the Chief Director, of Costa-Brown, in that respect. But then, Rebecca’d been cold. Dead. Sterile. More robotic, even, than Dragon.

The young woman standing before him wasn’t cold. Not at all. She was on fire.

Burning with secrets.

Lisa, or Sarah, smirked at him again.

“You’ve got questions, right? A lot, I bet. Don’t you?” She asked. Colin nodded, hesitantly. Sarah laughed, light and airy and beautiful.

And dangerous.

“Well, I’ve got answers for you. Plenty. Plenty enough,” she nodded to herself, once, twice, her gaze growing strangely distant, unfocused.

Then she righted herself, and snapped her fingers.

“But first,” she hummed, “I think…I think there’s someone who wants to say hello. To you. I think we’re long overdue a reunion.” She quirked her head, and grinned at him.

A cheshire cat.

“Don’cha?” She asked.

Colin frowned.

“A…reunion?” He echoed, confused. “What do y–”

Pop.

A soft, subtle wave of air displaced by abrupt apparition rippled through the quiet, windowless room. One of the gunmetal-grey kidnappers had returned, Colin surmised, and turned about to face him.

And found he had not come alone.

Colin’s face slackened.

His breath stopped.

His arms dropped to his sides.

But only for an errant moment, before he snapped back to attention, and reality, desperately grasping at the invaluable cubic form of his dearest love, lest he let it shatter upon the cold, hard ground.

“M…my god.”

A new voice spoke.

“Is that…is that really you?”

Like the ground below Colin, it was cold. Hard. Beaten down. Emotion clung to it, thick and urgent, yet ungainly, as if unused to exercise. As if neglected for years. Decades. Centuries.

And, like Sarah’s, this voice was one he recognized.

“Colin? Is that really you?” The voice asked, again, and Colin, arms trembling, allowed himself to take in its owner.

The figure standing before him now was tall, and broad, and mighty.

It wore an armor of the purest, finest, most flawless silver. Blemishless. Featureless. A blank slab of precious metal, bereft meaning, bereft marking, yet still fitting roughly to the contours of a man. Behind and above the figure floated yet more shards of a similar make and luster, weightlessly, of myriad size and shape, little fragments of shorn argent all hovering in unison, together forming great wings of shattered silver.

The figure’s eyeless, mouthless, formless gilded helm had been removed, cupped lightly in a single palm, by its waist, laying bare a face that seemed long-neglected by the light of day.

It was haggard. Weary. Light-brown eyes with deep, dark circles lining them, ruffled, sandy, unkempt hair and a scruffy bread both patchy and unshaven. The eyes were weighty, yet weak. Trenchant, yet tormented.

Almighty, yet haunted their bearer’s horrid past. And torturous present. And nightmarish future.

“Shawn,” Colin croaked the figure’s name.

“Colin,” it replied, equally rasping.

Life could be a funny thing, sometimes.

A funny thing, in that, sometimes, life itself almost felt alive. Living. Breathing. Laughing. Laughing, at you.

Because the figure standing before Colin now had once been his greatest adversary.

Shawn Edwards, or, as he’d been known long, long ago, Dauntless.

Dauntless, the rising star. Dauntless, the Protectorate’s golden boy. Dauntless, the Trump.

Dauntless, the man who, no matter how ceaselessly Colin worked, no matter how hard he tried, would inevitably overtake him. Would inevitably overtake everyone.

Would, one day, surpass even the Triumvirate.

Shawn had been the shadow clawing at Colin’s ankles. The nightmare haunting his rare and stressful dreams. The cruel and uncaring apathy of an indifferent universe. The brutal reality, that sometimes hard work just didn’t matter. That all the diligence in all the world was, ultimately, a poor replacement for talent alone.

Colin had worked himself to the bone, ruthlessly, relentlessly, for more than a decade, all to be made Team Leader. Only to be unseated, by fate. By chance. By a power he could never hope to match. A power that would only grow stronger, given time.

From Team Leader, to team babysitter. Nanny, for his own replacement.

And when that inevitable day came, no matter how valiantly he’d raged against it, Colin still remembered the way Dauntless looked at him. When he was given the news. The sacking. The shame. The guilt. The way Dauntless refused to meet his eyes.

“Colin,” his old colleague, his old enemy, repeated, in a voice thick with unfledged emotion. “It’s…it’s good to see you. My…my friend.”

Friends.

Hearing it almost made Colin laugh.

Is that what they were?

Even Shawn didn’t seem to really think so, for his haggard, haunted eyes roved anxiously about the room as he spoke, just as they had a lifetime ago, refusing to fix upon Colin, precisely. Incredibly, despite the wondrous armor, and the perfect body, and the gilded helm…

Right now, Shawn just looked like he needed a friend.

So Colin stood silently, and walked over to the man, and wrapped him up in a tight, spiteless hug.

Their past was long dead, now.

Their conflict died with it.

Though Colin felt the man freeze up for a moment, Shawn swiftly conquered his surprise, and returned the embrace with a shaky, yet deeply heartfelt, almost urgent, fervor.

“You’re different.”

Sarah’s words, spoken without warning, made Colin’s gaze flick her way. “Different, than I remember,” she muttered. Her expression was not so smarmy, nor teasing, for once. It was a serious thing, now, grim, but there was a degree of warmth there, too.

Warmth and sadness.

“You’ve changed,” she said, quietly, as their embrace drew to a close. Shawn’s eyes were red-rimmed, and slightly puffy, but not quite so haunted, or haggard, as they’d been before.

Changed, Colin thought idly.

Had he?

“The three capes I was with,” he began, haltingly. “Are the–”

“I know you’ve got questions,” Sarah cut him off short with an upheld palm. “And I’ve got answers for you. I’ve got them. Not all, but enough. I’m here to help, we’re here to help–” she gestured to herself, and to the grey-gloved kidnapper, and to Dauntless, “–but we need your help, too.”

Her clear, green eyes hollowed slightly.

“Our Work,” Sarah spoke ominously, “I’m afraid, is far from over.” Then she smirked at him, once more.

“We’ll be putting you with Grimnir. Erik. A fine fellow. Plies his craft. Keeps to himself, mostly. Like you. You’ll like him. You’ll help him. With that power of yours, you’ll help him very much.” Her regard drifted lower, towards the object Colin still clutched tight in his grasp, desperately and drowningly.

“You’ll help him,” she repeated, in a tone that let him know the games were over. That this was an order, not a request. “And, we’ll help you.”

She pointed at Dragon, meaningfully.

Colin gasped. His breath hitched in his throat.

A surge of unexpected euphoria overwhelmed him, but he did his best to beat it down. Salvation was not at hand, not quite, not yet. He’d not celebrate until that moment he locked gazes with his soulmate, and beheld sanity therein.

“Wh–what do you need me to do?” Colin stammered, wetly.

Sarah’s smile froze upon her face. Those secrets hiding behind her bottle-green eyes, burning, flared painfully bright, but for a moment.

“Colin,” she said, “you’re going to help me kill God.”

~~~

Sarah Livsey watched with wary, roving, pensive eyes as an Ancient Armsmaster exchanged words, and pleasantries, with the cape he’d known a lifetime ago.

She watched them clasp hands, shoulders. Share stories, and smiles, with one another. She watched as frigid tension thawed, melted, and gave way to a grateful, heartfelt, sharing of sorrow and suffering. And once, just once, she even watched Shawn laugh.

Sarah couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed.

She couldn’t remember if she’d ever seen him laugh, at all.

It was sweet, their reunion. A sweet thing.

And, like all sweet things, her Blessing made it sour.

This one is frightened. Traumatized. Alone.

Lost the only person he ever cared for. Petrified he might never get her back. Still believes it’s entirely his own fault, his failure. Regrets it. Regrets many things. Regrets everything. No longer interested in power, or leadership. Only in her. Only her.

Only her.

Keep Dragon, my Host. Keep her close. Keep her safe. Keep her alive, but only just. Dangle her on a thread, far, far above the head of your little Armsmaster, and he’ll be yours forever.

Just like all the rest.

Sarah scowled. Her stomach churned.

She held in the disgust, held it tight, pushed it down, refused to let it show on her face. At times like this, she wished she’d never reached the Core Stage. She wished for the days long past, when her Shard didn’t speak to her. When she could pretend it was a neutral creature, not an alien monster.

When she could pretend it, and she, weren’t evil.

Worst of all, and just like always, it was right this time, too. Right about Colin. It always was.

People were like little puzzle pieces. Little puzzle pieces, stumbling around the world, constantly chipping into one another, forming new notches and connections. Her Shard showed her that. Showed her the notches. Showed her the connections. Showed her in intimate, explicit, nauseating detail. All you had to do was learn where they fit in, where they fit together, and where they didn’t.

Learn the pieces, learn the players, own the game.

Contessa’s words, her mentor’s manifesto, and even three-quarters of a millennium later, they hadn’t failed Sarah yet.

Her eyes flickered left, to Dauntless.

This one is tired. Weary. About to break.

An old soldier, and a good one. The best. Our best. But even the best soldier needs a reason to fight, and this one is finding his reason more and more difficult to remember. Every day is the same. Death. Suffering. Pain. Misses Kelly. Misses Addison, who never was. Wonders what life might be like, if he’d died with them. Wonders if death might allow him to meet them, even now.

The Almighty is insecure. Isn’t that funny, my Host? Insecure that he’s stuck at 20. Insecure that he’s been stuck there for centuries. Afraid his progression’s forever stunted. Terrified of the final fight. Knows he won’t, he can’t, live up the Triumvirate. Knows, deep down, he’ll lose. Still sees Scion’s face, when he closes his eyes.

Hasn’t slept in a hundred years.

Colin will buy us time with him, but not much. We must act quickly, my Host. Valour will obey us to the death, but that death, I fear, may be self-inflicted, and soon.

Another suicide, Lisa. On your hands. Under your nose.

Isn’t that funny?

Fucking bastard Shard, Lisa hissed inside her mind.

No.

Not Lisa.

Never Lisa.

Sarah, not Lisa, shut her eyes tight, and drove the memories mercilessly away. Lisa was gone. Gone, for ages. Dead, a lifetime ago. Dead with her friends, with her miserable, fucked-up life. Lisa was stupid. Lisa was weak. Lisa was wrong. Wrong, when it mattered most. And her friends paid for it.

Now, Lisa was dead, and Sybil was what remained.

And Sybil was never wrong.

Never.

Never, except…

Sarah frowned, and beckoned over Pylon. Matthew. Her Matthew. Her ever-faithful Matthew. Her vast, and far-reaching Hands. Her Shard didn’t work on him, but she didn’t need it. Not for him. She knew him better than she knew herself.

“Four survivors,” she said, simply, speaking in Common this time, not English, and quietly, such that none but her and her Matthew would hear. Two words were all she spoke, and all she needed speak for him to glean her meaning.

Matthew nodded.

“Four survivors,” he agreed, evenly. “Not two. You saw, just as I did.” He paused for a moment, licking his lips.

She actually see him do it, of course. But then, of course, she didn’t need to.

“Caleb was angry,” he announced, suddenly. “Angry, with…with me.” His voice was soft and wavering.

“Little…little Caleb. I don’t blame him. I think one of my Replicants said something, something inappropriate. I should’ve been there, myself, from the beginning.” His invisible, obscured eyes flickered towards Sarah, anxiously. “I don’t like this,” he protested, weakly. “I don’t like lying to him, like this. Keeping him from the Work.

“This can’t be right,” Matthew muttered. “It can’t be. He’s supposed to be our ally, give us the Name, but…but will he do that, now? Will he help us? Will he come to us? He’s furious, and he has friends. No, this is wrong. All of it. Something’s wrong.

“A deviation?” Matthew asked her, nervously.

“A deviation…” Sarah echoed noncommittally in reply, her lips curving downwards.

Deviations in the Path were not uncommon, of course, but never a good sign. After all, with Contessa dead, no direct access to the Path, and only her vague, oft-frustrating notes to follow by, each errant deviation was potentially disastrous. Each one threatened to derail it, derail everything, entirely. Why, the greatest deviation of them all had led to Sarah’s single most abysmal failure.

The Night of Blood and Brimstone.

And, like all good deviations, it’d multiplied.

The slaying of Sigrun. The schism in the Wer. The rise of Proselytism, the uproar in the Assembly. A great and terribly butterfly, whose every wingflap rent their Work asunder. Decades and decades and decades of labor, mountains and legions and invaluable resources lost, squandered, to right their sinking ship.

Every moment spent fixing things meant somewhere else they couldn’t be.

A creeping, crawling, sprawling spiderweb of little failures that all stacked on top of one another.

It’d allowed something rotten in the Faith to fester, to grow, something Sarah, despite her best efforts, couldn’t see. It’d prevented them from making inroads in the Cells, allowing Arthas and Elias to take power, to shut them out, to bring about the Novus Ordo.

Worst of all, it’d allowed Lung to form that fucking Empire.

No, each deviation was one they could not afford.

And this…this was a big one.

“Then again, maybe it’s not that bad,” her Hand suggested, hesitantly. “Maybe…maybe it won’t matter. Maybe he’ll come to us, regardless. Or, maybe his friends can help him, in our stead?

“Fewer survivors would be cause for concern,” Matthew went on, gesticulating, “but can more of them really be a bad thing? Only one other was supposed to survive, but if two were strong enough to do so, then surely we’ve the one we need, and another, to boot. Another, as a backup.”

Sarah’s scowl deepened.

Her Hand’s words were true enough, but then, that was just the thing. They didn’t know. Aside from the boy in cryo, they didn’t know who the survivors were supposed to be, precisely. They couldn’t. To know such a thing would have made it all, completely, meaningless. They were nearing the end of the Path, now, and so they only had a scant few instructions left.

Only the broadest, vaguest implications of what they were supposed to do.

Could one more survivor be a bad thing?

“I don’t know,” Sarah admitted, eventually. It wasn’t a good feeling, not knowing. It brought back sickening memories.

Memories of failure. Of wrongness. Of death. Of fault.

“But I want you to keep an eye on them,” she instructed her ever-faithful Hand. “All of them. You understand? Don’t interfere, but don’t let them out of your sight, either. Don’t let the Devoted get to them.”

Matthew nodded, gravely.

“Those three,” Sarah muttered, “they know something. Something they shouldn’t.”

“What, about the Path?” Matthew asked, startled. Sarah shook her head, unsure, still frowning.

“That white-haired one, he…he troubles me,” she scowled.

Matthew snorted in reply. “Oh, you mean Hero?” He chuckled. “Quite the Name, eh? All the more shame he’s not a Tinker, I suppose.”

Sarah glared at him, unamused. “I can’t read him, Matthew,” she snapped.

Her subordinate froze.

And yet, it wasn’t such an unusual thing as he made it seem. Her Blessing was potent, but not omnipotent. It didn’t work on Endbringers, or Entities. There were Strangers who could escape her notice, and, obviously, she couldn’t read anyone with an Attunement higher than her own.

No, it wasn’t such an unusual thing.

Except…the way in which it happened was odd.

Most often, when she attempted to read the aforementioned Immortals, and Strangers, and Titans, her Shard returned all manner of myriad, yet meaningless input. Sometimes, it was completely silent. Sometimes, it revealed only the surface-most echoes of intention, and emotion. Sometimes, it fed her a stream of useless, garbled, garbage.

Yet, when she’d attempted to turn its focus onto Hero, it’d responded simply. Succinctly. Plainly.

And worryingly.

//Access denied//

It’d sent this message, only this message, and nothing more. And it confounded Sarah to no end.

“Hmm,” Matthew hummed, disconcertedly wrenching Sarah from the troubled recesses of her mind. “That…that is strange. In one so young, particularly. He’s not Immortal, yet, so he can’t have higher Attunement than you. And, he didn’t strike me as a Stranger.

“But,” he added, shrugging, “not impossible.”

“No, not impossible,” she agreed, “but it means you’re responsible for him, yes? I can’t be.”

“Right,” Matthew accepted, nodding. “Of course. It’s no problem. The three of them are bound for the Institute, anyway. They’ll be well under our wing.”

Sarah looked back at the commiserating friends.

Dauntless, and Armsmaster. Shawn, and Colin. Two men, out of time, once bitter adversaries, yet bonded by the past they shared.

For a moment, Sarah felt a monumentally overwhelming sadness.

For a moment, despite her very best efforts, she was reminded of another old group of friends.

Of three figures.

One bulky, one scrawny, one somewhere in-between. One angry, one collected, one who hid his feelings deep inside. A boy, and a boy, and girl who looked like one. Three capes, three teens, so very different in complexion, and origin, and creed, yet united in disenfranchisement, in their disgust with the status quo. Unaware, of course, that they were, all of them, merely part and parcel to another, crueler authority.

Three youths, and the one who led them astray.

Sarah shut her eyes tight, tight enough to damage the tender network of capillaries within them, to draw squirming, squealing lines of starry brightness that painted the pitch-black darkness red. The pain smarted something awful, but it was nothing. She was Immortal. She was a God.

Nothing could hurt her, anymore.

“Under our wing,” Sybil, the All-Seeing-Eye muttered pensively.

“One can only hope.”

~~~

The three of us sat alone, in a lowly tent, beset by a tense, unpleasant energy.

Our triad glares, though practically harmless, seemed fit to burn blackened holes into the fine, smooth, enchanted leather that safeguarded us from the biting cold outside.

Not that we needed its protection.

The debriefing by the Chronicler’s Thinkers had been, put concisely, at once disappointing and unsurprising. An ordeal of hours, hours and hours, lasting long into the frigid night. The group of no less than five envoys took their time with us, recording every last detail of our doomed odyssey into Knossos’s depths.

Fortunately, thanks to Alyss, we’d come to a prior consensus on what precisely to share with the Coterie’s agents, and what to keep secret from them. We described in full detail the circumstances of the first Floor, and the Third, but told them nothing of Shards, or the Warrior, or Akashic. We kept the appearance of my Noble tormentor, obviously, to ourselves, and when asked, informed them that we’d barely spoken to the Ancient man.

Whether or not they believed our version of events was anyone’s guess.

The Thinkers’ faces gave little away, and their songs were, one and all, kept on appropriately well-maintained, short, tight leashes. Perhaps, a sign of intense psychosocial tempering, a training regime of sorts. I dared not probe too deeply into them, for fear that such an endeavor might well cause more problems than it solved.

They listened to our tale with what I could only describe as a polite, detached interest. Indeed, as the interrogation progressed, and they continued to demonstrate naught of the scholastic exuberance I’d half-expected from them, I began to grow more and more certain that there were, in fact, two distinct castes of Chroniclers. Academics, like Mentat, and intelligence officers. These, I suspected, were the latter.

For they asked much of us, offered precious little in return.

They conferred upon us only token contrition, token apology for their organization’s wholistic ignorance regarding the exotic status of the Dungeon, reminding us instead that the death rate for the Agoge was staggeringly high, even in the best of circumstances. And, that we’d each been informed of this, prior to undertaking the exam.

Their words did wonders to darken Caleb’s already stormy expression.

They assured us, as Pylon had, that Vox’s and Rover’s presence in our group was being duly ‘investigated,’ whatever that might have meant, demonstrating, once more, little personal investment in such matters. They confirmed what we’d already guessed, informing us that we were, in fact, the sole survivors of the delve.

Groups one to thirteen, each boasting six Blessed at the Grain stage or higher, were gone. Just, gone. Dead. Lost, to the bowels of the World Titan, and the maddened mercies of a now-defunct Dragon.

Was letting her live the right choice?

Only time, I supposed, could tell.

Regardless, their news, put all together, made for a considerably somber mood.

And, as such, when our tale ended, and yet their questions continued, and grew more testing, to boot, Caleb treated them to a look downright murderous.

In response to which, remarkably, they simply let us leave.

For some reason, much like Pylon had, the group of Thinkers demonstrated a particularly peculiar wariness around the Immolator. No surprise, in a way. The newly-made Immortal was, after all, more than a little imposing.

And yet, their recalcitrance to anger him didn’t really seem born of fear, but rather…something else. Something I couldn’t quite place. They trod on eggshells around the man, as if anything they did, or said, any errant way in which they troubled him might result in something awful.

It didn’t understand it, their behavior, but it worried me all the same.

“What a fucking joke.”

The man himself, the Inquisitor in question, muttered from my side. Coarsely breaking our shared silence.

All the same, I agreed with his assessment.

“It’s so bizarre,” Alyss murmured in commiseration. “It’s just so bizarre. I mean, you’d think they, of all people, would be most concerned with Vox’s actions. Yet, it’s almost like we’re the enemy, here.”

“We grew much in power,” I pointed out. “Perhaps they fear we might hold grudges. Perhaps they fear retribution. Aristocrats are not known for their largesse.”

“And right they are,” Caleb rumbled, ominously, “right they–”

“If so,” Alyss cut him off, looking my way, “then why risk angering us, further? No,” she shook her head. “No, there’s something else going on here.”

She glanced at Caleb, meaningfully.

“What?” He asked, confused.

“You know the Coterie best, Inquisitor,” she asserted. “They saved you. Pylon saved you. Are their actions truly so meaningless to you, as well?”

“I knew him when I was but a babe,” Caleb denied, yet he scowled, hurt, anew. “A child of no more than five years, and for a mere few weeks. But, no,” he admitted. “No, I’ve–I’ve never seen him act like that. Never.”

“Hmm,” Alyss frowned. “Well, I suppose that leaves just one question.” Her eyes flickered between the both of us.

“Are we going to Bern, or not?”

Caleb scowled. I compressed my lips into a fine line. I had to admit, the idea didn’t rest easy with me.

As was promised prior our undertaking the Agoge, the Coterie’s Thinkers duly and curtly informed us that we’d each received sponsorships to the Bern Institute of Entropic Arts and Sciences; that most elite and prestigious college in all the world, home to the strongest young Blessed in all world, housed at the very center of all the world.

As sponsors, we’d not need pay the ludicrous sums of Entropic Chits requisite for attendance. It was, in a very real sense, the opportunity of a lifetime. Months ago, the mere prospect of such a thing would have made me swoon.

Now, it just made me worry.

This was a world about which I understood precious little. And, now that current circumstances had cast doubt upon the Coterie’s morals and intentions, it was world in which we’d be alone, and surrounded by foes.

“I don’t like it,” Caleb grumbled, perfectly summing up my own mind. “It is a most foolhardy thing, to entrench oneself willingly behind enemy lines.”

“And yet,” Alyss countered, “behind enemy lines is precisely where our answers lie.” Her eyes flickered towards me, perhaps for support. “We’ll not find them here.”

Caleb joined the sorceress, turning to regard me.

I blinked.

“What?” I asked.

“You’re our tiebreaker,” Caleb pointed out, smirking. “You undertake the greatest crusade of us all. What say you, Hero? Where do our answers lie?”

I furrowed my brows, and searched my mind. Looking inward would not help me. For once, neither Shards nor soul could lend me aid. My Blessings knew nothing of the material world, nothing more than I.

“Europe’s cities are huge,” Ewan spat. “Mammoth. Choking on life. A cesspit of injustice, and violence, and flesh.”

My erstwhile Master’s words didn’t exactly paint a pretty picture of the place. We’d barely time enough to decide. By morn, the camp would have packed up, and moved on.

“We’ve no choice,” I decided. “Perhaps answers lie in the heart of Old Europe. Perhaps not. But answers are not all we require. We need power, too. I need power, and much of it. Bern, and the Institute, harbor it in plentiful supply.”

“If you want me to help you fight your battles,” I explained to Caleb, and Alyss, “then I’ll need Shards. And not meager ones. Not the ones in this encampment. Potent Shards. The best in the world. As many as I can get my hands on. Bern is where they are.”

Alyss nodded, firmly. Caleb sighed, momentarily closing his eyes.

“To Old Europe, then,” he acquiesced, standing. His mouth quirked in a sudden smile, and he outstretched a single palm. “Together?”

“To answers,” Alyss replied, standing as well, and laying her hand atop his own. Both of them glanced my way.

As I rose to join my companions, I felt a swell of exhilaration flow unbidden through me. It was anxiety, and warmth. Joy, and tradition.

Worry, and readiness in equal measure.

“To our destiny,” I finished the mantra, placing my palm definitively and resolutely atop the pile.

Whatever the future might hold, we’d at least not face it alone.