“Stand fast,” Poncho-Guy, whose name is Jose, yells. He raises his Blitz Needle, a five-star gun that deals piercing damage. The Alpha Rabid Wolver, a poison-themed creature of the Beast family as tall as he is, snarls.

Jose waits. The creature’s lips pull back, revealing oversized yellow teeth. Growling, it pounces. Jose fires a charged shot at point-blank range. Every single needle nails the creature in the face. It whimpers, collapses, and dies.

There is no talking. No one has a wild shout high on adrenaline. No one is excited.

Belphegor is a tower of iron tanking hits. The Spiral Knights dart around the room, kiting. Here and there they pause to unleash a charged shot from their Blitz Needles. It turns out, the Beast family is weak to Piercing Damage.

Lumbers are weak to Elemental Damage, resistant to Piercing, and deal Normal Damage with the Stun status effect. Because this is a poison-themed level, these lumbers are called Vilewoods and deal the additional Poison status effect. Lumbers are from the Construct family.

Silkwings are a species of Fiend. They flutter like butterflies and heal their allies. They are incapable of self-healing or healing other silkwings. They have no attacks or defensive moves. They are weak to Piercing, resistant to Shadow Damage, and take Normal Damage from Elemental attacks.

Jose wears a five-star armor called the Nameless Poncho. That, combined with the Nameless Hat, gives him greatly increased attack speed. The other Knights prefer gear that augments their swords or provides status resistance. For all their talk of defense, they prefer to stack status resistances on whatever the best armor is.

This is a discussion they have had many, many times. They continue to debate the merits of different pieces between fights. It is like they have no care or concern for the ever-present danger.

Cassandra stays at the rear, preserving her ammunition. The Knights have infinite bullets, she does not. They seem to be able to pick up health from killing enemies. None of us can. And me? I do nothing. I observe.

I observe and record.

The boss of this minor dungeon is a pair of lichens, maximum size. Lichens are weak to Shadow Damage, resistant to Piercing, and take Normal from Elemental. Status effects are powerful, however. The Knights switch to swords. It is over in under a minute.

There is no fanfare. There is no secret final boss. The final door opens, and the treasure is revealed.

I see pottery. Colorful clay pots, unfired. A few stacked piles of copper pieces, a handful of silver. In the corner are some rusty tools. This being a sewer, moisture is ever-present. We stare in silence at the pile of change and fragile pots. The pots are near-worthless.

The archaeologist in me is excited by the pots. I can tell all sorts of things about a civilization from their garbage. But the adventurer in me recognizes that there is nothing to learn. In this place, I am no researcher or digger unearthing a lost civilization. I am an adventurer. And crap is crap.

We stare in silence at the small pile of coins.

“It might pay for dinner,” Cassandra mumbles.

“At a cheap wok shop,” Belphegor retorts.

I have nothing to say. The Spiral Knights are silent. Jose glances around at his team and receives a few tiny nods. He looks up at Belphegor, towering over him.

“You guys can have it all,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” the big man says. He almost sounds like he’d prefer them to demand a share. “We… we will remember this.”

“It’s nothing.” Jose looks away, uncomfortable. “I’m sorry there wasn’t more. I’m sorry about your…”

“It is done.” Bending, Belphegor scoops the coins into a bag. “Come Cassandra. Let us… let’s go. Cassandra?”

He looks down. Cassandra is not there. I look around. But she is gone.

“Where did you--?”

“There’s something here.”

We follow the voice. Cassandra stands in front of a piece of wall that looks like any other. The distinguishing feature is a wrought-iron candlestick, placed about shoulder height. It lacks a candle. The metal is rusted, but it looks firm.

“A candle holder?” Belphegor says.

“That’s a weird thing to find in a place like this,” Cassandra comments. She stares up at the device as if she can’t quite believe it.

“Pull down on it,” I say.

“What?” she looks at me. “Why?”

“This dreamworld-dungeon is alive, right? In many period pieces of fiction, a candleholder on the wall was the lever to a secret passageway.”

“Hmm.” Belphegor strokes the place on his helmet where his chin would be. “This patch of the wall does look a shade different from the surrounding brown. Shall we?”

Cassandra reaches for it. The Spiral Knights watch. She tugs the device. It doesn’t move. She pushes up, it stays firm. She twists, and it turns like a knob. We hear a sound like a lock being undone. Gears grind behind the walls. The section of brown a different shade than the rest sinks into the ground.

“Excellent work,” Belphegor says. He raises his torch. Three stone columns and a shelf are illuminated. Artifacts of oxidized bronze and copper litter them. Here and there something like glass reflects the light. “There’s our treasure, gentlemen.”

“Be careful,” one of the Spiral Knights says. “They could be trapped.”

“Might be,” Cassandra says. She is the closest and scans the floor for pressure plates. “I don’t see any physical traps. No sigils on the floor. Nothing on the walls. Looks alright.”

She walks forward. I hear a twang. She freezes.

“Tripwire,” someone roars.

A shard of night, a beam of rust, drops from the ceiling. Cassandra throws up her hands, but the beam clotheslines her.

“Ouch,” she groans from the floor. “Good thing I’ve got body armor. If my health was any lower—”

“NO,” I scream.

“—I’d have been dead.”

The iron chains, having been sitting in a moist environment for untold years, are rusted through. Under the metal beam’s full weight, they shatter. Two thousand pounds of dead weight drop onto Cassandra’s chest. She screams.

“Get it off her,” Belphegor bellows. He seizes one end of the beam, braces himself, and heaves.

I seize her by the fabric of her shoulders and pull. The Spiral Knights descend on the beam, helping despite their small frames. Belphegor curses under his breath. He throws all his strength into the lift. The beam rises, but not enough.

We pull and push. It’s not enough.

“It’s not enough,” I yell, panicking. “I can’t get do it.”

“Roll it,” Belphegor snaps. “Roll it down.”

Cassandra screams, tears running down her face. Anguish and despair wash across her face. Under it, I swear I see the ghost of a smile.

“Roll it,” Belphegor snaps. He twists the end. The Spiral Knights help. The beam, red with craters, rolls down across Cassandra’s hips toward her knees. She screams again, louder. Swearing, Belphegor heaves.

“Once more. Now. Human, pull.”

I haul. He lifts with his knees. The beam rises enough to fit her knees through. She rolls her feet sideways, and we drag her to freedom.

“Watch your fingers,” the black knight shouts. He drops the beam. It lands with a crash on the floor. One of the Spiral Knights screams as it rolls over his foot. He hops around on one leg.

“Miss Cassandra?” I lean over her. Her eyes flutter.

“Cassandra Archstar.” Belphegor shoves me aside. “You’re not dying. Do you understand me? You’re going to live, and we are getting out of—”

“My health is empty,” she croaks.

Belphegor quiets. He grasps her hand between his dinner-plate-sized ones. “Do you have a family?”

She shakes her head.

“I’m dying,” she whimpers. She squeezes her eyes shut. “It’s over.”

I look at my hands. Give and take. I lunge across the gap. Because I don’t know where else to put it, I place my hand over her face.

“[Soul Bind],” I intone. My health, already low, drops a chunk. A new red bar and a name appear in my peripheral vision. Cassandra knocks my hand away.

“Get off me,” she snaps. Then, she blinks. “Huh, I feel better. What did you do to me?”

“I transferred some of my hit points to you,” I say. I sit back and take a deep breath. “My health is in the single digits now, as is yours, I expect.”

“Human, what spell is that?” Belphegor stares at me. “Soul Bind? That doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s not a spell,” I say, not quite looking at him. I open a menu. New information fills my vision. I take one look at the character sheet and scoot backward. A cold, terrible feeling settles in my gut. “But you’re alive.”

“You saved me,” Cassandra says, her tone flat. “You saved me.”

“I’m sorry.” I stare at the window in the air. I look down at her with an emotion I know well, though it tastes different in this context. My mind is racing. Pieces of a puzzle fit together and break apart. Questions are asked.

“Um,” I say. “You should… you should check your status.” Raising a hand, I tap the windows in the air only I can see.

“A soul bind?” one of the Spiral Knights looks at me with a strange expression. “Where did you learn that?”

“From a—from a friend.”

“A friend?”

“Well, I say friend. It’s more like patron or benefactor,” I babble. “I dunno. He’s creepy. Has weird powers. And he gave me that. Because I listened to what he had to say.”

“Sounds like this man has questionable motives,” Belphegor says, slow. “Did he have a name?”

“Yeah, but it’s not important. It was ‘red,’ or something. Carmine.”

“What?” one of the Spiral Knights says. “Like the old myth? The Carmine Cloning Factory?”

“No, no, no,” one of the other Knights interjects. “There were four brothers.”

“People,” Belphegor intervenes. “We’ll discuss this later. For now, let’s—” he jerks his head at the room.

Cassandra glares at me. As we stand, I back away. She reaches for her weapon.

“Ma’am, did you check your status?”

“I’m your slave.” She spits the words. “My soul belongs to you. Not my life. My soul. You own me.”

“You get a twenty percent experience boost,” I hasten to add. “So, it’s not all bad.”

“But I’m your slave. You own me.” She thumbs the strap on her holster.

“Human,” Belphegor says. “Why don’t you free her?”

“It can’t be done.” I put my hands up as all faces turn to me. Grimacing, I say “It’s a product of the class. If I die, she dies. But if she dies, I survive.”

Cassandra’s face flushes. Her eyes turn to smoldering coals. Her fingers tighten on her Sig Sauer. In a flash, the barrel rises to my face.

“Please don’t kill me,” I plead. “I’m sorry. I—I don’t know your details. I just wanted to do some good.”

“You have saved me,” the woman hisses. “I wanted to die.”

“Why?” Belphegor cocks his head. “That’s not natural. Do you wish to talk about it?”

“Well, because.” She says it as if the reason is obvious.

“Because what?” Jose asks.

“Belphegor,” I murmur. “What is the Dockland’s punishment for murder?”

The giant of a man looks between us.

“Is it execution?” I ask, not looking away from Cass.

“It depends. Most murders are accidental. But the law doesn’t have a large budget in this world.” He looks up at the ceiling as if thinking. “I think it’s death. But they give you a choice. I… don’t remember what.”

Pieces click into place. I don’t know details about her history, but I can deduce. How much can I get away with before she squeezes the trigger? A command word might help. I review the list.

“Command: Stop.”

The muscles in her neck tighten. Her arm shakes. Her face turns beet-red. But her arm lowers. She points her handgun at the floor, eyes communicating what her tongue is failing.

“Before we go any further.” I take a deep breath. “I want you to know how sorry I am. I didn’t know. I have a skill that tells me people’s System information, but it didn’t work on you. If I had been able to see your class, I might not’ve bound you.”

“But you have.” Cassandra bares her teeth. “And I can’t kill you to get out of it.”

“Again: I’m sorry. My class is designed around support. I work best when I’m given orders and helping my allies. Tell me how I can best help and support you, and I’ll do it.” I pause. “I give you my word.”

“Shut up,” Cassandra snarls. “All dominai say the same. You want to help me? Free me.”

There’s nothing I can say about that. I look at the floor.

“Archstar,” Belphegor says. “Why do you wish to die?”

“None of your business.” Seeming to come to a decision, she holsters her weapon. “How much health do you have left?”

“If you’re thinking of hitting me, not much.” I take a step back and trip over the beam.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“Get off the ground.” She marches into the treasure room. “Belphegor, do you have it?”

Belphegor produces a sack. He tosses it to Cassandra, who throws it at my head.

“Fill it.”

“A please would be nice,” I mutter. I get up and dust myself off.

“Excuse me?”

I look up. Her face is rage. I want to throw the bag back at her. Or drop it. But I’m a support who asked for orders. She has every right to be mad. I scoop up the artifacts one by one and shove them into the bag of holding.

“Hurry up,” Cassandra snaps.

I fumble with an oxidized plate, dropping it.

“Idiot.”

Anger and shame worm through my gut. I look at the floor. Belphegor makes a show of looking into nooks and crannies. He unearths one small jewelry box I somehow missed. Taking the bag, he uses the tip of his sword to push it into the bag. The clumsy motion strikes me as odd. Something clicks.

“Did you use me as trap bait?” I gape.

He ignores me.

“Ready?” Cassandra asks.

“Yes.” Belphegor slings the bag over one shoulder. “Let’s get out of here. Follow me.”

The Knights spread out around us. Their pathfinder takes the lead, the guardian brings up the rear. The striker and gunslinger stand on either side of Cassandra and me. As the weakest party members, we are the most protected.

One of the nice things about the System is that even when clinging to life, our bodies function as if we had full health. We can walk unassisted. I have never felt more protected in my life than I do at this moment. The one downside is Cassandra venting her feelings.

“Just because I’m your slave,” she growls. “Doesn’t mean I’m wearing a collar.”

“You’re not my slave,” I mumble. “I don’t keep slaves.”

“Then what is this? Cancel it.”

“I, uh, can’t.”

“Why not?” she demands.

“I don’t know how.”

“That’s not good enough,” she snaps.

“Thinking about weighing in here, human,” Belphegor looks over his shoulder. “Enslaving someone against their will is not honorable.”

“Look, I know,” I make a placating gesture. “I said I was sorry. But I saved your life. How about that?”

“But my soul is bound to serve you. Look here.” She points.

I blink. A window appears in the air, courtesy of the soul bind. I can see her character screen in all its glory. She has a new Condition. The italicized flavor text indicates she has been forcibly bound to another person’s will. The fine print, well.

“I have to obey ‘command words,’” she shrieks. “Slave. Go here. Slave, go there. Slave, bend over. Are you insane? Do you like making people into puppets and playing with them?”

“I’ve never used that spell before,” I say.

“That’s not an excuse. You should know what a spell does before casting it.” Her voice rises. “Not doing so is—is, irresponsible. Do you know how many magical laws you’ve broken? You’ve bound someone, a sentient, living being, to follow your commands to the letter, forever. Do you see this?”

She jabs her finger at the box that spells out the binding is permanent with one exception.

“If I die, the binding is broken. But if you die, the binding isn’t broken, and I’ll die with you.”

“Didn’t we cover this?” I look straight ahead. “I don’t think it’s necessary to go over it again.”

“YOU—” Her voice rises to a scream.

I shut my mouth. That’s the best option. I guess it’s a good thing I’m in prison in real life. Not that this fact does anything to calm her.

“I’m enslaved to a felon? A fu—"

Well, I wouldn’t go that far. I published a paper, and the government didn’t like the content.

“You can’t publish state secrets,” she screams. From now on, assume her default tone is a high-pitched scream. That’s pretty much all she’s doing. Everyone else is silent. “Your government denies it when there’s clear evidence of a cover-up? You’re a whistleblower. What did you expect to happen? You idiot.

“You backstabbing, two-faced, lying, self-righteous, perverted idiot. You—” The vitriol continues.

“If I’d have known this is how you express gratitude, I’d have let you die,” I say when she pauses to inhale. As her face turns a darker shade of red, her corneas fill with blood.

“--!”

We pass several rooms with clear signs of habitation. As in, homeless people sit against the walls. Here and there someone burns a fire using trash or waste as fuel. They all watch with great interest as we pass.

Cassandra runs out of steam. My lips twitch.

“Well, you know. It’s not all bad. They make pills for that now.”

“Oh, so I’ve got to be on health-restore pills, now? I can’t use a health potion?”

“That’s all I’m saying. Relying on a healer when there’s no [Healer] or [Cleric] present isn’t a good idea.”

“How would you know? Isn’t this your first crawl? Have you ever even been dungeon-crawling? Do they have them in your world? Or do you sit around reading books all day?”

“Most of my teaching days were spent hitting on grad students,” I smirk. My comment brings a moment of respite and I throw fuel to the fire. “You’d be surprised how many people are willing to put out for a better grade. Especially for something so cheap as an A. One would figure that one’s life is more important and thus worthy of greater reward.”

And the screaming continues.

We come to a halt. I wait for Belphegor to move, staring into his back while pretending to ignore the flood of fury. Part of me regrets making the bind. The rest of me is having too much fun to care.

I edge around Belphegor. Cassandra follows at my shoulder, mouth moving. Ahead of us, a line of men and women in scarlet clothing blocks our way. They look grim. I look over my shoulder. A similar line has formed behind us.

“Miss Cassandra,” I say, even. “Please be quiet.”

“I don’t have to listen to you. I don’t give a sh—”

“Command…” I hesitate. I bring up my menu of instructions. Well, time to put them to good use. “Command: silence.”

Cassandra’s voice dies. Oh, her mouth moves. Her face is a lovely shade of grape. I can’t resist getting in one last jab.

“Be quiet, hon. People—men—are talking.”

I hear a huff but no noise. Arms are waving. Despite the gravity of the situation, I can’t help giggling.

“Tolvern,” Belphegor says, his voice flat.

“Belphegor.” The fire mage plants his staff.

“I thought you were going back to the surface?” Belphegor tries to moderate his tone.

“I changed my mind.”

“He was overruled,” one of the women says. “We knew the kids would clear it out. We’ll be taking that sack off you. Along with any other gold.” She levels her weapon.

The Spiral Knights look ready for a fight. Belphegor’s weapon is drawn, but he doesn’t raise it. The tip hovers above the floor.

“Drop your weapons,” Tolvern says. “We don’t want to kill you. We want what we came for.” He doesn’t smile. There is no amusement on anyone’s face. On the contrary, he looks sort of green. As if backstabbing another party makes him ill. But he’s still waiting.

“Not going to happen,” the Spiral Knight’s leader says. The other three chorus agreements.

“Bring out the prisoners,” Tolvern says. Two figures, a masked man and a short woman, are hustled forward. The fighters force them onto their knees. Tolvern produces Sherry Magpie’s .32 caliber pocket revolver. He places the barrel against her head. “I’m going to count to three.”

Cassandra realizes what’s going on. Her hand goes to her side, but she hesitates.

“One.”

“Belphegor,” I implore. I try to communicate as much meaning as I can. “We can’t win.”

“Where’s the rest of my party?” the big man asks.

Tolvern looks at the floor. His lieutenant motions. The rank of warriors part. Someone produces a sack. Not a bag of holding, a regular sack filled with irregular lumps. He drops it on the ground with a thump. A strange silence descends on the dungeon. We stare at the sack for what seems like an eternity. I can’t see Belphegor’s expression, but I glance at Cassandra. Her face is white.

“There is nowhere you can go that we won’t find you,” Belphegor says, his voice a murmur.

“Two.”

The silence stretches. The tip of Belphegor’s sword rises. I want to tell him no. We walked away from a deathtrap with slivers of hp. I don’t want to die so soon near the end. What about Cassandra? I shoot a glance at her, but her chin is lowered. She faces a similar line of people behind us, jaw set. Her hand is tight on her Sig Sauer.

“Thr—”

“Okay!” Belphegor shouts. “Everyone, drop your weapons. You too, Spiral Knights. No one else dies.”

“Good choice,” Tolvern says, relaxing. He points Sherry’s gun at the floor. Belphegor and the rest of the party set their swords on the floor. Cassandra draws her Sig Sauer and sets it down. The red-clothed men and women walk forward and pick everything up. I watch the Spiral Knights’ expressions as their five-star gear—legendary quality for them—gets confiscated. Tolvern gestures with his staff. “Bring me the sack.”

“Human.” Belphegor pulls the bag from under his armor. He thrusts it into my arms. “Give it to him.”

I struggle under the sack’s weight. Holy Toledo, how heavy is bronze? I stagger past the black knight and glance up, under the helmet. What I see of his face could be chiseled from stone.

One of Tolvern’s fighters extends a hand. I transfer the sack from my shoulder. I hold it out. The guy moves to take it, and I let go a second too soon. The sack hits the floor. We glare daggers at each other as I turn.

“Pick it. Up.”

“Excuse me?” I say, pausing.

The fighter draws a knife and walks around the sack. He presses the edge against my throat.

“Pick it up. And hand it to me.”

“It’s heavy and I’m weak,” I say, matching his tone.

“Don’t challenge me.”

“Dr. Lawrence,” Belphegor says. His voice is steady. “Give it to him.”

Slow, I reach down with my hand and heave the sack like an overpacked bookbag for school. The fighter snatches it, glaring.

“It’s not that heavy,” he whispers, shifting his knife to a reverse grip. “Let go.”

I let go. He strains to take its full weight.

“Not that heavy.” I walk back to my place behind Belphegor. Cassandra elbows me. I frown and raise one eyebrow at her. She points at her mouth.

“Command: speak,” I hiss. I wave my hand for good measure.

“You fool,” Cassandra says under her breath.

I ignore her.

“And the map,” Tolvern says. “Give us the map.”

“No one can read it,” one of the Spiral Knights says. “It’s in a different language.”

“He can,” Tolvern points at me. “Give us the map. And your friend. Or you’ll all die.”

Belphegor shifts his weight, as if indecisive. Sherry Magpie and Randall look at me. I take a step forward.

“I’m a Dreamer, sir.” I raise my voice. “If I die right now, I’ll go back to my world, and you’ll never see me again.”

“Hmph, that’s cute.” Tolvern smiles without humor. “Still. Give up the map.”

Belphegor takes the map out of his pouch and hands it to me. I open the old leather and stare at the entire picture.

“What’s so important about this?” I ask. “We already found the treasure.”

“It’s not a treasure map,” Tolvern says. “I’m sure you’ve noticed how the streets don’t align. People seem to come and go, but none of us ever leave? This world is transitory, but not for the people who live here. We’ve been trying to leave for years, but the city won’t have it.”

“You think this leads to a way out.” I study the symbols.

“The Docklands is a small city. This world is much larger. Yet, no one can leave.”

“Which is why we can’t let you take it,” a cool female voice says.

The adventurers whirl. For one heart-stopping moment, there’s heart-pounding confusion as Belphegor’s party contemplates attacking. Shapes appear out of the darkness. Silhouettes of people, revealing themselves to be rather unique individuals.

An octopus woman seems to emerge from the wall. A bounty hunter in a long coat walks out of the shadows. A ninja in a blue outfit appears from nowhere. A man in a blue robe and wizard hat teleports in. A Stola [Adventurer Archaeologist] uncurls her whip. A gnoll nocks an arrow in his bow. A gentleman with a top hat draws his sword cane.

Fighters, rogues, mages, archers. A ranger with a pet wolf comes forward. A samurai draws a katana and shorter wakizashi. An armored boxer widens his stance. A classical paladin lifts his shield, sending rays of light over the hallway.

Gunfighters. Riflemen. Bards with acoustic and electric guitars. Thieves seem to wear the shadows as clothing. Mages with balls of light hovering over their heads. And more legendary, higher-leveled classes appear.

Champions. The rare [Hero] and even rarer [Adventurer]. Mixed in among them are the Spiral Knights. All of them are high-level and in the latter case, high-equipped. I see familiars, pets, and more.

“What the heck is going on here?” someone asks, conversational.

A big, stupid grin spreads across my face. My stomach aches for food, but I ignore it. It’s a real feeling, from my real body. It’s drawing me out of the dreamworld. But I focus on the present. I don’t want to miss this.

“Robbing the Iron Ranks, Phoenix Fire?” the bounty hunter says. It is not a question. He shifts his coat to reveal the big iron on his hip. It is a Colt Single-Action Army chambered in .45 caliber, gold-plated, with a symbol on the stock. A custom handgun.

“Well—”

“Stick it,” Lilith says. “We heard it all. Where’s the map?”

I hold it up.

“The guild is confiscating it,” the bounty hunter says. “That McGuffin is key to our getting out of here. We all have an equal share in it. You, Clay-Rank. You can translate it?”

Dozens of faces look from the map to me. I gulp.

“Yes, sir.”

“But you’re a Dreamer,” Lilith says.

“Yes ma’am.”

The adventurers look at each other. Heroes and villains. Whichever they are, most have a reputation to uphold. Most, but not all. Whichever they are now depends on what it means to them. How much money is at stake?

“Is that Cassandra Archstar?” someone asks.

“Yeah, it is. The Pit Champion.”

“Doesn’t she have, like, an owner?”

Cassandra’s face turns whiter. She reaches for her Sig Sauer.

“Don’t move, Archstar.” A nondescript man steps out of the crowd. He is so average as to be forgettable. In this place, it is that plainness that distinguishes him. “We’ve been looking for you. Your master will be pleased to have you back.”

Cassandra’s neck tightens. She goes for the gun. I see a flash of movement and a silver dart sticks in her chest. She’s turning to run, panicking, but her movements slow. She drops the gun. It fires as it hits the ground, making everyone jump.

One of the scarlet mages howls in agony. He drops to the ground, holding one foot. One of his friends hands him a health potion. He slurps the nasty alchemical concoction like it’s the nectar of the gods.

Mr. Average walks toward us. I make a snap decision and move. Kneeling, I seize the gun. I assume a shooting stance with my feet spread and knees bent. One hand holds the grip, and the other cradles the gun. My thumbs are parallel. It is a good shooting stance, if unpracticed. The bounty hunter pauses.

“I have no quarrel with you, sir,” he says. “Drop the weapon, please.”

My form is a little rough. And yes, my hands shake so hard I can’t keep the barrel centered on his chest. The Spiral Knights—well, everyone notices. They retreat from the line of fire.

“What is she to you?” the hunter asks, unperturbed.

“A friend,” I lie.

“Do you know her?” he looks at me with a hunter’s eye. “Do you know what she’s done?”

“Nope.” I struggle to keep my hands from shaking. “Met her a few hours ago.”

“He soul-bound her,” one of Phoenix Fire’s fighters says. He sees me shoot him an incredulous look and shrugs. “We heard the whole thing. Half the dungeon could hear her screaming at him.

The hunters and adventurers look from one to the other.

“You enslaved her soul?” the hunter’s mouth opens. “That’s blood magic. That’s illegal. Beyond illegal.” He raises his crossbow.

“Her health was gone; she was dying,” I say, more than a little defensive. “I saved her life.”

“By breaking the law,” another hunter says. This one is a woman. Still the same average looks, plain clothes, no adornments. But her coat has armor padding, and she duel-wields a rapier-revolver. A high-level, wealthy hunter? “A [Soul Bind] is one of the worst forms of enslavement.”

“Oh, so now there’s different grades of slavery?” I say.

“Physical slavery can be ended,” the first hunter says. He now holds a crossbow in each hand, and both are loaded. Behind him stands another hunter with a glowing staff. “There are different kinds. Crime, debt, chattel, thrall. Many cultures have their criminals work off their debt, whether to society or a bank. It is better than sitting in a box doing nothing.”

“Slavery of the soul is unforgivable,” the female hunter says. “Those who do it are called caput lupinum. A wolf’s head. Killing them is not illegal. Like wolves.”

I swallow. Dread fills me. I switch targets. I open my mouth to say something and realize Belphegor is looking at me. He stands a little behind the hunters. The Spiral Knights are watching me, but they have backed away. Cassandra is motionless, but that’s not the issue. I stand in a little open area, surrounded by five or six hunters who all carry different, high-quality weapons. Behind them, a sea of faces watch.

C’mon Doc, think. Thinking is my forte, but I require time. Quick, fast responses are my weakness. It’s a flaw, always has been. The words die in my throat.

“Have you any final words?” the hunters intone.

They’re going to do it. They’re going to execute me. Right here and now. Well, I’m still Dreaming. Not like I’m here. I’ll wake up in a second. A strange, fulfilling calm washes over me like a wave crashing on the beach. My arms bend.

“I can read the map. I know what it says. I can get you out of here.”

“Many can. It is a map. This city has a library and many [Scholars]. Or did you think you were the only one?”

Hunger stabs through my gut.

“I’m a [Dreamer]. If you kill me, I’ll wake up back in my world.”

“No, you won’t.” The hunters smile, but there’s a trace of bitterness. The guy with crossbows points them at my chest. “These bolts are coated with dreamdust. You will die here and in your world. This is your end. I’m sorry.”

I gape at him. I search his face for deception and find none. He seems apologetic, even sympathetic. But he’s the only one. The rest have blank, indifferent expressions like the Black Robes. Faces I recognize as cold professionalism. They’ve done this before. Another day at the office. And I’m the poor schmuck to face their justice.

“If I die, Miss Archstar will die too.”

“He’s not lying,” Cassandra gasps. She struggles to rise. “If he dies, I die.”

“What will her master say to that?” I look from hunter to hunter, desperate. They appear to hesitate.

“A wolf’s head.” The lead hunter looks at me as if appraising. His eyes flick to my soul-bound slave. “And a Rank 4 [Murderess].”

The adventurers lean away. Qozu’s expression is shock. Between the faces, I spot the gangster from earlier. No one else moves. The silence stretches.

“How is it that no one can see her class?” the hunter muses. “Is it a Skill?”

Cassandra doesn’t say anything.

“It’s too bad her soul is bound,” one of the hunters grumbles. “She is worth quite a bit of money.”

“Perhaps a profit can still be made,” I say. Several faces wrinkle their noses as if I’m a turd that’s been freshly excreted onto their hot dinner. I don’t have a plan. I don’t have a structure. All I have is the barest hint of an idea. “If I find my way to this world, then her owner will have two valuable slaves. She can fight. I can translate. And I’m a budding mage.”

Multiple people snort; a dismissive gesture that requires no translation.

“Well, how much is it to pay off her debts?”

“Fifty thousand dubs,” the lead hunter says. He looks me in the eye. “A hundred thousand for yourself, minimum. Assuming one of you survives the pit long enough to pay it off. You’ll have to take it up with her dominus.”

“But there is a chance,” I press. “The execution may be postponed.”

The hunter shrugs.

I look down at Cassandra. She looks up at me from her knees. The tranquilizer is affecting her. But her rage is gone. There’s a different expression in its place. I don’t have time to wonder what it is.

“I’ll do it.” I lift my chin. “I will pay it off. All of it. I bound her soul. She is my responsibility. Whatever charge you have against her, lay it at my feet. I’ll raise the money and come pay it off. Let her live, and I’ll take care of it.”

The hunters look at each other. The adventurers don’t look convinced.

“Someone send a message spell,” the lead hunter says.

“On it.” The woman next to him raises her staff. Pressing two fingers to her temple, she closes her eyes. “Message received. The [Lord] is curious about who you are. Is there a name?”

“Doctor Lawrence.”

“Message received. The [Lord] says the [Murderess] lives today. Retrieve her. Have the Dreamer contact him as soon as possible.”

“All right, gentlemen, you heard the lady.” The lead hunter lowers his crossbows. “Mister Doctor, I wouldn’t keep the [Gladiator Lord] waiting.”

The adventurers begin moving. Steel shackles are produced. Someone grabs the Sig Sauer and pockets it. Ravenous hunger claws through my gut. This time I let it pull me out of the dream. The world vanishes.

“Dang,” I whisper. I scootch out from under my bed, pushing shards of glass out of the way with my blanket. I’ll process that vow later.

Outside the box, the cell is in ruins. It looks like an earthquake tore through the place. The concrete walls are shattered. The metal beams in the ceiling twist like pretzels. One whole wall is gone.

I can feel the air. I look again. The box is gone. Glass covers the ground like snow. I could run, but I’d have to sacrifice my blanket to make it over all the glass. That’s a worthy sacrifice. I’d be free. But for how long?

The reality of my promise comes crashing down on me. I am in a box. I have nothing. Even in a dreamworld, I can bring or keep nothing. Whatever money I make must stay behind. I have no skills or gifts. My Class is a joke. My friends were… not my friends. I don’t think I ever had friends.

I will never have friends. I took on an unliftable, crushing burden. There is no way I can take care of this. I don’t have the strength. I don’t have anything. I should never have gone to that world. I should have let them kill me when they had the chance. It would be better that way. Let my life end even before it began. I squeeze my eyes shut. Something hurts in my chest. I curl up under my thin blanket. But I don’t cry.

I can’t cry. I feel a wave of emotion build up inside, but a wall blocks it. The sorrow is there, and it’s great, but not enough to overcome the barrier. I feel an ache. True exhaustion takes hold. I close my eyes and fall back to sleep. I don’t dream.