Randall had been a hive of activity for the past few days. Cedric glanced out of the window from where he was seated in Randall’s usually quiet local library. The place, typically abandoned, was now anything but. From the early morning, throngs upon throngs of inquisitors had been filing in.

“Hmm… Is that the Aegis of Ferin? Aren’t those reserved for the higher-ranking inquisitors?” Giles remarked, standing beside him.

Cedric followed his gaze, spotting them too. Their white robes, familiar enough, but the armour? Now that was something special. Gleaming, Orichalcum-plated chestpieces, adorned with runes so intricate that Cedric had only ever seen their like crafted by experts in the Grey Tower. The armour shimmered faintly in the morning light.

“Looks like the cavalry’s arrived,” Cedric mused. “You reckon they’ve uncovered something?”

“Well, obviously,” Giles replied, tone dripping with sarcasm. “They’ve got the top-tier divination mages on their side. Bound to have sniffed something out. And judging by all this fuss, I’d say you were spot on. Someone’s definitely summoned a NetherBeast.”

“Oh Giles, by Thalador’s plumpest p—”

“CEDRIC!”

“Tsk. Don’t tell me you lot were still doubting me?” Cedric groaned.

“Well, the claim was so utterly outrageous. Can’t really blame us, can you?” Giles shrugged. “But hey, credit where it’s due. You were right. And I suppose you’ll be insufferable about it for the foreseeable future, won’t you?”

Oh, that he would. Cedric grinned, barely glancing up from the book in his hands. Giles, unable to resist his curiosity, sidled up to the chair Cedric was perched on and craned his neck to peer into the pages.

“Two days, and that thing hasn’t left your grip. What’s caught your eye?”

“It’s not what I’ve found, it’s what I have to find. Master’s on her way, and she’s got this infuriating knack for catching you off guard with questions. No way am I getting caught out this time.”

NetherBeasts weren’t exactly easy to research, so Cedric had been pleasantly surprised to find anything useful in the dusty old stacks of Randall’s library. His eyes flicked towards the librarian, a wiry fellow at the counter, leisurely sipping his tea. Jord, if he remembered correctly, though names had never been Cedric’s strong suit. There was something a bit... off about him. The way he’d gotten all flustered when they showed up yesterday, though he’d been perfectly polite. Perhaps a bit too polite. But Cedric shook his head. Probably overthinking it.

“Ah yes, speaking of that,” Giles muttered, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “did you really have to drag THE Nightmare into this? What were you even thinking?”

Cedric shot him a baffled look. “I didn’t ‘invite’ her. She’s the head of the Grey Tower and probably the only person who knows anything about this forbidden Parda business. And I did run it by you lot before I contacted her, remember?”

“You said you’d reach out to your teacher!”

“She is my teacher, you dolt!” Honestly, this guy.

“You could’ve asked someone else. A... I don’t know, someone less terrifying than a gold-ranked mage, maybe?”

Cedric sighed. So that was it—Giles was intimidated by her Gold Rank. Well, he couldn’t blame him. The Nightmare did have a reputation, but she was his teacher, for Thalador’s sake! “Look, I never asked her to come here. I just wanted to know if we could help somehow, if a NetherBeast was really on the loose. How was I supposed to know she’d drop everything and rush over at the mere mention?”

Giles plopped into a chair beside him with a resigned sigh. “Well, what’s done is done. Every Gold Rank I’ve ever met is a few spells short of a full tome. But since she’s coming, and since you’ve got an in, mind passing along some of what you’ve dug up? I wouldn’t… umm… mind making a decent first impression on the illustrious Nightmare, you know.”

Cedric chuckled. “Lucky for you, these three books do have a few juicy details.”

Giles leaned in, eager. Cedric began, "Right, so, first off, what I’ve found are just records of NetherBeast invasions. One of the towns near Gallowsmere, down south, was hit by a beast called The Parasite. The author also referred to it as Vermalith, though who knows where that name came from. Seems every NetherBeast is a species unto itself—so Vermalith might’ve been its type.

"Now, what’s truly unsettling is that each NetherBeast operates on this fundamental craving, which twists reality around it. The Parasite had a… hunger for human flesh. It started with one person, this thing taking over their body, and before long, entire villages were consumed. But—" Cedric paused, taking a breath, realising how much more horrifying this was to recount aloud—"But no one really died. Not properly. They became part of the beast—this grotesque, pulsing mass of sinew, tendrils, bone, and flesh. It didn’t just consume its victims, it absorbed them into itself. You’d see faces and limbs writhing beneath its semi-translucent skin. It was nightmarish. The author was amongst those hiding. He wrote about entire streets of writhing flesh and screaming faces."

Giles visibly paled. "That’s what we’re up against?"

"We… don’t know. That’s the problem. Trust me, Giles, it’s worrying. Every time a NetherBeast appears, it goes on a spree to satisfy its craving. And each one is different. Every record I’ve found describes a unique desire. And, here’s the thing: every NetherBeast that invaded is at least as powerful as a Gold-Rank mage. If they’re left unchecked, they grow even stronger. That’s why the Inquisition is moving so fast."

Giles swallowed hard. "Brilliant. Just… brilliant."

"Exactly my point. There's been no sign of any attack—no chaos, no destruction, nothing. NetherBeasts leave a trail of devastation, both physical and magical. They practically run on the stuff. For a moment, I thought maybe I was wrong, that no one had breached the Parda. And the more I read, the more I doubted myself. But the Inquisition’s reaction? It can only mean they’ve found something, some sort of evidence that a NetherBeast is actually here. Honestly, I don’t know what to think anymore."

A moment of silence fell between them, Giles gnawing nervously on his thumb. Cedric knew him too well—Giles was a coward, always had been. No matter how much he tried to hide it, Cedric could see through him. He never took the risky missions, always second-guessing himself. It was obvious to anyone with a brain cell. Well, except Beatrice, of course. She idolised Giles for some reason.

The door creaked open, and in shuffled Beatrice and Lavinia. Beatrice, the shortest in the group, was all energy, jumping at three places at once, wide eyes always darting about like she’d miss something if she blinked. Lavinia, on the other hand, was tall and built like a statue. Not just in appearance of sharp-eyed and unamused, but as practical as a warhammer too.

They’d gone out to grab something to eat while Giles and Cedric hit the library, Cedric diving into his research on NetherBeasts. But the moment Lavinia stepped through the door, her face contorted in a mix of confusion and disdain.

"Cedric... what the fuck are you wearing?" she asked, her voice dripping with incredulity.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Cedric blinked, momentarily confused. He glanced down as if only just realising what adorned his legs. “Oh, this?” He gave a dramatic swirl, the skirt flaring slightly. “It’s Beatrice’s. Thought it’d be a bit more… breezy for the morning, you know? Gets a bit stuffy in those trousers.”

Lavinia pinched the bridge of her nose. “And your grand solution was to nick Beatrice’s skirt?”

Cedric’s gaze flicked to Beatrice, who was beaming like she’d just invented the wheel. “I told him it’d suit him. Plus, the airflow is unbeatable, right, Ced?”

Cedric nodded, full of conviction. “Oh, it’s marvellous.”

Beatrice turned to Lavinia, her tone as earnest as a zealot preaching a new religion. “More men ought to try it, really.”

Cedric grinned, crossing his legs theatrically. “I’ve never felt so liberated. Honestly, it’s like a revelation.” And the breeze... oh, the glorious breeze.

Lavinia looked perilously close to throttling someone. “You lot are utterly insane.”

Giles, ever the picture of apathy, merely shrugged, barely glancing up from the book he was thumbing through. How long had he even had that? “Not the first time. I’ve learned when to surrender.”

Beatrice giggled, enjoying this far more than was reasonable. “Lavinia, you’re just sour you didn’t think of it first. Practical, stylish, and Cedric looks rather fetching, doesn’t he?”

Lavinia’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Fetching is... not the word I’d choose.”

Well, that was a new one. Cedric leaned forward, fully committing to the tease. “Oh? What word, then? Dashing? Impeccable? A sartorial vision?” He batted his eyelashes dramatically for added effect, but Lavinia’s expression remained as deadpan as a brick wall.

“Idiotic,” she replied flatly.

“Comfortable idiocy is still comfort,” Cedric said, crossing his legs with an exaggerated flourish. Didn’t matter what they thought, his thighs had never been happier.

“One of these days, I’ll find you parading around in a full ball gown, won’t I?” Lavinia muttered, more to herself than anyone.

Cedric raised an eyebrow. “Are ball gowns comfortable?”

Beatrice, chin in hand, gave it some thought. “Not really… but they do look smashing!”

Cedric winked. “Let me borrow one sometime. I’ll give it a whirl.”

Beatrice clapped her hands, practically vibrating with excitement. “Oh, Ced! I’ve got the perfect gown for you! We’ll make a whole event of it. Lavinia, you simply must join in.”

Lavinia groaned. “Please, Thalador, no.”

Giles finally looked up, sighing. “Can we focus on the looming apocalypse before we start planning Cedric’s debutante ball?”

With a shrug, Cedric snatched the book from Giles’ hands. “Right, right. NetherBeast first. Frocks later.”

He wasted no time grilling everyone on the horrors he’d uncovered. NetherBeasts, those vile things, driven by cravings that made them stronger, more dangerous. As Cedric rattled off the details, he watched their faces morph into varying shades of terror. Not that he blamed them; every story was more grotesque than the last. The main part? The so-called “survivor” who’d left the warning records during this Parasite record… well, he didn’t survive in the end. His last words were scrawled just before the beast dragged him to join its ever-growing body.

But one thing niggled at Cedric: not a single NetherBeast overstayed its welcome here. Like a pattern was there. They all vanished after a month, like there was some unseen timer ticking down. Perhaps the land itself expelled them, or maybe they were forced out when stronger warriors got involved. Anything below a gold-ranked fighter was a sitting duck, but those with enough knowledge stood a chance. Unfortunately, that wasn’t their situation. They didn’t know what the bloody hell they were up against. And this particular NetherBeast hadn’t gone mad with hunger yet, which meant one of two things: either it had retreated, or—worse—it was a new breed, quietly laying waste to the town while no one even noticed.

The thought sent a cold jolt through his veins, but Cedric forced himself to stay calm.

They ate their breakfast in silence, the quiet only broken by the occasional scrape of cutlery. The library was deserted, save for that oddball librarian, Jern—or was it Jared? Honestly, Cedric could never quite get the name right.

Time dragged on, every creak of the building making him twitch, until finally, the library door groaned open, and the bell above gave a half-hearted jingle.

A woman entered. Tall, perhaps too tall. Raven-haired, draped in a blood-red gown that screamed elegance. Cedric wasn’t one to be easily impressed, but she had that sort of presence that made you sit up straighter, as if you’d suddenly remembered how to be dignified. Her piercing blue eyes locked onto him, a knowing smile playing on her lips. She carried a cane—though Cedric knew it was no ordinary cane. A Soul Weapon. Only Gold-ranked warriors had those, and hers? A whip.

Cedric’s spoon hit the floor with an undignified clatter as he sprang to his feet, bowing so low he thought his nose might meet the dust. “This pupil greets the Master.”

Before Cedric could so much as process the words, the woman had him by the armpits, hoisting him off the ground as though he weighed no more than a feather duster. “Oh, my precious pupil,” she cooed, eyes sparkling with amusement, “what on earth are you wearing? Some sort of statement, is it?” She gave him a little shake, clearly expecting him to rattle like a loose coin. “I’ll admit, though, the leg freedom? Admirable. Bold move.”

Dangling in her iron grip, Cedric grimaced inwardly. Gold ranks, honestly. You just had to go along with whatever they were doing—he’d learned that much in Grey Tower. Especially when it came to ‘The Nightmare’ herself, Gweneth Draycotte. He managed a sheepish grin. “It’s Beatrice’s, actually. And, yeah, never realised how liberating it could be. I should buy my own!”

Gweneth chuckled, setting him down with the same unsettling gentleness she always applied, like she could snap you in half at any moment but found the whole thing too amusing to bother. “If you’re going to loot her wardrobe, at least have the sense to steal something with pockets. What’s the point otherwise?”

Of course. Pockets. The woman was obsessed. Cedric offered a weak nod. “Next time, Master. I’ll prioritise the pockets.”

“Ah, The Final Days of Gallowsmere,” came another voice behind him. Cedric whirled, eyes wide. Gweneth was already there, rifling through the pages of the book he’d been reading earlier. He spun back—another Gweneth still stood before him, smirking. Right. Gold rank magic. No incantations, no fancy matrices—just pure, terrifying instinct.

The Gweneth behind him made a soft noise as she flipped another page. “Quite the heavy read, Cedric. Although this edition’s been butchered by so many editors, the original horror—a dying man’s final words scribbled in madness—was lost in the process. A real shame. If you’d asked earlier, I could’ve bought the original manuscript for you.”

Cedric, still mildly disoriented, glanced over at her. By now, everyone around the table had the colour drained from their faces, except Beatrice, who was practically vibrating with excitement. Her eyes were wide as saucers as she turned to Master. “What kinda magic didja use?!?” she asked, her voice a little too loud, while Giles' face somehow managed to pale even more. The poor bloke needed to learn how to breathe.

Master, of course, didn’t miss a beat. “Ah, that would be a variant of Tachyonic Quantum Duplicity Conflux. A fascinating bit of temporal displacement, splits the user into parallel states, allowing each version to operate autonomously while maintaining full awareness across all iterations. Naturally, it requires a fifth-dimensional anchor to avoid the usual time-space feedback loop.” She smiled, entirely too pleased with herself.

Beatrice nodded as if she understood every word, though her furrowed brow betrayed otherwise. Meanwhile, Giles looked like he might pass out.

At the same time, another version of Master had taken a seat at the table, where the group’s breakfast remained largely untouched. Without an ounce of dignity, she leaned over and scooped up a spoonful of the grey, congealed porridge—a mix of oats and questionable ingredients that barely qualified as food—and popped it into her mouth. She chewed with a level of focus Cedric usually reserved for life-or-death decisions.

“Hmm. Porridge,” she said, her voice filled with disdain. “Thick, bland... an absolutely appalling texture.” She swallowed with visible effort. “Honestly, Cedric, I’m impressed you manage to choke this down. They say adventurers have the palate of a goat, and I’m starting to think that’s not an exaggeration.”

Beatrice spluttered, indignant. “Hey! I happen to like that porridge. It’s hearty!”

“And tragic,” Master quipped, nudging the bowl with the tip of her finger.

Before Cedric could even attempt to process the fact that there were now three versions of his Master, each going about wildly different tasks, a sharp shriek echoed from behind him.

The latest Master had drifted over to the counter, where the unfortunate librarian—Jern? Jared? Cedric still wasn’t sure—had been quietly minding his own business. But the moment she materialised in front of him, he let out a loud, panicked yelp and toppled backwards from his chair, crashing into a stack of precariously balanced books.

“Miss—Madam—Ma’am—” he stammered, stumbling over his words as well as the books. His face had gone the colour of chalk.

This version of Master gave him a slow, appraising look, her lips curling into a sly smirk. “Hah… I smell something,” she murmured, eyes narrowing. She tapped the counter lightly, raised her nose, and sniffed the air again. “My, my…”

Her hand darted under the counter with surprising precision, and when it re-emerged, she was holding a hefty tome. Every version of her across the room snapped their heads towards the librarian in perfect synchrony, eyes gleaming with predatory interest.

“No wonder it smelled like Elven dogs in here,” she said, holding the book aloft as the shadows on the walls seemed to writhe and shiver, the air around them growing suddenly cold.

All three versions of her spoke in eerie unison, voices layered in perfect harmony.

“Care to explain,” they intoned, “what this Cursed Elven Artefact is doing here?”