Harald told Pastoric everything.

It was surprisingly easy.

The priest was endlessly patient and curious, and his expressions were mobile and encouraging. Beyond that, his concern seemed genuine. Harald believed the man when he proved easy to shock and took bitter satisfaction in revealing his darkest secrets at long last.

Pastoric listened with fierce focus, his brows lowered, and asked probing questions here and there to elucidate points that Harald had forgotten to mention or not thought important. But all too soon the tale came to an end. Harald sat back, feeling spent, and waited for the priest’s judgment.

“Well.” Pastoric pinched the bridge of his nose, screwed his eyes shut, and scowled, only to drop his hand and smile tersely at Harald. “That’s quite the tale. First and foremost, you have my commiseration. That is an awful legacy you’ve inherited.”

“Thanks,” said Harald dryly.

“Let me explain briefly the thrust of my own studies so that you know from whence I speak. Before this…” Pastoric looked around the room and waved a hand, “became my home, I lived in the Tertiary Angelus Cathedral, which is the church’s bastion of knowledge and learning. Scrolls, books, and records have been collected there for over four centuries, and most have dealt with the Fallen Angel, her mysteries, her many dungeon levels, and far more speculative works of theology than you can imagine. We used to joke that there were as many levels under the cathedral filled with books as there are levels in the dungeon, but that was a poor joke. There are only six.”

“Uh-huh,” said Harald.

“Be that as it may, I was raised by the church. Like other orphans, I was placed in a religious schola, where my native intelligence earned the attention of the church, so that I was transferred to the cathedral for actual schooling. I have, unfortunately, always had a decadent frame of mind, and so was drawn to the study of demonology from an early age.”

“So there’s an entire… what? School of learning given to demons?”

“Oh, yes.” Pastoric sat back, his smile sad. “The Seraphic Church is well aware of the darkness that assaults the Fallen Angel and has since she fell from the Pleroma and sank deep into the vaults beneath our city.”

“What are demons?” asked Sam, leaning forward. “I’ve only ever heard of them described in flowery language when they’re mentioned at all in the sermons.”

“Official Seraphic dogma holds that they are the dark reflections of angels, but that explanation has never satisfied me. There are six primary demons that we are aware of, Vorakhar being one such, but there are only four angels remaining in the Pleroma, with a fifth being the Fallen Angel. Where is the sixth? Speculation abounds. Some say the sixth is the prime Aeon from which the other five angels sprang, others that the sixth fell to earth like the Fallen Angel, and awaits discovery, its hundred Levels teeming with monsters and wealth unlike anything we modern men can imagine today.”

“But you don’t agree,” said Harald.

“No. There are heretical texts that are disavowed by the modern church, but which once were seen as canon. These paint the demons as the kin of the angels, beings of enormous power who yearn to ascend to the Pleroma like their brothers and sisters did before.”

Harald’s eyes widened. “You’re saying Vorakhar is the same as the Fallen Angel?”

Pastoric raised his hands. “No, I’m saying that was one theory that was commonly held four centuries ago. Others say the demons are native to our physical realm, and were the former rulers of our home until the angels revealed their glory and banished them to the darkness. Others say that -”

“What do you believe?” asked Harald.

“I wish I could speak with certainty,” said Pastoric sadly. “But wise men don’t claim wisdom when they have no proof. My faith, as you can imagine, was always considered lacking by my superiors.”

Sam raised a brow. “So you’re saying you don’t know.”

“I can offer countless theories, but lack the confidence to tell you which is correct. There have been prophets, those who claim revelation from the demons themselves, those who claim to have spoken with the angelic emissaries fighting within the Fallen Angel herself -”

“Emissaries?” asked Harald, sitting forward.

“Yes. The Thrones are contested, are defended by emissaries sent by the angels in the Pleroma.”

“But they’re losing,” protested Sam. “Sam’s father’s letter said as much. Five Thrones have already fallen. How can the angels’ own fighters lose to demons if they’re so much stronger?”

“Why do you think we humans, weak and fallible as we are, can absorb the Fallen Angel’s scales?” asked Pastoric with a smile.

“Because… well, Seraphic doctrine says it was the Fallen Angel’s great sacrifice, to make her power available to us so that we can become divine in her image,” said Harald, coughing up what he’d learned as a kid.

“True. But it is only by Awakening our Cosmos by consuming scales that we gain the ability to earn a Class, which is granted by the Fallen Angel. And with that Class come martial Abilities. Why are there no Classes for farming, for carpentry, for peaceful pursuits?”

Harald frowned and glanced at Sam. He’d never questioned. This was like asking why the sky was blue. “Because that’s just the way it is. ‘Battle is the truest crucible of the soul.’”

“Quite. But if you entered the Seraphic priesthood, you would be taught a more penetrating truth: it’s because the Fallen Angel wants us to fight the demons on her behalf.”

“But how does that answer my question?” asked Sam.

“It is held by our church that the angels cannot win the celestial war because they do not wish to win the celestial war. It is held that if they so desired, they could blast the demons from existence with a snap of their fingers, but that is not the point of existence. Instead, one of their number fell to earth so that we could all be given a chance to Ascend to our highest selves. The celestial battle is misnamed. Currently it features demons fighting angels, yes, but that’s not how it should be. It should be all intelligent, mortal creatures fighting the demons. It should be us mortal creatures fighting in the most lethal levels to save the Thrones. Alas.”

“Alas?” Harald stared at the priest. “Then… why isn’t that happening?”

Pastoric’s smile was helpless. “Our mortal natures are not suited to contemplating the eternal. Greed, wickedness, the desire for power, lust - in aggregate, that is what we mortals desire. When the scales were plentiful and rising in Thrones and Classes was easy, we squandered that wealth on temporal power and fashioning objects of beauty. Now that the scales have grown rare, the church seeks to cover its mistakes, its lack of guidance, and hide the truth from the world who would no doubt turn upon it if they learned how derelict we were in our duties.”

Kársek frowned. “This story is compelling, but you continue to reference all mortals. We dwarves care not for your Fallen Angel beyond the power you humans can harvest from her and trade with us.”

“And therein lies our greatest weakness,” said Pastoric, expression still bemused. “We humans should have worked tirelessly to bind the elves, the dwarves, the goblinoids, the trolls, and all the other intelligent denizens of our world into a confederation with which to defeat the demons. But did we?”

“The goblins, too?” asked Harald. “They’re… chaotic, crazed, and used as monsters in the dungeon.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“There are human foes in the dungeon, too,” said Sam quietly. “Deeper down.”

“Well, yes. But…” Harald paused. “Fine. But how does this all help me?”

“The demons were aware of the threat that mortals could and should pose,” said Pastoric. “For a mortal can rise in power given enough talent, training, and scales, theoretically earning enough power to kill them all. So they developed a tactic of corrupting those amongst us with the greatest potential. The Demon Seed. It is a gift that seems to give its victims all they could desire, but warps them slowly, subtly, and turns them into the greatest weapons in the demon’s arsenal.”

“So you do know about Demon Seeds!” said Harald, feeling hugely relieved.

“Of course. Mostly by inference. Those who receive them rarely have sat down with a priest like me to discuss the matter. But a few have, here and there over time, enough that diligent scholars have been able to figure out this ploy and recognize what it is: the demons’ first line of defense against those who would otherwise one day threaten their existence.”

Harald blinked and turned to stare at Sam, who looked equally shocked.

“It is the worst sort of honor, to be recognized by a demon and given this gift. But history is littered with the tales of our most promising raiders and heroes who went mad with time, who turned against their companions at the peak of their power and disappeared into the dungeon. Just like your father disappeared, six years ago.”

“He went to kill Vorakhar, to get vengeance for my mother,” snapped Harald. “What are you saying?”

Pastoric just shook his head apologetically.

Sam reached out and put her hand on Harald’s arm.

“You’re saying he might still be alive? Down in the depths of the dungeon, fighting for Vorakhar?!”

“I don’t know,” said Pastoric simply. “But when it comes to our greatest heroes, those who had the greatest promise, there’s an old expression that my elders hated to hear whispered by young demonologists: never believe someone dead until you see their corpse.”

“Shit,” said Harald.

“Quite,” said Pastoric. “And now you have a Demon Seed. From what I’ve gleaned from my studies, it must have already begun to greatly accelerate your progress, but only rewards you for acts of bloody-minded violence and excess, correct?”

“Kind of.” Harald pulled himself together. “In the beginning I would get rewarded for exerting my will alone, for pushing myself beyond what I thought I could.”

“The demon changed his Soul Nature and Ability,” said Sam. “And even his Soul Rank.”

“No, the demon couldn’t have changed his Rank,” said Pastoric. “That would be the Fallen Angel recognizing what Harald had become. Nor could the demon have given something to Harald that he couldn’t have achieved in some capacity by himself. It is held and accepted that as powerful as the demons are, they cannot make something from nothing. Harald must have always had the potential for that change. The demon merely helped him realize it.”

“Merely,” grunted Kársek.

“That’s what he said,” allowed Harald. “That he’d only helped me realize my greatest potential.”

“Which is why you were targeted to begin with,” said Pastoric. “You are one of those potential heroes that the demons fear.”

“Fuck,” said Harald, rubbing at his face.

“What do we do from here, though?” asked Sam. “Can he control it?”

“I don’t know,” said Pastoric again. “The Demon Seed is often compared to a small spark, and its bearer a field of dry paper. It smolders at first, blackens the fabric of your soul, but then eventually leaps into flame and consumes all that remains. Can paper control the flame? Probably not. Could Harald be the first to do so? Anything is possible. But answer me this, Harald: you’ve only had the Seed for two months now. Have you felt your sense of self begun to change? Acted in ways that you feel ashamed of? Done things you never thought you would?”

Harald clenched his jaw.

“Well then,” said Pastoric. “Then I suppose it’s just a matter of time until Vorakhar has a new weapon with which to fight his siblings.”

“No,” snarled Harald. “I won’t let it happen. I’ve already followed my father’s advice and formed a group of friends whom I trust and respect. We’re a crew together, and Sam is a Netherwarden Knight. One of her Abilities already keeps me from succumbing to the effects of the Seed.”

“Then you’d best keep Sam close,” said Pastoric.

“Is there anything that can be done?” asked Sam. “What happened to the previous people who confessed to having a Seed?”

“In the four centuries since the Fallen Angel fell to earth, there have only been four cases of people confessing to accepting a Demon Seed. The first was executed before we had a better understanding of such matters, but that genius theologian of the second century, the Venerable Athanasius, came up with a method by which he thought the Seed could be extracted, which was offered to the second man who confessed. This man, known today as the Skull Harvester, at first agreed to undergo the procedure, then changed his mind and fought his way free of the cathedral. The third also refused and fled, so that when the fourth refused, the church was ready and apprehended him. They forced the ritual upon him, and extracted the Seed.”

“And?” demanded Harald.

“It worked.” Pastoric considered. “To a degree. The man lost access to his Cosmos, his window, and his Class. He was fed scales, but they had no effect on him.”

“So removing the Seed means losing all power?” whispered Harald.

“Removing the Seed means saving your soul,” corrected Pastoric. “Unfortunately, the process by which the Seed intertwines itself with your being so as to grant you power means that tearing it out tears out that part of you which fuels your everything else.”

“Damn,” whispered Harald. To lose his Class, his Levels, his Thrones. To never enter the dungeon again, to never feel that amazing awe and wonder, to never kill monsters, to leave the crew, to say goodbye to that entire way of life…

“It’s why all three victims refused,” said Pastoric softly. “The Seed warps its victims, whets their hunger for power, and makes it so that they’d rather die than return to that which they once were.”

“Do you know this ritual?” asked Sam.

“Of course. It is complicated, takes time, and requires specific equipment, but I can perform it. Most demonologists seek to master it out of curiosity early in their careers. So let me ask you, Harald: do you wish me to remove your Demon Seed?”

Harald tried to swallow and failed. The others were staring at him. He felt a bout of anger, at being pressured and cornered like this. But then he thought of the hobgoblins he had killed, the bloodlust he’d felt slaughtering the goblins, and how tricky it had proven just to get this far without allowing himself to grow corrupted.

Was power worth his soul?

Especially if it meant he’d end up fighting for Vorakhar… like his father had probably done?

Harald bowed his head and scowled, wrestling with the thought.

“It’s your soul we’re talking about here, Harald,” said Pastoric softly. “Whatever you’re arguing with yourself, ask if it’s worth damnation.”

“I want to say yes, take it away, obviously.” Harald opened his eyes. “But I can’t. I need to learn what happened to my father. I want to make a difference in the celestial war. I want to help defeat the demons. To protect Flutic. I need to…”

“I understand.” Pastoric didn’t sound surprised. “Let’s say this, then: don’t give me a definitive answer now. But know that I am here, waiting, for when you commit that first deed that makes you truly question who you are. What you’re capable of.”

“Thanks,” said Harald, feeling numb. He rose with a jerk to his feet. “Is there anything else you think I should know?”

“It only gets worse from hereon out, by all accounts.” Pastoric also rose to his feet. “The Abilities you’ll earn, what the demon demands of you, what you’ll find yourself wanting to do. Each next step is worse than the last, but you’ll find yourself justifying it by the huge strides in power you’ll be making. Try not to lose track of what that power is actually costing you.”

“Sure,” said Harald. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” said Sam, moving up alongside Harald. “You’ve given us a lot to think about.”

“But of course.” Pastoric smiled at her. “It was good seeing you again, Sam.”

“And you.” She flushed and then cleared her throat. “We’ll take our leave, then.”

They exited the Kitty Kat Club, and walked in silence through the Shambles for a while, the other two glancing at Harald on occasion but respecting his need to think. Finally Sam hailed a carriage, and directed it back to Sonora Manor.

Harald gazed out the window as they jostled along. His thoughts were a slurry of half-memories, fragments of what Pastoric had said, and images from the dungeon.

When finally they alighted before the manor, Sam caught Harald’s eye, her expression sympathetic. “Want to talk about it?”

“No.” He put his hand to his temple. “I think… I think I just need to sleep. Or train. Something.”

“We can go for a run, if it helps,” she offered.

“Sure.”

“I’ll pass,” said Kársek. “But I, too, am available to discuss the matter. I have definite opinions on it. There is a right course of action.”

“There is?” asked Harald, surprised.

“Yes. The honorable action is to remove the Seed and no longer have a life debt to that gathul.” Kársek stared hard at Harald. “It lacks dignity, in a sense, but it is for the best.”

“I… yes, of course. Thanks. Maybe a run would do me good.”

They returned Bosworth’s sharp salute, and strode up to the front door, where Rivik emerged to greet them. His manner was tense, his expression controlled, and the trio slowed on the first steps.

“Welcome back, Sir Darrowdelve.” Rivik’s tone was clipped. “You have arrived at a most fortuitous moment.”

“Is everything all right?” Harald felt a storm of emotions, convinced suddenly and absolutely that the countess had had a change of heart and was going to evict him from her employ. “The countess…?”

“Countess Sonora is home,” said Rivik. “She is entertaining a guest who has come in search of you.”

“A guest…?” Harald climbed the remaining steps and entered the hall. The doorway to the parlor stood open, revealing the countess, her manner dignified, her expression cold, seated in an armchair that faced a man in a second. She flicked her gaze toward Harald, and rose stiffly to her feet.

“I’m glad to see you up and about, Harald. And especially glad that you have chosen this moment to return.”

“My lady?”

The seated man rose and turned, his expression benign, almost amused, his eyes closed, his mossy-green cloak writhing as vines whispered about his frame.

Thracos.

“Hello, Harald. It seems we need to talk.”