The Pact was largely healed from the last catastrophe that had stricken it, when Rhuna had come by like a whirlwind and scattered them to the winds. Elia, Rye, and company didn’t need a corpse to convince the residents of the fact that they had done her in, as soon after the organization under Rhuna’s thumb crumbled like a wet cracker.
Groups sent out to loot her domain now riven with conflict never did find her greater shard of shapes, nor did they find her head. Some people in the ruling council took that as a reason to send out even more parties, others to give up the search and bind the people closer to home. Doubtless, someone would benefit more from closer patrols because they had some farm or hidden orchard on their payroll, making even something as simple as patrol rotations a thing of politics.
Rye didn’t care either way. If she never had to leave the safety of the pact, that would be fine with her. She was currently out and about to procure a bag of fruits, both for eating and for artistic reference.
“This season the trees are finally bearing fruit,” said the corpulent woman who had specialized as a fruitmonger after the recent shortages. “But I keep saying: Rushing things can’t be good, even with boons to handle it all.”
“They still look delightful,” Rye said. “I would like a few of these, one of them, one of those…”
The woman gave her an overfull basket of fruit, and shushed Rye at the signs of her protest. “Now now, no comments. This is the least we can do after all you’ve done for us.”
Rye put on a smile. “Thank you, miss Merryweather.”
The jolly woman waved her off, and so Rye left. Down the streets of old Loften she went, Clearwater Temple always in sight. Some children were preparing to play Climber’s game, rolling for events on the chalk diagram branching along the street. The game was invented by Theo, a kid who gained the uncommon boon [Master of Games]. He was revolutionizing what it meant to play, and he was so good at it that sometimes adults had requisitioned him to come up with a new way to play Old Maid or Jack’sblack.
“I got ninety-nine. What’s that?” one of them asked.
“That’s a dragon. Right at the start too,” the older one sighed. “This game is going to be over quickly.”
A light tinkling tunes of bells sounded out from her general vicinity. She wasn’t one for ‘going full munchkin’ for her boons, but once she found the perfect essence to manipulate her [Threat music], she knew why some people spent hundreds of shards rerolling for just the right boon.
[Sense] Threat music [Uncommon] [Essence of opportunity]
Your instinct is replaced for the purpose of sensing danger. Instead, music proportional to the threat you are facing sounds out around you. The accuracy of this sense is determined by your instinct.
Also plays a distinctive tone notifying you of opportunities close by.
The wording was as vague as it was flexible. Rye smiled as she approached the kids.
“Maybe it’s not a big dragon, but a really, really small one?” She took a tomato from her basket and used a trick she had learned for making conjured material permanent. The tomato disappeared and in its place was left a chunk of ice which she quickly reshaped into a small dragon figurine with a wingspan as large as her outstretched hand. The tomato really was gone. All things had a price, but the kids didn’t need to know how this little mechanical wonder had come here.
She offered it to one of the younger kids, who gingerly took it with wide, wondrous eyes. It was mechanical even, fully articulated and posable.
Pretty nice for something I came up with on the fly. Gotta thank Kasimir for the mechanics and self-maintenance lessons.
The kids all flocked around the one holding the toy.
“Wow.”
“Look-look, it can flap it’s wings.”
“Thanks, miss Rye!”
“Have fun!” she waved after them as she left, to the approving nods of a few watching adults. Couldn’t allow kids with boons to play unsupervised after all.
“Lady Rye.” A women, a Duchess Ilmfred from a duchy of the same name that had existed some three hundred years ago, curtsied as they passed each other.
The fake eyes in the duchess’ dress blinked one by one. Rye just smiled and waved, always smiled and waved.
It was hard not to be loved when you gave sweet dreams to all, and banished nightmares. There was enough collective trauma plaguing the people that had had to run away tens of times over their lifespan, watch loved ones turn to blabbering husks, or lose friends to influences that were even worse. To them, while Rye may not have been a healer, she was their island amidst an endless roiling sea and they thanked her for it.
That she was using the kind of body that one of their own had painstakingly made only served to make her one of them in their eyes . And she tried to be, she really did. But when she picked up the offerings at the foot of Karla’s new tower and entered her suite right below that of the Elia and the princess, she looked down at the people going about their lives in the crumbling remains of her empire’s capital, and knew that they couldn’t be further from the truth.
The Pact was not her home.
Oh yes, she lived here, and she knew them all by name, from little Timothy across the road, who loved conjuring knives, to the baker Armand II, who had found his true passion after his kingdom passed to ash, much to the chagrin of his wife, who was gluten intolerant. The people were nice, if weird and eccentric, and their constant offerings meant she never had to go out and fetch souls the old-fashioned way since people would just give things to her.
She had power, money, and respect, and she barely had to work for it. People revered her. Rye should have been doing fine, doing more than fine. She should have been ecstatic. But then she looked at her basket, finding a common bone shard wrapped in a piece of parchment. Beside it, beneath all the colorful fruit, she found a small, overripe yellow thing.
When she dug it up and took in its smell, the sour-sweet note of the peach made her think of the juice that she used to drink on hot, summer days. Like the fruit that had been her and Sam’s favorite.
Like the ones from our orchard. Like the ones from home.
Home. Family. Friends.
It all came like a rush of water and she drowned in the emotions whirling about. Tears streaked down her cheeks as she gripped the windowsill.
I’m never going home. Everyone’s gone. All that’s left is me, and I’m miserable, a sorry example of a hero. I don’t deserve their worship.
With shaky hands, she felt her way to the bed and collapsed on it. Within minutes, she was inside the white dream, the place where she held utter control of all things. The tower she woke up in was the same as the one she lived in the real world, except everything was upside down. The bed was on the ceiling, but the difference between ceiling and ground was more of a semantic one in here.
Immediately, the painted world around her began to shudder and drip in lieu of her emotions. Rye jumped, putting a leash on them as she flung them into the box where most bad things lived.
Not all, only most.
After a steadying breath, Rye walked up the tower, up and up, until she was in the basement. It was patrolled by living armors, ones that she had created explicitly without awareness, sense of self, and whatever else had caused her other dream-creations to develop sapience. They kept every spot neat and tidy, every room and every cell prim and proper. Just like the knight academy, just like the place where she had brought upon herself the greatest shame.
But there’s always a bigger fish, she thought. And that was doubly true as far as mistakes went. Some are just too big to pull out now.
She reached the final cell and quickly made a copy of the basket of fruits from memory, phasing it through the bars just as her mind-quill put on the finishing highlights.
“I’m sorry this took so long. I know time plays differently here than outside. But in light of not wanting to be too cruel, I’ve got something new for you to try today.” With a mental nudge, she pushed the basket half a meter forward. “You know, besides leaving you in here all alone.”
From inside the cell, hateful, gleaming eyes looked up at her.
“You’re such a bitch,” said The Rhuna.
***
Elia sat on a log and emptied her boots for the fifth time, finding a small mud-crab that had made its way inside. It flailed angrily as she flicked it into the swamp. It was too small to make it worth turning into a meal.
“Brod was right. This really is a good place to hunt.”
“If only it weren’t for the smell,” Karla said. “We’re getting a bath after this.”
“We?” Elia’s brain stuttered. “Does that mean you’ve managed to overcome the compulsion?”
“No. But that doesn’t mean we can’t try, right?”
“R-right.” Elia was already looking forward to it, after a thorough scrub. “In hindsight, we should have chosen a less gooey place to find loot in than the swamp.”
Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.
“But nobody ever comes here. There’s loot and treasure galore.”
“Exactly.”
“And if nobody ever comes here, who knows what else we can find?”
Elia grinned. “We could find bosses.”
“Greater souls.”
“Loot.”
“Exactly!” Karla hopped close for a hug. “You get me, Elia, you really do.”
It was as much personal contact as her princess-status would allow, courtesy of some asshat god of princesses whose screwups long outlived him. She pulled back and they booped each other’s noses.
It was nice, having a friend who loved Elia’s interests as much or more than she did them herself. When she saw the excitement in Karla’s hazel eyes, her stomach couldn’t help but do a flip.
Scratch that, this was pure bliss.
But like always, happiness was a sign that the next shoe was about to drop. Elia nervously looked over her shoulder. No more pursuers today. Only a giant holding a twelve-foot swamp-catfish in an armlock.
“Brod, what are you doing with that fish?” Elia asked as she nuzzled into Karla’s neck again.
The giant in question was tagging along, not to be a third wheel, but because scavenging was becoming more dangerous. Assassins and attacks were becoming the norm, as the 41st Legion and Avon’s knights scrambled to lord over the dregs of Rhuna’s realm.
And also, Elia felt bad for him. She had effectively asked him to buy time with his life in the fight against Rhuna, and he had bought it. That was two years ago. She still did not know what was up with him. Every time she asked Karla and she started to babble excitedly about his famed stories, he would turn from sheepish, to shy, to sullenly, or angry. Sometimes he left at the simple mention of one legend or another.
Either way, he was as good a sparring partner as he was a bodyguard.
He looked down at the giant fish, then at his fist. “Dinner?”
“Sir Brod,” Karla said, “we woke up like two hours ago.”
“Good meat,” Brod countered. “Fatty.”
“We could use some good meat,” Elia added. “The living standards in the pact have plummeted. I hear Mephisto is still supplementing his breakfasts with pedecud.”
“That is because your frame of reference is greatly skewed. You arrived during a great orgy–“
“Please don’t call it that, Buns.”
“– during a great feast, and we could only afford those thanks to a robust network of logistics.” Karla scrunched her nose snootily. “Relocating has dramatically reduced our capacity for dreg agriculture, something you would know if you paid attention to our weekly meetings.”
“Yeah, I don’t think enough about the practicalities of getting food, only eating it. I get it, I get it.”
Karla leaned back, only to squish Elia’s cheeks between her two hands. “I love you my little lootbug, but it’s obvious when you try to act dense just because you aren’t into something.”
Elia grumped an indecipherable grump. “I’m not little.”
“Oh? But you’re so cute and squishable,” Karla said, squishing her in a hug.
“You only get to call me small if you can carry me around like Brod over here.”
That was evidently the wrong thing to say as with a heft and a yelp, Karla suddenly lifted her up and twirled her around with much more ease than Elia had before.
“I get it, I get it, you can put me down! Karlaaa!” Karla plopped her down, and Elia wiped another splash of swamp out of her hair. “You’re terrible.”
“I wonder who I got that from?”
Elia scoffed, raising her nose imperiously in mock-imitation of Karla. “Come on, sir Brod, we must reconvene post-haste so we can commence our fine dining.”
Brod just cleared his throat and pointed behind Elia. There, poorly hidden behind sunken tombstones, Elia could make out black hair and the sheen of armor. The din of arguments and shushing wouldn’t have even passed a dreg by. If a few someones were trying to be sneaky, then they were failing at it catastrophically.
“Alright squirts, you’ve got until I count to five to show yourselves before I light your asses on fire.”
There was silence.
“Five.”
The rustling returned and after a moment, four wayward undead were standing out in the open swamp.
“We come in peace!” Nathan, their archer yelled.
Elia surveyed them, one by one.
He looked a bit cowed, likely by Brod due to his shaggy appearance and the huge catfish-thing he was casually holding. Both of them could use a shave. By the looks of it, this group had been wandering the swamp for quite a while. Not a great idea, considering their general lack of skill.
Elia’s eyes landed on the rogue. At first glance he was just hiding his face to complete the edgy belts-and-knives look so many rogues fancied these days. But she saw the clipped claws on his hands, and the white fur jutting from where his sleeves met his gloves. He was walking hunched too. Likely not a standard human that one.
Her eyes drifted to the one in heavy armor, the tank. He still had a red imprint where Elia had slapped him across his left cheek twice. Despite that, he stood straight, with eyes resting on Elia that said that his last defeat was just an unlucky fluke.
Which left the mage girl, Hannah, who – previously so vocal – was now comfortably standing in the back.
“Peace for what?” Karla asked.
“Yeah, we already whooped your ass,” Elia added. “Unless you mean ‘in pieces’, which can be arranged.”
The party looked unsure of what they were doing themselves. But eventually, the mage girl stepped forward and gave Elia a ninety-degree bow.
“Please, take us on as your apprentices.”
“Hell no.”
The sudden rebuttal only lit the flames in the girl’s eyes.“Why not? Is it because we attacked you? We can spill the beans on why we did it, and who sent us. If it’s because of our… mistakes, then I promise that we’re studious, and will listen to everything you demand.”
Elia stared each one of them in the face for a solid while. “You’re right, you guys are pretty shit. You’re wrong assuming that I care who is after us. Between me and Karla, half of Loften wants our heads.”
“What’s a Loften?” Hannah’s brother asked.
My god, they’re so incredibly ignorant.
Elia gave a polite face to Karla. By the look on the princess’ face, she was about to accept them with open arms and teary eyes. Elia interjected before she could enact a group hug.
“Look, I appreciate that you think we’re awesome – ‘cause we are – but no, we don’t have time.”
“But they need us,” Karla said.
Hannah nodded vigorously.
“They’ll get torn to pieces if we don’t help them,” the princess added.
Hannah and the archer looked at each other, worried.
“They’ll lose all their souls, then their minds bit by bit until they are nothing but a husk, dregs of their former selves cursed to wander this bloated land until something finally renders their legs into mush. And then they’ll crawl.” Hannah and company were looking somewhere between mildly distressed and terrified as Karla put on her best puppy dog face. “I’ll take really good care of them.”
Elia looked into the big, pleading eyes of her girlfriend. She always did this when she wanted something.
“No. We don’t need more baggage. They already got a share of the demon’s souls by sheer proximity. I’m not rewarding them for effectively stealing from us, or for their botched little assassination attempt.”
“It was just a couple souls,” Hannah’s brother said, then gained a round of smacks up the back of his head.
“There was no injustice, as they are capable of achieving ought,” Not-Karla said. “Do it for me. Please.”
Elia grit her teeth. This was stupid and it was unnecessary. They were just taking advantage of Karla’s sympathy, even if they didn’t realize it. That Hannah girl did, or would soon enough. She was not an idiot. And despite all of Elia’s confidence and bluster, if they had just been a tad more competent and organized, she would have been in quite a pickle.
But when her girlfriend looked at her like that, with all the sincerity and naivety that Elia had left behind, all she could do was breathe out, let the anger dissipate, and deal with whatever trouble this would bring.
She turned to the assembled group of fresh meat. “Follow us. We’ll lead you to a safe spot. What happens after that is up to you.”
***
Emily Watson was the 47th Warden of High Loften, blessed by Aurana, goddess of various things sand and golden, and bolstered by an army of mind-controlled slaves. Now, she was a prisoner, her army scattered to the wind, and her being at the mercy of Rye down to the last atom.
And Rye didn’t know what to do with her.
“Eat,” she said, making the bowl wobble on its own.
“Come in here and make me.”
They exchanged a scowl. Rye did not enter the cell holding the hulking woman. Her ridiculous size was toned down, but her arms and legs were still like solid steel. If she went in there now, anything could happen and – no. Rye was in control here.
Rhuna grinned.
“Pussy.” She grabbed the bowl and began wolfing down the treats. “I knew you were weak from the moment I laid my eyes on you. It was pretty confusing ‘cause I thought that was just how Elia is sometimes, but now I know. Two souls, one body–”
“Spirits.”
“Whatever, nerd. I’m still standing.”
“You’re sitting on the ground. In a prison cell that cannot be damaged, broken, or deformed.” Rye crossed her arms. “Maybe I did kill you, and just resurrected you out of guilt?”
“Semantics.” Rhuna leveled a banana at Rye. “Point is, you didn’t have the balls to kill me, and you sure as hell won’t grow some anytime soon.”
“Watch your tone. I can unmake you with an errant thought.”
Rhuna just shrugged. She didn’t seem keen on caring.
Rye heaved a sigh. The worst part was, she herself wasn’t sure which it was. Yes, Rhuna had launched one desperate attack on her mind when Elia stabbed her body with the shard knife, and yes, Rye had in that moment wished that she would be dead.
But it was the same feeling you’d get if someone dropped a rabid hedgehog in your hands. You’d throw it away, and wouldn’t dare to make sure that it was dead.
And like the scourge that she was, one day, Rhuna was there again.
Rye just couldn’t for the life of herself find out how Rhuna had come back at all. “Also, I wouldn’t have the balls regardless. I know enough of your lingo, dog, to know that it doesn’t make sense.”
Rhuna barked a laugh. “Gods, you’re insufferable. By the way, what happened to my shard of shapes?”
“I ate it. Does it feel bad that a weakling like me found that crutch you were using to live your perverted life?”
Rhuna snorted. “Liar.”
Rye seethed and in turn, the walls threw off steam. This was leading nowhere.
“We’re done here,” Rye said and got up.
“Bye-bye, pussy.”
Just as she turned to leave, she ducked under the basket as it whizzed past her head.
“That was pretty good food for a scrub, scrub. Make sure to bring more next time.”
Maybe there won’t be a next time. Maybe I’ll let you rot in that cell forever.
With a snap and a gust of wind, the world around her washed away, leaving Rye in her bed, blinking away the tiredness of her quick sleep. It was dark out, darker than usual. Rye approached the window, where a light drizzle of rain had arrived in turn with a distant roll of thunder.
“What am I even doing with my life?” she asked. “What’s the point?”
“Perhaps you require an additional perspective.”
Every one of Rye’s hairs stood on end as she turned to face the source of the unfamiliar voice. Right on her bed where she had only been moments before, the bedsheets were alive with movement. Tiny, tarry-black worms devoured her blankets, the middle of her bed falling in on itself while the legs grew outwards as if the wood had just found its second spring.
Her left arm ached something fierce.
Your gift recognizes kin. Listen to the feeling in your bones.
“And what kind of feeling would that be?” she asked as she crept along the wall towards her staff.
The feeling of wrongness at the state of the world. The desire to change it, mold it, until your desires fit it like a gauntlet. Join us, o’ gifted one.
“And if I preferred not to?”
The figure paused, then rose until it blotted out what little light was entering the room.
Then like the Rhuna before, in the name of our Lord Avon, we come for your head.