Still feeling restless, Harald decided to eschew his customary morning run and simply head out into the city. He could lose himself in intense training, but instead he wanted to think things through. He dressed in warm woolens with a heavy all-weather cloak, and set out into the dreary morning, a thick fog lying heavy over the cobblestoned streets. Carriages would appear out of the murk to loom massive and dark and then rumble away, disappearing just as quickly. People hurried by, chins tucked into their chests, intent on their destinations.

Flutic appeared blind, its noises muted, its activity hidden.

It matched Harald’s mood.

Why was it worth embroiling his friends in his troubles? Because they helped balance out his own increasingly murderous instincts. Which meant that ultimately he needed to fight his own inclinations and desires. He needed to find his own balance and understanding with what the Seed was doing to him.

And ironically, his Ego of 23 was of little help here. His instincts urged him to train harder, delve more deeply, and to push his body past its limits. Instincts that his Ego enabled.

Even now, wandering the streets of the Angelus Quarter, he felt that tug. That desire to head toward the dungeon. Each moment spent walking along manor-lined avenues and quaint streets was a moment wasted. Each second that he wasn’t swinging a sword, wasn’t testing his body, wasn’t slaying monsters, was a second he’d never recover.

Which was madness.

He couldn’t live this way.

Or worse, he could. All it would take was succumbing to temptation. To give into that desire for power, new levels, new Abilities, Artifacts, Servitors, all of it.

And Vorakhar, blast his eyes, had placed him in the perfect bind to ensure he’d little choice in the matter. To hold back would ensure his death at Thracos’ hand. Yeoric had already seemed a tall order, but a fellow Demon Seed with none of Harald’s compunctions and hesitation?

Death awaited him within a month or two, unless he stripped himself of his humanity and became all that Vorakhar desired: the perfect killing machine.

But cursed stubbornness kept him walking. He wouldn’t just throw himself into an endless maelstrom of murder. He had to figure himself out. He had to divine a means to ride the wave of destruction without losing all that made him Harald.

Which is why he made his way to the Hammerfell Estate, and there stopped before the massive gates.

If anyone could speak to him about the search for power, then it was a lady who had already scaled the highest peaks.

Lady Hammerfell.

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected of her home. Something as massive as she was, perhaps, four or five stories tall, intimidating yet graceful, with a palatial estate surrounding it.

Instead, it was only two stories tall, made of graceful gray stone embellished with elven-styled flourishes, with great windows whose single panes of glass defied credibility. It was large, yes, but nothing exaggerated; it was only with careful scrutiny that he realized that the whole edifice was a single story, the windows and doors easily ten to twelve feet in height.

There were no guards at the wrought iron gate, but rather a single page stationed within the perfunctory gate house who emerged when he noticed Harald lingering and approached, his manner somewhere between dismissive and exasperated.

“Hello,” said Harald through the bars. “Lady Hammerfell invited me to tea, though she didn’t specify the time. I’m Harald Darrowdelve.”

“Oh!” Harald had never seen a person do an actual double-take before, and the man’s entire demeanor shifted to professional inscrutability. “Welcome, Sir Darrowdelve. We weren’t expecting you today, though Lady Hammerfell left word that you be shown in should you stop by. You are… on foot, yes, obviously. Please, do come in.”

And Harald entered through a side door.

“Please excuse my truculent demeanor before,” continued the page, his smile apologetic. “The estate tends to attract all manner of oglers who wish to catch sight of Lady Hammerfell in the flesh. It grows quite tiresome. If you’ll accompany me?”

Harald nodded, and followed a few steps behind the man, down the carriageway and up to the house itself.

“Beautiful design,” he noted as they drew close. “Elven architects?”

“Thank you,” beamed the page, as if he took the compliment personally. “Lady Hammerfell took over the estate only six years ago, but yes, two of those years were spent upgrading it to her requirements. Elven and dwarven laborers were employed. Lady Hammerfell’s needs are singular, after all.”

They stepped up to the double front doors, which were, predictably, massive. They rose to twelve feet in height, and the wood was lustrous and rich, like fired honey under iron bands.

Flowers were everywhere, pouring forth from great stone vases on the landing, flanking the steps, and laid out in squares across the garden, so that endless paths wound their way between the blooms.

The page opened the doors, spoke quietly with another lady in House Drakenhart gray and crimson, and then showed Harald within.

The building was a wonder. The entrance hall ceiling was a good twenty-five feet high, coffer vaulted and pierced by skylights. The large windows allowed light to stream within, so that Harald felt himself within a solar, and everything was built to Lady Hammerfell’s scale, from the chairs set against the wall to a huge suit of armor upon an armature to a full-length portrait of her on another wall.

“Please, let me show you to the parlor while we notify our lady.” The page lead Harald into the first room on the right. Harald followed, anticipating everything being at such a scale that he’d feel child-like in comparison.

Instead, there were obvious pieces of furniture designed for Lady Hammerfell, and then regular sized pieces for everyone else. A monstrous armchair was set before a hearth large enough to roast oxen inside, through three smaller chairs were set close by. A chaise before one of the windows looked massive enough for four people to sleep on, while a writing desk was equally huge; but the shelving on the walls, the rugs, the other sideboards and tables, all were regularly sized.

Lady Hammerfell entered the parlor not long after, her frame filling the doorway, her smile radiant. She wore work leathers, tan leggings, and knee-high black boots, and was removing her gloves as she entered the room.

“Harald. You’ve come to visit. I’m glad, though you caught me working in the stables. Please, have a seat.”

Harald sat back down. “The stables?”

“I have a passion for horses.” She dropped her huge gloves on a table and sat in her large chair, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other. “It’s my greatest regret, not being able to ride any more. For a while there, before I quite reached this size, I would still try with plow horses and the like, but it was never the same. Still. I keep a small number of them as companions. It brings me joy to muck out their stalls, curry their hides, and do all the things I used to as a girl.”

“Well, my apologies for interrupting you. I should have sent notice.”

Lady Hammerfell grinned. “Were I a true lady, perhaps. But it’s refreshing, your dropping by like this. Everything has grown so… stilted and formal, since I rose to power. Combined with my size, I’ve found that everyone’s always terribly nervous around me. Sometimes they even have difficulty treating me like a person at all. So please. No apologies.”

Harald smiled. “Well then, apology retracted.”

“Good. Trobins?” She raised her hand. “Tea, and everything that goes with it. I’m famished.”

“Yes, my lady,” said a servant by the door, and disappeared.

“I am beset by a perpetual hunger.” Lady Hammerfell leaned back in her chair, her smile turning self-deprecating. “No-one told me becoming a machine of war would turn my stomach into a furnace. Don’t be alarmed at the spread I’ve summoned.”

Harald laughed. “Not at all. I’m starting to ease into that territory myself. Preparing food and then eating it is starting to seriously detract from my training time.”

“Is that so? What’s your Strength now, if I may ask?”

“Without Abilities or Artifacts? 11.”

“And at its highest?”

“15.”

“Not bad, Master Darrowdelve, not bad. Keep this up and you’ll soon be in need of a kitchen staff of your own.”

“May I ask yours?”

“That’s only fair. My base Strength is 21. If I really want to, however, I can raise it to about 29.”

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“29?” Harald tried not to gape. “That’s… incredible.”

“Quite.” She smiled. “I can remember my own disbelief the first time I picked up a carriage. And chagrin when it broke apart. Turns out carriages weren’t meant to be lifted.”

“I know my Strength’s still quite low—it’s nothing compared to yours—but at what point would I start to change like you did?”

“Well, it’s a choice. The upper natural range is around base 14. Beyond that, your body has to deal with unnatural stimulus. Though there are exercises that let you control your body’s response, so that you grow stronger without getting bigger. But that slows your growth, so most can’t get past a base of 16 or 17 if they wish to retain their original size.”

“So Lady Yseult-Khan…?”

Lady Hammerfell laughed. “Yes. She’s been Gold for, what, a decade now? I’d wager she’s around base 17 or so. However. If you want to really embrace Strength as a primary attribute, and grow as quickly as I’ve done, you won’t bother with the exercises. Or use them just enough to shape your appearance as you grow so you don’t become a complete ogre.”

“I see.”

Lady Hammerfell smiled. “I assume there’s a reason Lady Yseult came to mind.”

Harald stared down at his hands. “House Celestis has been, ah, quite insistent.”

“Shocking,” said Lady Hammerfell, her tone droll. “But there are benefits to joining a major House, such as being taught those Strength-shaping exercises. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

“Subtle,” smiled Harald.

Servants bustled into the room, and dozens of large platters were set before them, each covered with delicacies and richly cooked food. There was tea, yes, but also honeyed chicken, piles of vegetable rice, scrambled eggs, and thick cuts of grilled meat laid out before them.

Lady Hammerfell accepted a laden plate from a servant, her manner remaining amused and speculative as she watched Harald, who declined an offer to be served and instead did the honors himself, choosing enough for a midday meal.

“You have no idea how many high society ladies I’ve scandalized with this spread. For a while I tried restraining myself to biscuits and small cakes, but that was agony. So I reasoned: if they’re coming to visit me, then I should just host them as I see fit. And if they choose not to return? Usually that’s for the best.”

Harald grinned. “I’m already a strong admirer of your hosting style.”

“Good.” For all that her plate was piled with food, she ate slowly, delicately, with small bites and an unhurried approach.

Harald took the opportunity to ask about her background. Her manner was unguarded, and she revealed that she had been raised in a knight’s household, much like himself, but one with a long martial tradition. Her father had encouraged her interest in military training, and she’d spent most of her youth at the Academy during the school year or traveling with regiments to one military engagement after another during the summers. She’d been banned from actual dungeon raiding till she turned eighteen, but such was her aptitude and hunger for advancement that her rise thereafter had been meteoric, and House Drakenhart had snapped her up almost immediately.

Somehow, she made copious amounts of food disappear without appearing ravenous, and accepted a second plate from a servant with the same gracious manner as she had the first.

“So you underwent the same recruitment drive I’m experiencing right now?”

“Indeed. Though I was much more open to the prospect than you seem to be. I wanted the resources, the wealth, and most importantly the experienced support that I’d need to drive as deeply into the dungeon as I’ve done.” Lady Hammerfell nibbled on a piece of brocolli. “But those inducements don’t seem to hold much allure for you. If I may, Harald. You seem troubled. There anything you’d like to share?”

Harald stared down at this plate. “I’ll confess that I came here seeking guidance, my lady. I saw how you handled the Shuddering with the terror birds and was… awed.” He looked up. “You have the kind of power I want, you’ve already achieved what I’m setting out to accomplish. But I’m finding the process of acquiring that power… difficult to manage.”

“Hmm,” said Lady Hammerfell. “In what way?”

“I… I have within me a drive to accomplish, to… conquer dungeon levels, to train, that seems… frightening to my friends and companions. That frightens me, even. It’s all I think about. I’ve even taken to raiding the dungeon by myself at night.”

He’d expected her censure, but she simply nodded, as if this revelation wasn’t shocking in the slightest.

House Drakenhart was no doubt keeping an eye on his activities as well.

“And I’ve found myself… I don’t know, glorying in my Abilities. Enjoying killing monsters with my Artifacts and hunting with my Servitor—”

“That black hound that fought beside you during the Shuddering?” Her interjection was smooth. “I meant to ask. An inheritance from your father?”

“No.” He hesitated again. How much was safe to share with her? Her warmth was so disarming. But best he keep some cards close to his chest. “But using them, I sometimes find myself growing strange even to myself. Did you experience something similar? That… blood lust? That eagerness for violence, to conquer?”

Lady Hammerfell laughed. “But of course, Harald! You can’t achieve greatness without it.”

“Oh.” Again she surprised him. “And… how did you not lose yourself to that drive?”

“Now that’s the real question.” She handed her empty plate to a servant and gestured for the table to be cleared. “In order to achieve the highest levels, to unlock the greatest Abilities, and to Ascend to your fourth of fifth Throne, you need to be obsessed. You simply can’t accomplish these things without sacrificing just about everything else. Hobbies, friendships, romances, scholarly pursuits, riding horses… they all detract from your success. Every legendary raider was a monomaniac. They put advancement above all else and made terrible sacrifices to achieve their greatness.”

“I see.”

“But that doesn’t mean we need to turn into monsters,” continued Lady Hammerfell gently. “I don’t fancy myself a murderous beast, despite my appetites. Though of course, there are those who become murderous monsters little better than the foes we battle in the dungeon. Don’t groan, but joining a House is one of the easiest and best ways to avoid that fate. Surrounding yourself with elite peers who have walked the exact same path, who can share their experiences, call you out when you’re going too far, and teach you how to keep yourself in check is critical to the long-term success of obsessive raiders like you and me.”

“Right,” said Harald, bobbing his head. “Of course.”

Lady Hammerfell considered. “That being said, there are a few things I can share that might help. For one, don’t expect to be understood. The truly driven frighten the casuals. They just can’t understand what it’s like to be driven by such a primal need to succeed. How it can eclipse everything else and consume our thoughts minds. They’re… normal. They think life should include social outings, that friendships and romantic relationships are worth the time they require to blossom. They enjoy, I don’t know, walking through the pretty parts of the city for its own sake. Sleeping in, spending their nights drinking with boon companions who enrich their lives.” Lady Hammerfell’s smile was pitying, poignant. “They cannot, and will not understand why you don’t wish to participate in those activities. Why instead you dedicate yourself whole heartedly to the pursuit of excellence.”

“Right,” said Harald again, and inhaled deeply.

“I’ve found that those of us who have this drive, this… unreasonable need to succeed, we must accept this hunger as a fact. It’s always there. So where does that leave us?”

Harald raised both brows. He’d moved to the edge of his seat, he realized. Nothing had ever seemed so important as whatever she was going to say next.

“All that remains to us mad fools is how we choose to harness that drive. Think of it as a fire. Without control, it’ll consumes us. But tempered, managed, and disciplined, it can be put to all manner of excellent uses.”

Harald leaned forward. “But how do you temper something that feels all-consuming?”

Lady Hammerfell accepted a massive cup of tea and raised it to her lips. “That process is unique to each of us. Some cling to spirituality and their Seraphic faith. Others to iron discipline and inflexible rigidity with controlled bouts of emotional release and physical excess. I’ve heard of some who divide themselves into two beings, becoming one in the dungeon, and another in Flutic, and feeling no responsibility or guilt for what their other self does while raiding.”

Harald nodded slowly.

“I can see your disappointment, Harald.” Her smile was kind. “You were hoping for a simple solution. But for people like us, for whom the dungeon is a perpetual altar on which we must sacrifice ourselves, there’s no short cut, no neat answer. You’ve just got to wrestle with that engine of destruction, to harness its power while keeping it under control. Because if you fail, you’ll become a beast, and those are always short-lived.”

Harald nodded soberly.

“There is in each of us an unreasoning appetite for destruction,” said Lady Hammerfell gently. “We can’t become what we desire without it. You’ve got to become friends with that monstrous side of yourself. You must tame it. Bring it to heel, and teach it that you are the master. Only you can discover what that takes, what will work for yourself.”

“How did you do it?”

“Humility, strangely enough.” Lady Hammerfell’s smile was complex, part sympathetic, part wry. “I reached a point in my advancement where I had become a stranger to myself. My passions had overtaken me. If I wasn’t killing or fornicating or engaging in some kind of excess, I felt… dead.” Her smile became sad. “So, with the assistance of House Drakenhart, I admitted that I was powerless over my craving for power. Once I ceased to pretend I was in control, I was able to entrust myself to the Fallen Angel. That only she could restore me to sanity.”

“To the Fallen Angel?” Harald shifted to the edge of his seat. “But she’s… dead?”

“She’s so much more than we can hope to understand, Harald. I’ve spoken with her. Entrusted myself to her care, and know in the depths of my soul that she watches over me when I’m in the dungeon. I’ve seen… things… in the dungeon that I can’t explain but for her intervention, her guidance, her love. She’s aware of me when I descend into her depths, and I slay only by means of her grace.”

Harald tried to parse this. From anyone else this would have sounded trite, but from Lady Hammerfell…

“My problem, you see, was that I was trying to control the uncontrollable. I couldn’t control my lust for power. It was only by relinquishing that control to the Fallen Angel that I found peace.” Lady Hammerfell set her empty cup down on the table. “I know this must all sound very vague, but in time you’ll witness things in the dungeon that you just can’t explain. Living mysteries, miracles, celestial portents and signs. The open mind will understand these omens for what they are, the Fallen Angel communicating with us. You’ll know of what I speak when it happens to you.”

Harald thought of that angelic woman he’d seen on the 4th Level. Her stern, fierce stare, her beauty and twin swords. Almost he mentioned her, but again his instinct toward privacy bid him hold his tongue.

Lady Hammerfell rested her chin on the base of her palm, canting her head to one side as she studied him. “There’s more wonder and horror in the dungeon than you can possibly imagine. That’s its true blessing, and ultimately, the real reason to continue delving. You know that you have an open invitation to meet with Sir Gavriel Draken, don’t you?”

“I do?” Harald sat up. “I didn’t assume as much.”

“We’re obviously interested in recruiting you. But I won’t press it. Unlike other Houses, that’s not our style. Know that if you join House Drakenhart, however, I’ll be glad to speak at length about this with you. To mentor you as I was mentored.”

“Thank you.” Harald stood and bowed. “That would be an immense honor.”

“Not as much as you think. But I can tell you’re not ready to commit. That’s fine, I understand. But a word of warning?”

Harald nodded, stomach growing tight.

“Be wary. There are indeed others in this city who aren’t nearly as patient or understanding as Sir Draken.” Hammerfell’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “I’ve heard… rumors, shall we say, that dangerous factions are growing decidedly impatient. Whether you like it or not, you’ll soon have to make a decision, lest it be made for you.”

Harald stared at her. ‘Factions’? He curbed the instinct to ask for details. This was as bald a warning as she could give. Did she mean Thornvale? Silvershield? Celestara?

His heart was pounding. Hearing that warning daily from Vic and Nessa had come to feel almost commonplace. From Lady Hammerfell? His situation suddenly felt dire.

Lady Hammerfell rose to tower over him. “Thank you for coming to visit, Harald. I hope our conversation has been of some use to you.”

“More than I think you know.” Harald felt a pang of remorse that the audience was so clearly over. “My thanks, my lady.”

“You’re most welcome. Come. I’ll walk you out.”

And together they left the parlor.