Vorakhar dominated the warren, his form somehow more real than everyone else in it, as if he were made of more compelling flesh, the light forming a purple nimbus around him.

Harald, mouth dry, felt as if he were suddenly wading in honey. The demon’s burning gaze had him frozen in place, its presence so commanding, its features so strong and haughty, that it felt as if they were all reduced to children in its presence.

Nessa tore herself free of its influence and raised her shining blade.

Her intent tore Harald free of his paralysis. “Nessa, no!”

Vorakhar’s burning gaze flicked across to the Bladeweaver, his eyes narrowing but a fraction, and then he gestured and a spike of purple energy impaled Nessa through the chest, passing through her to hit the ground and there remain. It was a metaphysical wound; no blood, no torn flesh, but Nessa’s whole body went rigid, her sword dropping from her hands, her eyes bulging as veins stood out across her face, her skin darkening.

“Let her be!” barked Harald, taking three rapid steps forward. “Stop it!”

She isn’t harmed. Not physically. Vorakhar considered the impaled woman, utterly indifferent to her agony. But what an interesting specimen. Veins of rot stretch through her spirit. With but just a little manipulation she could become a worthy tool…

“Harald?” Vic’s voice was low and serious. “You know this thing?”

It was awful. Every second that passed was one in which Nessa writhed. Harald had to end this. “Fine! I’ll decline the class. Just let her go.”

You care for her? Vorakhar drifted over to where Nessa stood bent back like a drawn bow, pierced still by that burning purple light. She cares not for you. Not in that mating, rutting way that you humans so crave. His burning gaze flicked over to Harald. I could change that. Do you desire her adoration?

“No.” Harald fought for calm, to keep his tone under control. “Please. Just let her go.”

“We need to leave,” said Vic, still backing toward the door. “This is so far beyond us we cannot… our only hope is to flee.”

“I’m with you,” said Sam, stepping up alongside Harald, and that simple act of bravery warmed his heart more than anything he could have imagined.

“Look. I’m doing it now.” Harald summoned the class offer and declined. The message faded away slowly, as if reflecting the Fallen Angel’s regret over his choice. “Now. Please. Let Nessa go.”

Very well. Vorakhar gestured once more, and the purple spike disappeared, causing Nessa to crash down to her knees and there draw huge lungful’s of air, her head bowed, her expression dazed. Then let us depart for more welcoming climes. Come, Harald. Prove your worth.

And the demon gestured again, a more complex, intricate weaving of his gloved fingers. A portal opened beside it, an oval of black swirling energy shot through with flashes of purple fire.

A genuine, free-standing portal.

“All right.” Harald sheathed his longsword, missing his scabbard the first two times before guiding his blade in with his free hand. “Sam, Vic, take care of Nessa.”

“What are you bloody doing?” hissed Vic. “You can’t go with that thing. It’s a fucking demon, Harald.”

Sam seized Harald’s arm. Her terror was right beneath the skin, causing her to hyperventilate as she stared at the demon just beyond, her eyes wide, her pupils so dilated that her blue irises were slender circles around the black. “I’ll come with you.”

“No, Sam.” He pried her fingers loose. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Another fascinating soul, said Vorakhar, canting his horned head to one side as he stared at Sam. A… Majordomo? Ah, but that is rich. Yet I sense great potential within her. The strength is brittle, but the passion runs deep, and she has a remarkable tolerance for pain. Bring her, Harald. She shall be your squire.

“I’ll come,” said Sam, raising her chin, knuckles white around the hilt of her sword.

Then enter, said Vorakhar. Now.

“Sam, no!” Harald went to snatch at her, but she twisted away, lithe and determined, and glancing back at him strode toward the portal.

“You’re both mad!” Vic’s panic was rising into anger. “What the hell is going on?!”

“Sam!” Harald dashed after her. But she skipped ahead, and to his horror glanced only once at the demon before stepping into the portal. “No!” He glared at Vorakhar, his horror daring him to hold the demon’s stare. “Leave her out of this!”

She makes her own decisions. Best hurry. She’s alone on the 47th Level.

The 47th Level? Harald’s mind reeled. That was accessible only through the Silver Gate.

Horrified, Harald rushed to the portal. His shoulders were rising and falling, his horror and fury twining together. Nessa was just now recovering, raising her face, expression confused and wounded. Vic had backed all the way to the door.

“Damn it,” he hissed, and leaped into the portal.

Harald felt a wrenching sense of dislocation; it felt as if he were abruptly plummeting in every direction, his gorge rising, a scream tore itself free from his throat and then all slammed back into place.

He stumbled then dropped to one knee as he fought the urge to vomit.

Much better, said Vorakhar, appearing beside him. Relax, Harald. First we shall converse, and then you shall earn your class.

Harald raised his gaze to take in the level. It was as different from the 4th as could be. Gone were the tunnels, the ceiling, the sense of being underground. Instead, the three of them now stood in an overgrown clearing in the midst of white marble ruins that stretched away in every direction. Broken arches, free standing fluted columns, ragged walls, the remains of statues upon plinths. Over it all grew vibrant green ivy, with willow trees rising here and there, their hanging branches gently stirring in the breeze.

Overhead stretched a pale blue sky, but one without depth, without clouds or details. It could have been painted on the inside of a distant hemisphere for all Harald could tell, and its artificiality somehow made the endless ruins feel all the more disconcerting for it.

Sam was turning in a slow circle, deep in the Plow Stance, blade raised before her as she tried to glance in every direction at once.

Relax, my dear. Nothing on this floor shall bother us while I am here. Vorakhar sat back, a throne of black metal appearing just in time to prevent him from falling to the floor. His coat spread over the throne, revealing its rich inner purple lining, while a side table complete with a ruby decanter and three glasses at hand. He leaned back, at ease, and crossed one leg over the other. Your name, girl.

Sam glanced at Harald, but he had no guidance to give her. “Samantha Tuppins. You’re Vorakhar. The demon Darius Darrowdelve said he slew.”

Did he now? Vorakhar grinned. How quaint. I can see deep bonds between the pair of you. Childhood friends?

“I was oathbound to the Darrowdelves,” said Sam defiantly. “Harald freed me a couple of weeks ago.”

Did he now. Harald is indeed much changed. How have you fared since last we spoke?

Harald was slowly regaining his self-possession. Other than clouds of black butterflies that drifted along with the breeze, the floor thus far seemed unpopulated, and it was clear that Vorakhar wasn’t intent on killing them just yet.

“I’ve been working hard.” And suddenly a dozen questions were pushing to the fore. But only one truly mattered. “What did you do to me?”

Do, Harald? I liberated you. I flensed the dead weight from your soul. The fat from the muscle.

Panic, fear, and an overriding need to know demanded he continue to ask. “But… I’m able to focus now, do things I never could… my… all my tolerance for weakness… am I…?”

Are you yourself? Or have I made you my own creature, twisted your mind and soul to my own design, so that you merely think you are Harald Darrowdelve, but are, in fact, an eidolon of my creation?

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“Yes,” croaked Harald.

Vorakhar smiled again, and the giant ruby stopper atop the bottle floated free. The decanter lifted up of its own accord, and poured an inky-black drink into each of the three glasses. Let me set your spirit at ease, Harald. You are your best self. If everything in your life had gone optimally, if ever encounter, every word, every experience had reinforced your greatness instead of crushing it, this is whom you would have naturally been. I simply reached into your soul and pulled forth that lost potential. Not everyone has it. Few do. But in you hid a golden richness that few are fortunate to possess, a rare combination of idealism, desire, ambition, hunger, and strength. A richness that was lost when I found you, dying on the 1st Level. A richness that I have restored.

Harald wanted so desperately to believe him. To accept that as truth and worry no more. But.

“Why? Why did you do this to me?”

Oh Harald. Your ignorance is stupefying, and I did not bring you here to elucidate my ways and ambitions. Suffice to say that there is a celestial war taking place in the depths of this dungeon, and we can both profit from your growing strong. Hew to your ambition. Be true to your nature. Grow strong, Harald. Accept no limitations. Walk the path you have set out on. But in order to succeed, you shall need worthy companions.

And here he turned to consider Samantha. And this delicious morsel could prove up to the task. Tell me, Ms. Tuppins. Do you desire greatness?

Sam didn’t hesitate. “I do.”

At first glance you have an admirable psychological composition. But you are crippled by an artificial sense of obligation and a fundamental lack of self-worth. In your heart of hearts, you believe yourself unworthy of the greatness you seek. You’ve convinced yourself that martyrdom is noble, that -

“Stop,” said Sam.

- you are fundamentally damaged, and thus can never be worthy of true respect, true admiration. Your life as an oathbound has made you akin to a mare, a noble beast, whose strength and purpose can best be marshalled to drive others forward.

Sam’s face had gone pale, her eyes wide. She raised her blade again, the muscles of her forearms snarling in to relief from how tightly she gripped her blade.

Vorakhar sounded pitying. You could be so much more, Ms. Tuppins. More than a powerful body honed to perfection, more than a blade, a tool. The very swiftness with which you threw yourself into my portal speaks to your lack of self worth. I could change that. Ask it of me, and I shall Endow you with true greatness.

Harald felt helpless, horrified. “Sam, don’t listen to him. You’re amazing. I only took his gift because I was dying. You don’t need this.”

Poor Ms. Tuppins. Now Vorakhar’s tone turned cruel. She’s worked so very hard to be useful. To make a difference in the world. But nobody takes her seriously, because they all know exactly what she is. A little maid, so brave, so foolish, destined to die just before the final act so that the true hero can confront the monster. Poor, poor Ms. Tuppins.

“You brought us here to help us find our Classes,” snapped Harald. “Not torment us.”

Vorakhar smiled. I do as I wish, Harald. If I wish to torment you for a hundred years, then I shall do so. Don’t forget with whom you treat.

“No.” Sam inhaled sharply. “No. I don’t want your gift.”

A pity. Vorakhar didn’t seem upset. But I admire your integrity, even if it stems from the very source of weakness I offer to excise. No matter. Remain as your are, oathbound in spirit even if you’re no longer so constrained. Let us turn to assisting you in acquiring a class more suitable to your ambitions. The Fallen Angel awards classes based on contextual catalysts and the severity of the threat. The deeper you are in the dungeon, the more extreme your need, and the rarer the class offered. Most raiders only delve within the first twelve layers, and thus face little real danger. Here on the 47th, you shall be truly challenged.

“We can’t fight anything down here,” protested Sam. “This is Silver ranked. Only the most elite of Flutic’s raiders would even dream of delving here.”

Sad but true. How far your city has fallen. Without my aid you would be devoured by the first fiend you stumbled across in an instant. But. And here Vorakhar smiled. You are not here alone.

Sam stepped up alongside Harald. She was shivering, as if they stood in a freezing gale. “How are you going to help us?”

Harald wanted to hug her, to refute the words the demon had spoken, to lend her what strength he could. He’d never seen her this shaken, this fragile, this raw. But her gaze was locked on the demon.

Drink. Drink deep of this elixir. It shall for a spell restore your health no matter what injuries you are dealt. You shall effectively be immortal while its power courses through you, for nothing on this paltry Level can overcome its magic.

Two of the glasses floated over to them. Harald took his warily, and stared deep into the black liquid within.

It’s potency shall last for an hour, after which its potency shall decline. I encourage you to provoke the Fallen Angel into bestowing you a class before the healing process becomes too… protracted.

“Are there any other side effects?” asked Harald.

Vorakhar laughed. You fear that I poison you? I assure you, Harald, I have no need. All I desire is your greatness. Drink, and be glad. The forgotten ranks of the Fallen Angel’s greatest classes shall be opened to you. If you can but provoke her interest.

Sam raised the glass and drank convulsively, draining it to the very last drop.

Harald grimaced, but there was no real choice in the matter, so he did the same. To his surprise the drink had almost no flavor, just a gentle, smoky, almost fruity sweetness that didn’t linger on the tongue.

But he immediately felt a energized, as if he’d just emerged from an icy bath.

Now venture forth, children. Court death eagerly while it is banished from your door. Don’t hesitate to decline what the Angel offers. Your predicament here is so outrageous that she’ll continue to make her offers for as long as you fight. Now, I shall take my leave. Do not count on my return, for other, greater matters call for my attention. If you fail to earn your class before the elixir fades, then you shall have proven a poor investment on my part, and I shall leave you here to your fate.

Vorakhar smiled, gestured, and then he, his throne, decanter and everything else disappeared.

Sam immediately hugged herself and closed her eyes.

“Hey.” Harald drew closer. If she didn’t have a live blade propped over one shoulder, he’d have embraced her. “Drive all that nonsense from your mind. He’s a demon. He’d say anything to get you to agree to his offer.”

She nodded, but kept her eyes closed.

“Hey.” Carefully, he stepped in and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “He was lying, messing with you. He’s a demon. Don’t take what he said seriously.”

Again she nodded, but then her expression crumpled and she sank into a crouch, dropping her sword and burying her face in her gloved hands.

Harald glanced around the ruined square in which they stood, then crouched next to her and wrapped his arm around her shoulders once more.

For awhile she just cried silently, wrestling with the tears, but just as abruptly she stopped and set to wiping her face dry. “I’m sorry,” she said, voice hoarse with emotion. “I’m sorry. This isn’t the time. I’m being stupid.”

Harald kept a wary eye on their environs. “No, you’re not. You were just assaulted. This isn’t stupid.”

“It is stupid. I chose to come here because I’m your friend.” She took up her sword and stood. “I’m good. I promise.”

She wasn’t. But what could Harald do? He stood and turned again to consider where they stood. A low wall encircled them in the near distance, with a huge willow tree in the corner. Underfoot ancient flagstones buckled and were lost under a thin layer of dirt and long grass.

They could effectively go in any direction. A shattered archway led one way, gaps in the wall in another. Nothing was so effective a barrier as to prevent them from going where they wished. Not that he could see far; the ruins in aggregate blocked his line of sight, along with the random trees or heavy blankets of vines.

“The 47th Level.” He propped his blade against his shoulder like Nessa normally did, both hands on the hilt, ready for the Tower Stance at a moment’s notice. “You remember anything about it?”

“Not much,” admitted Sam, wiping her leather bracer against her cheek one last time. She took a moment to gather herself, then her gaze sharpened. “The 40’s are the highest levels accessed through the Silver Gate. You can portal to either the 42nd or 46th Level, and then work your way down here. Um. The 40’s are supposed to reflect the broken dreams of the Fallen Angel, her shattered memories of the aether. The monsters found in the 40’s are thus twisted reflections of her previous state.”

“All right,” said Harald. “Well, we don’t have too much time. Let’s proceed carefully and see if we can’t pick our battles.”

“Right.” Sam sniffed and settled her shoulders, the gleaming pauldrons shifting over the chainmail sleeves. “I don’t want a berserker class. Let’s move in the way we want to be rewarded.”

Harald led the way, crossing through the knee-high grass, moving toward the archway. The very stillness was unnerving. He had to consciously keep his breathing deep and regular, to not tighten up, to not continuously twist around to try and keep everything in sight.

The 47th Level.

“You know,” he said dryly, voice pitched low. “If we kill enough fiends down here, we could really load up on Zenith Tides. Escape all our financial woes.”

To his immense relief Sam actually snorted in amusement. “You’re delusional.”

“That’s the caliber of scales we’re talking about.” He reached the archway. The white stones were rough, aged, as if they’d stood here for a millennia. Carefully, listening intently, he peered past it to what could have once been a narrow lane. The ruins of houses faced it on either side, and the flagstone remnants were more pronounced, rising to a subtle hump in the center.

Together they glanced back and forth, searching signs of movement.

Nothing.

“Let’s go,” whispered Harald, and darted to the closest building facade where he lowered into a crouch. A cloud of butterflies danced up ahead, fluttering around and around like animated daubs of black soot. Sam joined him, her armor only faintly jingling, and Harald led the way down the street, warily watching the butterflies, half expecting them to suddenly swarm in their direction and eat the meat right off their bones.

They passed several empty homes, their interiors open to the sky and overrun with saplings, weeds, and ivy.

Everything was made from the same white stone, and only now, having seen enough ruined buildings, did Harald start getting a sense of the architecture. It felt, if anything, like the drawings he’d seen of elven buildings, delicate and flowing.

“Up ahead,” whispered Sam, touching his arm gently and pointing.

The street opened into another square. Framed by the last two buildings was a statue in its center, a massive, hollowed out wreck of what might once have been a masterpiece. Made of white marble, it stood with an arm upraised, palm to the sky, as if catching rain drops or offering something to the sun.

Chunks were missing from its body, revealing its hollow center. Yet enough remained to betray its carved musculature, and its carving was so expert that even while immobile it seemed alive, ready to inhale, to move, to break into dance.

“Just a statue?” asked Harald.

“Let’s approach cautiously,” said Sam. “It looks too… special. I’d wager its a fiend.”

It must have heard their whispers, even from this distance, for suddenly its head swiveled so it stared in their direction even as a sword of living golden flame appeared in the grip of its upraised hand.

“Oh shit,” hissed Harald, bolting to his feet.

The statue began striding toward them, faster and faster, blade held out and behind it.

“What do we do?” cried Sam, falling into the Plow.

“We fight it,” said Harald, staring wide eyed at the approaching fiend. It had to be three yards tall, and was already almost upon them. “We fight!”