Vergil had never been in someone’s home—not in a real place to live, something that was more than just shelter. Aboard the Gloria, he had a bunk, a shower, and access to entertainment. That was all he had ever known of having a space of his own.

After that, well, he slept on the streets, on benches, in a cage, and then in inns and taverns. A home… that was something he decided he would like to have one day. Maybe not here, at the Rock, surrounded by daemons every other day, but somewhere.

Someday.

He looked sheepishly at the interior of the house while Arin headed into an underground cellar for the promised wine. It felt cosy. Carpets were laid across the stone walls, depicting colourful scenes that didn’t feel quite right for a place like this. There was one small cot in one rooms, and a larger bed in another. The detritus of a long life filled the rest of the space: assorted knickknacks, yellow-paged books, bone trophies, and a small shrine dedicated to some god. Sil had sneered at the sight, but said nothing.

And it was warm. A red glow shimmered between the bars of a cast-iron stove whose chimney rose through the ceiling.

* Sprig!

* Draw yer weapon!

Vergil ignored the dwarf. He didn’t feel like being berated right now by the foul-tempered ghost. The walk up here had been pleasant. Arin was a fascinating person who didn’t press him for information. They laughed over the previous night’s fighting, joked about the explosion, and generally had a good time.

It felt surreal to imagine they had been fighting for their lives just hours earlier. Vergil had faced a bloody, damn troll. The soldiers had seen worse slithering out from the secret tunnel.

And now he was here, in a cosy little home, resting against a wall, watching a different cellar as Arin rummaged around below. He let out some expletive at one point, then came the sound of a spout being hammered in, followed by gas escaping, and finally the sound of something pouring into a container.

Arin emerged from the cellar with a wet clay jug in one hand and a whole ring of sausages in the other. Vergil sprang forward to grab the jug and helped Arin climb the final steps back into the room. The cellar door shut with a heavy clang.

“Wine might be a bit tangy,” Arin said. “Since my father died, we haven’t really touched the casks down there. Hope it’s to your liking.”

“I wouldn’t know good wine from vinegar,” Vergil said. “If it’s not poison, I think I’ll be fine.”

Arin rummaged through cupboards around the stove while Vergil poured the drink into cups. It smelled slightly sour, but not in a bad way. He’d smelled the bottles Tallah and Sil had drunk back at the Meadow and those had reeked of ammonia.

This was pleasantly sour, making his mouth water.

“Where do you get grapes to make wine?” he asked, lifting the cup to his nose and sniffing. There was definitely a tangy scent, but it didn’t bother him.

* Sprig!

* Draw that pig sticker ye call a sword!

* I needs t’ check sumthin.

Finally, Arin found a bone-handled blade in one of the cupboards and brandished it with long-practised ease. He cut the dried sausages into slices and, from a different cupboard, produced a clay pot covered with a thin layer of pressed leaves. Inside there was a yellow paste that he set next to the wine and food.

“Eat. Don’t be shy,” he said. “Mother would have my hide if I brought a guest here and didn’t feed them properly.”

“Your—” Vergil stopped himself before getting his entire foot in his mouth. He’d been about to ask if Arin’s mother was still alive, but what sort of a question was that to ask of a man? Instead, he picked up a slice of sausage, dipped it into the paste, and ate it.

It was delicious! But it burned his mouth as if he’d swallowed a coal from the stove. His eyes watered and his clothes all suddenly felt drenched. He looked around and Arin handed him the cup of wine. Vergil drank without tasting or breathing, devouring the chill to quench the flames in his mouth.

“Should have mentioned—our elkana radish can be intense if you’ve never had it before.”

Vergil poured himself a second cup of wine and drank half of it before slowing. Once the initial burn wore away, the aftertaste was quite nice—but that first shock!

“Intense,” he gasped. “Where do you even grow food here?”

“Out in the Cauldron. Where else?”

Vergil stopped with another piece of sausage halfway to his mouth. “In the… Cauldron? Out there? Where the daemons roam?”

“Oh, aye. Where did you think we’d get food from?” Arin chuckled as he dipped a slice of sausage into the paste and lifted it, almost doubled in size. “We have farms out there. Livestock and fields. We can’t survive on mushrooms alone, you know?”

Vergil’s stomach growled so loudly that his cheeks flushed.

“S-sorry,” he stammered, pressing a hand to his abdomen. “Been craving mushrooms ever since I got to Valen but never found any. Sil thinks I’m insane.”

Arin gave him a lopsided grin. “Why didn’t you say so?”

He walked around the small table that stood in the middle of the tiny, cramped kitchen. Vergil was seated on a chair in the corner of the room, right beneath an overhanging shelf filled with glass and earthen jars. Arin began rummaging around above his head.

“There should still be a jar. Where did Mother put it?”

In the end he handed Vergil a glass jar—almost transparent and as big as his head. Something brown floated inside by the light of the single torch Arin had lit. On top was a cap made of more pressed leaves.

“Open it,” the soldier insisted. “You’ll probably like what’s inside.”

Mushrooms! The jar was filled with mushrooms of various sizes floating in brine, their fragrance filling the entire room. Vergil’s jaw dropped, and his mouth watered at first glance.

“May I?” he asked, barely restraining himself from digging in.

Arin gestured. “By all means. I think you’ve had enough of Miks’s cooking and deserve some actual food. Eat your fill.”

Vergil picked out one medium-sized mushroom, digging in with his fingers. It was surprisingly firm and slimy, but the smell… oh, the smell was divine. And the taste doubly so. He couldn’t help letting out a long sigh of pleasure and immediately fished out another.

“You grew food out there?” he asked, partly to stop himself from overeating. “How?”

“Daemon sieges aren’t always this bad,” Arin answered, sipping his wine. “We’ve kept farms out there for longer than I’ve been alive. We grow most of what the city eats. Up until last wither I was part of the guard details sent to maintain the farmers’ safety.” He puffed out his chest. “I never even lost so much as a hen.”

A black mood crossed his features soon after. “What happened this time… this is bad business. We all know it was betrayal, even if Commander Vilfor kept it quiet. They hit us hard when they slew the mages.” He spat on the stove and it sizzled on the hot metal. “Bloody bastards. Those were good men and women, all of them. They didn’t deserve knives in the back. Whoever planned and executed this is nothing but a pack of cowards and curs.”

Vergil swallowed another piece of sausage topped with a pickled mushroom. “But even without the mages, you guys endured.” A thought occurred to him as he washed down the cured meat with a drink of wine. “I don’t know much about this place, but it doesn’t seem to me like you guys could have taken on that thing Tallah did. When did it show up?”

Arin considered this for a moment, chewing thoughtfully. “That creature that attacked the dragon? I’ve never seen it before. But we’ve never left the portal unchecked for this long.”

“Right. Tallah said something: if daemons here get killed, they weaken. Is that it?”

Arin gave him a curious glance. “I thought that was common knowledge even outside the Cauldron,” he said, a hint of suspicion in his voice. When Vergil readied his story, the soldier dismissed it with a gesture. “The logic here is simple: every daemon on this side of the portal gives their kind an anchor. The more that pass through, the more that can pass through. Stronger. Viler. The more we kill, the weaker their hold becomes.”

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Vergil nodded. Tallah had said as much, though not as clearly.

“Those ones that make your eyes hurt,” Arin continued, gesturing with a piece of sausage, “those are bad news. They look that way because they’re tougher—their essence is strong on the other side.”

The troll had definitely been a serious challenge. So had the worms in the walls.

“I didn’t know,” Vergil said. “I’m not from a… learned place.”

He savoured more of the food, only then realising that these might be some of Arin’s last supplies. He choked. “Is this… alright? Eating this, I mean.”

“Oh, for sure. I’ve got plenty more stored away.” He gestured with his mug towards a shuttered window. “Everyone does. Even the garrison above. There’s enough water in our cisterns to last us through to next winter, and enough stores of dry food until wither. Whatever happens, the Rock can endure.” The last words were carried such fervent belief that Vergil couldn’t help but believe him.

“Hopefully—” he started, but Arin interrupted him.

“Eat. Drink. Relax. At the Rock and Anvil, we believe that we will all die tomorrow. Maybe our luck holds and we cross over into dawn. Or maybe the dragon gets an idea to see what hides behind the walls. Either way, we live now, die come nightfall. We’d all go mad otherwise.”

That was certainly one way to look at life, though it terrified Vergil to consider it sane. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised to think of Tallah in the same light. She definitely acted as though she expected to have her throat slit at any moment, so she might as well inflict maximum damage before that happened.

Something grabbed his throat when he tried to take another bite, the grip iron-hard. He choked and sputtered, nearly retching. There was nothing gripping him.

* Ignore me, aye?

* We’ll see aboot that!

“Easy, man. You don’t need to scarf it down. There’s plenty more left.” Arin pushed the rest of the sausage towards Vergil as he coughed, then cut more. “Wish I had some fresh onion with this. Or some fresh cheese, to make it a proper meal.”

Vergil wheezed as he beat a fist against his chest and forced down more of the wine. He was starting to feel a pleasant warmth spreading through his veins.

What do you want?! He nearly snarled the words out loud. Let me enjoy a moment, you miserable old wretch. Tallah should really find a way to set you in a piss pot.

* Draw yer sword, sprig.

* An’ look a’ it!

Vergil drew the blade and studied it, surprising Arin.

* Bleed on it.

He pricked the tip of his finger on the blade just as the smith had instructed. Rows of runes came alive along its length. A feeling of wrongness washed over him, but he couldn’t pinpoint the source. Was it the engraving on the sword?

“Admiring your new tool?” Arin asked between mouthfuls of the pungent paste. “I could barely keep my hands off my silver sword when I first earned it.”

“What do the runes say?” Vergil asked.

“Beats me.”

But it did not beat Argia.

* Do you wish to assign a name to this item?

The interface popped up in front of him, for once requesting Vergil’s input.

* Haw! It worked!

“What did?” Vergil asked aloud, causing Arin some confusion.

“What did what?” Arin replied.

“Never mind. Just… it’s complicated. I need to name the blade.”

“Oh? You’re going by tradition?”

“What tradition?” Vergil asked, still thinking about what the weapon should be called. Tallah had explained the futility of naming a weapon; she lost swords almost faster than Tummy could make them, so the idea of a persistent weapon was silly to her.

But it didn’t feel silly to him. And, it seemed, neither did it to Arin.

“There’s a tradition in some parts of Vas,” the soldier said. “When a warrior earns a new weapon, he must name it and spill wine over blade to seal the words inside. It signifies the blood it would shed. Some of the soldiers who rotate through here still hold to it.”

“Tallah always said it’s stupid to name a weapon.”

“I mean, it is. It’s a tool—it’ll break at some point. But naming it is harmless overall and can make for some good stories later.” Arin’s eyes twinkled. “So, what are you naming it?”

That… he had no idea. As he stared at the black blade and the nail-high runes across its surface, he couldn’t help feeling silly for considering the notion. But this was his blade. He’d been given it freely by people who thought of him as a friend and comrade, and not a child to be used.

Tallah said she relied on him, but rarely acted like it, and Sil was much the same. Still, he was set to prove to both that he was capable of much more than they believed.

He held the blade out and poured his mug of tangy wine from hilt to tip. “I name it Promise,” he said. It was a simple name and he was unsure of what exactly the weapon promised. In the back of his mind, he knew what he wanted to promise: that he wouldn’t be a burden, that he would always strive for more, that he would always do his best to protect those around him. Like Sil.

That last part… he almost laughed. Sil needed his protection like Vergil needed another hole in the head. Still, he had been given the task, and he would see it done to the best of his abilities. For himself. And for Mertle, wherever she may be.

* You have equipped a magical item: THE BLACK BLADE OF PROMISE.

* Imbued effects include:

* ENHANCED EDGE

* DAEMON BANE

* HEART SEEKER

* BLOOD TEMPERING

* REDUCED WEIGHT

* FOOL’S SILVER COATING

* Warning! This object is unbound.

* Would you like a permanent marker attached to it?

This was certainly something new for Argia. He had not expected the AI to still offer any good information or support. In recent times, it had not done him much good aside from showing him the way back and forth between the tavern and the fortress.

“Fancy name,” Arin said. “Should I ask what the promise is?”

“You’d find it silly, I’m sure,” Vergil said.

“Try me.”

So he explained, and Arin nodded gravely, without a hint of irony on his face or in his eyes. “Always good to fight for something, Vergil. Whatever that may be, cling to it when it all turns dark. It may just keep you alive.”

Horvath, however, laughed behind Vergil’s eyes. His mirth was of a different sort.

* It bloody worked!

* Who’s contained now, ya shite ghost?

Vergil liked the idea of having a weapon he had earned and named.

Arin raised his cup and tapped it against Vergil’s. “May it serve you well and guard both you and those important to you.”

He would try to keep at least this weapon safe and sound for as long as possible. Argia was still analysing some of the effects it had listed, as all of them merely displayed question marks when he tried to get more information. Horvath seemed unreasonably proud of himself for some reason.

* I ken tell it what t’ do.

* Shite ghost!

* Nobody keeps The Hammer contained!

* I told it t’ look t’ yer sword. It obeyed!

Vergil preferred not to dwell on what that meant. Horvath had shown more strength than ever before earlier, but Argia had said nothing about any breach in how it contained the dwarf. Well, he would pay attention if anything felt off.

Arin was staring at him. Vergil realised he had been staring at his blade. He sheathed it and took another bite of food.

“Never had a weapon of my own,” he said honestly. “It feels good to be an owner, I think.”

“You never forget your first blade, that’s what I think.” Arin took out a wooden plate and piled some sausage on it, along with a large mug of wine. “I’ll take this to the lady healer. She must be hungry too.”

While the soldier disappeared into the workshop, where Sil was doing whatever it was she needed to do, Vergil leaned back in the chair and pressed the back of his neck against the cool wall.

“We will all die tomorrow,” he said softly, rolling the words over in his mind.

Tallah would soon be gone out into the Cauldron. Wall repairs were not yet finished. Monsters still scratched at the gates.

Every loss was another blow down here, even if nobody showed it. They sang. They rebuilt feverishly. They ate proper meals as if these would be their last. They prepared for another night of horror knowing they might all die before the sun rose.

Was there more he could do?

Even with Horvath’s strength and a magic sword, he could only ever kill a drop in the ocean of horror churning outside the walls. Even the wine couldn’t take away that reality.

“We will all die tomorrow,” he repeated. Then he drank more of the wine, dipped some food in the burning paste, and ate that, too. He finished it all off with a salty, slightly gelatinous yellow mushroom.

It he died come nightfall, then he would die with proper food in his belly, wine in his veins, and a proper friend at his side.

‘Sprig,’ a thick voice whispered right in his ear. ‘I wouldn’t fuss yerself aboot deein’ alone. Ye’ll ne’er be alone again. Not anymore.’

Vergil felt his chin gripped by some invisible force, his head wrenched downward. He sensed a cold presence there, pinning him in place. ‘Sprig, if ye die on the morrow,’ Horvath said, as clear as the sound of coals cracking in the stove, ‘it means ye don’t die today. Ye understand?’