Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mollymauk Tealeaf had always remembered his dreams, he knew that. He still remembered his dreams, even when he wished he didn’t. His memory was fickle and hazy, cobbled together from the fragments that materialized in the fog of his mind, like rocks and plants in the murk of a lakebed. But when it came to dreams, his vision was twenty-fucking-twenty.

He dreamt of people he didn’t think he’d ever spoken to, but still remembered more clearly than he did some of the ones responsible for pulling his soul from the astral chaos. He dreamt of things he had never done, would never do, but he knew he had done. He dreamt of places he could have never been, but could also have mapped if asked. Molly couldn’t recall where the line separating him/them/him was. Space was meaningless. Time was fuzzy and useless as knotted yarn.

Sometimes it happened when he was awake.

Mollymauk’s memory had always been unreliable, he knew that; he remembered that, ironically. He could distantly remember playing it off as a charming ditziness. Now he didn’t think it was so cute, didn’t know how he ever had.

At least when he was awake he could verify his muddled timeline with her. He had known her for most of his first life/second life/old life/stolen life. For the most part, she knew what events Mollymauk lived. When he was awake, together they could sift through the debris of his shipwrecked mind more easily. But he was alone in his head (Had he always been alone in here? Had it always been so quiet?) She couldn’t help him while he slept. In dreams there was no border between him and him and them and them.

He dreamt of dark, iron-smelling halls, of filth-smelling streets. He dreamt of black chains and red eyes. He dreamt of collapsed circus tents and ancient fallen cities. He dreamt of found families all too quickly stolen away from him. Perhaps most often, he dreamt of death, his very soul torn apart, a glaive shattering his breastbone, a thousand wounds bleeding out from a perfect form, the Pattern destroyed, and then a thousand-thousand flickering white lights.

...Mollymauk Tealeaf woke up again. He woke up in an unfamiliar room in an unfamiliar place.

He almost didn’t believe what he was seeing was real for a moment. It didn’t seem…right. It took him a long time to realize he was expecting to see things through the weird lens of his old eyes — Lucien’s eyes, too sharp, too clear, too keen, too many angles. Images on images somehow made intelligible because of his Nine Eyes.

Where were his—? Two eyes. He had two eyes. Only two eyes. These were his eyes, he could not deny that. He could feel them heavy and whole in his head.

There was so little sound here. His ears were ringing with the quiet. He had forgotten quiet but this was what quiet was. It was loud in his mind — Lucien’s mind. It was so loud. And he felt warm now. He had never been warm in his — He was not Lucien! He was not Lucien! — Lucien’s head. It was not exactly cold, but it was not warm…it was not...

‘Not’ described it fairly well. It was not a place. It was not a time. It was not whole. It was not safe.

This place he woke up in was a place, this was a room. He felt the soft mattress under him. He felt a comforting bulk beside him. He struggled for a name for a moment. She was She. He was her him and she was his her. She was his heart, his love, his life-line, his charm.

She was Yasha. And all at once he remembered where he was. This was his room, Mollymauk’s room, a room made just for Mollymauk in a tower that the Magician created whole cloth.

He was not Lucien. He was Mollymauk and only Mollymauk. He had his friends, his Mighty Nein. He was awake again. Not-not-sleeping again. Again again. The biggest difference between being asleep and…well…not-asleep was that he had not dreamt when he was not-asleep.

Looking back, he could be proud of how it happened. It had been a good one. Rumor — rather, Beau — Beau had stayed awake and alive even if he hadn’t. The pain had passed fairly quickly into welcoming oblivion, and then…then he wasn’t sure what happened. He didn’t remember more than a single rush of color and shapeless shape, but he did not dream. He knew he didn’t dream.

He knew he was back because when he went to sleep he dreamt and when he woke up it was… overwhelming. Everything was overwhelming. There was too much now. Too much past. Too much weight. Too much guilt. Too much. Too much. Too much.

Maybe he should have stayed not-asleep. Waking up was always harder than going to sleep. Maybe coming back was worse. Maybe he should have stayed dead.

Maybe he should have stayed dead.

Hard-soft, cool-warm, dotted scars where her texture changed. Some he knew, some he didn’t.

“Are you cold? You’re shivering,” she whispered, voice rumbling through her body under Molly’s ear. It had become easy to miss things like that. Physical things. He had gone so deep in his head, but his body was still clumsy. He had to fix that. He knew it was supposed to be the other way around.

Two days and he still wasn’t used to feeling, to being, to existing. It had been so long since he had had any sense of form, let alone control over a body. For the first time in either (any?) of his lives, he was clumsy.

Often his own body felt alien. He had spent the last...however long it was, he wasn’t sure…as a blip, a fault line, a…something in Lucien’s consciousness, another little voice in the screaming hellish chorus, a niggling itchy annoyance that Lucien could never rid himself of. Molly wasn’t sure when exactly he came back into being (he remembered a clover. Tarot cards. A room made to look like his coat) but even when he was awake and aware he didn’t have a form or body or any control over the one he eventually stole (back?) from Lucien (again?). He was almost certain he had only had it in those last moments when he tore himself in half. Themselves. Himself. Themself. Himselves.

Now that Yasha mentioned it, Mollymauk became aware that the body he stole — rather, his body — was shaking and goosebumps bristled the skin, raising the scant hairs on his arms. He didn’t think it was the cold that caused it.

“Did you have a bad dream?” Yasha asked, rubbing his back. Molly nodded. He didn’t know for certain that it was a dream. Reality seemed just as impossible, but Yasha had shaken the image of Cree from his eyes for now.

She helped him. She always helped him. She offered him safety with her big broad body and he provided warmth granted with his Infernal blood, he knew this was something they had always done, this was the way it had always been. It felt safe. It felt familiar. And he knew this was his, theirs: his and Yasha’s. Just as it had been in their tent somewhere else an eternity ago, when everything had been different and simpler.

Yasha was real and if Yasha was real then he was real, too.

He didn’t say anything, but shook his head. He had not had the energy to talk much after his return, not even with the help of Jester’s Greater Restoration, there was just too much happening in his head. There was too much in his body and mind and it blocked his throat and made speaking difficult. Speaking was like lifting a heavy crate, it was more than he had the strength or coordination for and it quickly sapped away his energy.

Molly wasn’t Empty anymore. If anything, he was too full, but it left him just as confused and mute. It was still too hard to form words, to put ideas together into sentences. The prospect was exhausting.

Besides, people might ask how he was feeling. He absolutely could not supply the answer to that. He could not articulate it even in his mind beyond flashes of color and memory and emotion, things without words. Even lying about it would be difficult, and lies were supposed to be easy as breathing and safe as a vault.

Nothing was easy or right or safe, everything was roiling in him, his stomach, his senses, his mind, his feelings, his guilt — it all came together into something like a physical illness. Even his skin felt wrong: itchy, tight. His eyes were too wet or too dry, he wasn’t even sure which. The world was startling and painful under his fingers and feet. There was so much sensation out here and every single experience brought something into his head. But he couldn’t explain it, couldn’t express it.

Sometimes words worked their way free of him and into the open air. Sometimes it was easier than others. But for the hard times he had Yasha there, thank…whoever he was supposed to thank for that. And Yasha still knew him. Yasha, his soul, understood him still, even after all this time.

All this time. Almost half the time Molly had been alive he had been not-asleep. He had been dead.

“Do you feel alright?” Yasha asked, concerned. Her other big callused hand found his forehead and she pressed it there for a moment of quiet. “I don’t think you have a fever, but you are always so hot I don’t know if I could ever actually tell.”

Right now all spoken language in general, even just a muttered reassurance, was out of reach, dangling tauntingly from a high branch while his limbs were exhausted and useless. So instead he just nodded.

“Can you talk?” she asked, then amended it, “out loud, I mean? Do you have words?”

He shook his head.

“That’s okay,” Yasha said gently. “Words are hard.” There was a pause, “can you sign?”

Molly nodded this time.

He remembered the signs.

In the bright — in the tents — at the circus, a lifetime ago, he and…somebody…small…quiet…came up with their own language spoken with hands and gestures. Even after Molly had gotten his words, wore language like jewels, gave it out like smiles, Small Quiet and he kept their signs. And when Molly felt too dull for jewels and too tired for smiles, the signs were familiar and easy to slip into. The language was mostly secret, only some people knew it: Molly, Yasha, Small Quiet, and somebody else quiet, big with wide fingers, a belly like a cauldron, and a strange face.

A lot was still hazy, especially his time in the circus. It was mostly color and light and sound. But Yasha was helping him find it again. He hadn’t remembered their sign language or that Small Quiet even existed until Yasha first reminded him and the memory had spilled back into the gray space of his mind like paint on a page or whiskey in a glass. He was glad for it, happy his charm, his heart, his angel, his love was there to help him find the memories he knew were his alone, help him find the things he swore he would never lose.

He and Yasha discussed trying to teach the sign language to the others, just in case it never got easier and he kept only his handful of words forever: Love. Rumor. Joy. Sea. Tinker. Magician. That was a deeply frightening thought; one of the things Molly remembered along with the sign language was how some people treated him the last time he was mute. Or, rather, he remembered the impotent anger and frustration it had often left with him, hot and stinging as oil in a hot pan. But yesterday some other words had trickled out past the block in his throat and he hoped that would continue.

“Do you remember when you got sick for the first time back when we were in the circus?” Yasha asked. Molly looked up at her blankly before shaking his head. “That’s okay,” Yasha said, and he hoped he was imagining the disappointment in her voice. Maybe it was his own disappointment reflected back. “It was winter and you were almost one, I had been there for maybe three months. There was some kind of flu going around the circus. A lot of the performers got it. Toya got it, but Kylrie didn’t—” Mollymauk smiled as he felt a puzzle piece in his brain snap back into place, Toya was Small Quiet, the singer with the sore throat, the co-creator of his signs, all at once she came back to him, whole and full. Kylrie was the big one, a lizard-folk with a skin condition. But thinking of him left Molly with a wave of sadness and made his heart feel heavy as a stone in his chest. He hoped that was how it had always been and not a new ache. “Mona got it from Yuli, and I think you got it from Gustav. But it could have been anyone, you hung around with everyone. You were very sick but you still wanted to help set up and sell tickets. You almost passed out and Gustav made me make sure you stayed in our tent and got some rest. You said you were fine but you kept falling asleep. Then you thought—” she stopped. “Never mind,” she said quietly.

‘I think I remember,’ Molly signed, ‘I thought I was dying because I couldn’t breathe through my nose.’

Yasha smiled weakly, “Yes, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up. Dying, I mean.”

Molly made an indignant face at her. ‘Sometimes it’s good to remember, sometimes it’s good to forget. It’s good to remember now.’

“Sometimes memories are all we have. I like remembering, and I like you remembering,” Yasha said and her smile seemed more earnest and less apologetic. He squeezed her arm to show his affection. “I tried to check your fever then and it felt like your skin would set my skin on fire. But I don’t know if that’s what tiefling fevers feel like or if you were just a little warmer than usual. So maybe you have a fever now, maybe not. I am not very helpful.”

‘You are always very helpful,’ Molly signed.

“Do you want to talk about your dream?” Yasha asked, but she probably knew the answer before Molly shook his head. “Okay.” There was a long pause in which Yasha rubbed his back and he buried his face in her side. “You know what?”

Molly shook his head without lifting it.

“I’m really glad to have you back, Molly. I know I have said that before, but I cannot say it enough times for you to understand. How glad I am, I mean.”

He smiled and tipped back enough to kiss her cheek, mindful as he could be of his horns. Then he settled back and wrapped his tail around her waist. Yasha continued to rub her forefinger and thumb of one hand over his horn from the base up. He remembered her doing it before, before, before and again, again, again.

The feeling of her fingers, blunt pressure on the keratin sheath was so familiar even if events around it were vague. It helped bring things back to him. Things he was afraid were lost. Things he was afraid had become too tangled up with Lucien. He took her hand where it was resting on his side, laced their fingers together for a moment, then he held her hand up with his, measuring their sizes against one another, hers so much larger than his. He had seen this before. It felt so familiar, so calming. He remembered canvas tents, crickets, straw mattresses in grimy inns, dirt roads, campfires, the smell of damp earth and the sound of rain, chatter and laughter. Full and happy and wonderful. He remembered.

This was his.

At least now things felt real. The world was no longer racing by him incomprehensibly, leaving him feeling as if he was moving through heavy snow somewhere just to the left of reality. He was here. Even if he was still trying to find his feet. He was now. Even if this now was so impossibly far from the now he had left behind.

So much time had passed. So much had happened since then. So much had been done. His friends had grown and Lucien had nearly taken over the world. He could not forgive Lucien for what he did and what he tried to do. He could not forgive himself because he knew somewhere deep down, past even his most persistent self-delusion, that he was Lucien and Lucien was him. Mollymauk Tealeaf was just a fragile little piece of the soul of a lunatic.

He swallowed down the acidic bile that rose in his throat at the thought of Lucien.

No. Stop that. No, he was not Lucien. He couldn’t be. Molly was alive and awake and here. Lucien was dead and gone and shredded into pieces. Fuck Lucien. Fuck him! Got what he deserved; broken into pieces...

...and one of them just happened to make its home in his corpse. The Somnovum put Lucien together because Mollymauk was available, the final puzzle piece for the whole. No!

Yasha squeezed his hand and brought him back to now. “Don’t go too far,” she whispered.

He nodded. He watched her breathe. Then he signed, ‘is Beau jealous you’re here?’ Seemed a safe topic.

Yasha let out a little chuckle that Molly felt more than heard. “Of me or you?” Yasha asked.

Molly shrugged, either one, although he couldn’t imagine Beau being jealous of Yasha right now.

“Maybe a little of both. We are in love.”

Yasha said that a lot, as if she was bursting with the joy of it, as if, like a smile, she couldn’t help but share it with the world. Molly was happy for her and Beau while feeling a bitter edge of something at not having been able to see the process himself. Yasha was the kind of happy Molly had only ever seen occasionally, a little break in the cloud cover of her sorrow and isolation, it used to be that Molly was the only one who could reach Yasha and pull her into the light. But a lot had changed, and this was one of the best changes. Yasha deserved to be happy every single day of her life. Beau and the rest of the Mighty Nein made her happy. They were heroes just for that.

‘Do you think she’s jealous of you?’

“Maybe she is a little. I do not know if she knows how to, uh, schnuggle, somebody with horns,” Yasha said, tracing the curve along the inside of one of his. “Wait…is ‘schnuggling’ a sex thing? Or is it just this? Jester said it and sometimes I do not know if she means what she’s saying or if she means something else. Not the sex thing. She, Beau, does not know how to…lie next to somebody with horns. Lie next to and touch somebody with horns.”

‘Why?’ Molly asked.

“Not a lot of people have horns, at least when compared to the number of people who don’t have horns,” she said.

‘The other thing,’ Molly signed.

“What other? Oh, you mean why would she want to do this?”

‘Yes. We aren’t in love.’

Yasha looked incredulous. “Everyone missed you, Mollymauk. It was like...like the world got a little darker, a little less colorful, and a lot sadder. We all wanted you home. We’re all happy you are home now, including Beau. She loves you even if she will not say it. She carried around part of your coat for months. She still has it.”

‘She does?’

“Yes,” Yasha said. “Besides, you’re a very good schnuggler.”

He knew that everyone missed him to a greater or lesser extent. He didn’t know about the coat thing, but he would need to remember to tease Beau with it later, although honestly he was touched to have been remembered so fondly. Tinker — no, Nott — no, Veth — Veth had immediately re-adopted him, something he would have been leery of if he didn’t trust her and wasn’t so exhausted. Likewise, he was very thankful to hear the life lessons he’d given to her regurgitated back, it helped him remember himself. Magician — Caleb — now free of his grimy mask and permanently in clean and sexy mode — had waited until they were alone on a private tour of his Tower to gently kiss Molly on the forehead and welcome him home. And Molly remembered a time in a cave where Caleb had needed a kiss, too.

Beau had wasted no time in picking up their banter again even when Molly’s part was largely supplied in facial expressions. Jester had barely let him go since he came back. Fjord had offered him some helping, healing hands a lot like Yasha’s, that Molly was fairly certain were new. Even one of the new kids, the ones who had no cards in his deck, Caduceus, had come to re-envelop him into the fold.

Time and the world had left him behind, but his friends hadn’t. They had changed, but they were still here and still them. At least he thought they were. He hoped they were. He hoped with all his little soul fragment they were. In his desperation he could lean on them in this brave new world. It would be a role reversal, certainly. In his past life — or what he remembered of it — he had always been the idiot-wrangler. He was very good at it. But right now he could barely wrangle his own thoughts. He felt fragile, tender, like a bruise.

“Have you seen Beau’s tattoo yet?” asked Yasha.

Molly thought back. He had seen Veth’s, obviously, and Yasha’s, which he began idly tracing with his fingers, but if everyone had gotten gemstone tattoos in his absence he hadn’t seen the others. He shook his head.

“It’s the same as yours.”

Molly huffed a laugh.

“I know you have a lot of them. She got this one…” the hand that had been trailing his horn now moved his long hair aside so she could almost reverently run her fingers over the all-seeing pyramid running from the back of his neck to the top of his back. He shivered a little at the touch of her hands, always so much colder than his own body. “I guess it’s different now…” her fingers rested on the new blank spot where one of those fucking Eyes had been.

They had lived below his skin for so long and he never even knew it. The most freeing moment so far had been realizing all nine of those glaring red eyes were gone. At the time he hadn’t even understood or remembered what on Exandria – or beyond – the blank spots in his tattoos meant, he was just glad to see them. Somehow even before his memories began to piece back together he knew the blank spots were his, as much his as the tattoos surrounding them. He still didn’t remember much about the Eyes (lying, he remembered so much more than he wanted to, but the lies were far nicer and cleaner than the truth) and he didn’t want to know more. He didn’t want to remember more. His thoughts were pulled back by Yasha’s gentle voice. “You’ll have to think of some new designs for the blank spots.”

He smiled. Always better to think of the present instead of the past or the future. “Shall,” he said aloud in an accent intentionally flattened. It had drifted that way the first time around, mimicking Toya, the sisters, Desmond, somebody else maybe. But now he was just giving it more encouragement to be different from Lucien’s lilt.

He went back to signing. Talking wasn’t worth it. He would try again in another hour or so. ‘There are a lot of things to fix.’

Yasha seemed to consider her response, she took a breath, but after a moment she simply said, “Yeah.” She didn’t seem disappointed that he went back to signing and silence rather than speaking because she was Yasha and she was perfect.

Molly was found and lost and found again. He was afraid, among strangers who were his friends with memories that he didn’t own and couldn’t explain. The road ahead and the road behind were equally murky and rough. But the present was calm and soft. Yasha was still Yasha. She was the Yasha she always had been and always would be. He didn’t know if he was happy to be alive or not. He didn’t know if he deserved it, but he knew Yasha loved him.

‘It’s early,’ he said after a moment.

“Yes, it’s very early,” Yasha agreed.

‘Do you think Caleb’s cats would make us pancakes?’ Molly asked.

“I don’t think they sleep. They make very good pancakes.”

‘We should get pancakes,’ he said.

“We should,” Yasha agreed.

They didn’t move. Molly closed his eyes. He could ignore the future for a little while longer. Just for a little while longer. Just a little while.

Chapter Text

The Blooming Grove proved to be a good place to return to after...everything.

Essek didn’t register much of what happened that first night. The adrenaline of the fight and resurrection faded in the calm atmosphere of the Clays’ home, replaced by leaden exhaustion. The tranquility was incredibly comforting after the events on the Astral Sea, even if it was the very specific tranquility of a graveyard. It should be a disturbing setting, macabre, strange. Kryn were not buried, they were burned, the ashes of lifetimes past all stored together in a special vessel placed atop an individual’s altar in a den shrine. Prayers for their swift return were said often; they were visited and called upon. No consecuted Kryn would allow their body to rot away if they could help it. A graveyard seemed rather bleak. Final.

Despite the surroundings, for the first time in nearly three years, death felt very distant to Essek Thelyss. The sun set, the stars rose, the world still turned. They were very much here and alive in this cemetery, surrounded by a living forest and a living world — none the wiser to how close it had come to madness, absorption, and potential extinction. The ‘Pattern’ with which Lucien sought to infect the world was shattered. Lucien himself was similarly broken and thrown to the astral winds, replaced by the tiefling that apparently belonged to this team. Finally, the Mighty Nein was now complete.

That first night Essek had been cuddled close to Caleb in the Clays’ living room. He didn’t know if he and Caleb ended up so close intentionally or just because the space was so small. It may have been built for firbolgs but the addition of the Mighty Nein more than doubled the usual population. Maybe Essek just couldn’t believe the intentionality of their contact. Regardless, it was extremely welcome.

Before that night Essek had thought he would never feel warm again. Eiselcross’s cold had cut through to his bones, filled his veins, and in all his weeks in the north nothing had managed to keep out the biting chill. He had thought he would carry that cold within him for the rest of his life, like the blood on his hands. But then Caleb had draped his arm around him, like it was nothing, like Essek deserved it, and slowly Caleb’s warmth had spread through him, like mulled wine, like a hot bath, like friendship itself. Essek felt...comfortable...and he slept. He slept rather than tranced, something no grown elf would ever readily admit to. But, thankfully, his friends didn’t make him.

He was happy, surrounded by his friends and held close by Caleb, as if Essek was something precious that Caleb did not want to lose. He had never felt affection like that offered by the Mighty Nein and he very much liked it.

The next few days afterward happened both very slowly and in less than an instant. Time was relative. Essek knew this. After all, time was one of Essek’s specialties; he was extremely familiar with the theory of relativity published by a Kryn dunamantic researcher a hundred years before Essek’s birth. Not only could he recite the treatise backward and forward, Essek had often personally mettled with localized chronological spheres for various (usually bad) reasons. But no one had him under such a spell now – almost certainly not. Almost certainly. He understood and had to remind himself of that. This sort of misconception of time just sometimes happened to people. Even so, it still felt like a failing on his part. He was a prodigy, a dunamantic genius. What good was he otherwise? And what if Ludinus Da’leth or Trent Ikithon and his rabid attack dogs were there and Essek had somehow missed them in his weird haze? What help could he be in this state?

While the others reconnected and reached out to Mollymauk, Essek felt out of place. He still didn’t know what to make of their new-old friend. He may have been reassured that Mollymauk was not Lucien, but they still had the same face and there were times when their expressions matched closely enough to startle and frighten Essek.

That was among the myriad of reasons Essek hung back, trying not to feel ignored or left out. He was leaving himself out, he reminded himself. He wasn’t entirely alone at least. While Caduceus was more willing than Essek to get involved in the reunion and reintroduction, he, too, was not as involved as those who knew Mollymauk when he was alive the first time. The other members of the Clay family flitted around the periphery, helpful, kind, but allowing space, especially when it became clear how confused and uneasy Mollymauk was.

A Greater Restoration from Jester had done the other tiefling some good; it seemed the psychological damage was immense enough that a little magic couldn’t simply will it away. His communication skills remained largely non-verbal at first and he seemed shaky on his feet. Which was when Essek realized his fear of Lucien’s new/old self was unwarranted and embarrassing. A moderate shove would have probably sent him sprawling. That didn’t help his mood.

In Essek’s elected solitude he found himself targeted not only by Caduceus but the rest of Caduceus’s family as well. Essek did not know what to make of the Clays. Their kindness and seemingly genuine credulity made Essek leery, because in his experience that was almost always a front. On top of that, Essek didn’t like anything about religion, which put him ill at ease among a family of clerics.

The Clays he was most unsure of remained Caduceus’s parents. They were close to their children in a way that Essek had never seen before. And he had never encountered parents who chose to spend time with their children let alone an ally — no, a friend — of their son’s. But Caduceus’s mother, Constance, claimed Essek looked like he needed company. He hoped that wasn’t true, but out of politeness Essek had allowed himself to be engaged.

Essek wondered what he had done that made Constance hand him some gardening gloves and a woven bag of large bulbs. She claimed it was just something to occupy the time, and that he didn’t need to join her in the garden if he didn’t want to. He wouldn’t have under other circumstances, but life had taken such a sharp left turn since meeting the Mighty Nein, he might as well have gotten to his aching knees in the dirt. At first he thought he could not have made a worse mistake, it was difficult to get even remotely comfortable, especially for a long period of time. He was getting dirty and sweaty. It was work that was so below his station and his family he could not see it from on high. A Thelyss shouldn’t be playing in soil and fertilizer. But Essek was many things a Thelyss shouldn’t be. That was probably why he kept at it: quiet internalized spite.

Ultimately, however, he found the work rewarding, therapeutic; it required knowledge and technique. A world of specialities he had never considered. And in the end, there was something to show for the arduous effort. Constance worked by his side and offered him advice and praise. She was very much unlike the Umavi, and Essek could almost understand why Caduceus so enjoyed time with his family.

Constance, like Caduceus, had the annoying habit of noticing things. She noticed when he didn’t eat or drink enough. She noticed when he got tired. And, worst of all, she noticed when he was in pain. She gave him a warm blanket and some cool, numbing balm after his first day. However, she didn’t ask him the cause or inquire much at all. It seemed she didn’t plan on using it against him. Not yet, at least. It also made him wonder what Caduceus knew, but he wouldn’t ask, since the answer might be “nothing” and Essek would be the one raising suspicion about himself.

Five days passed at the Blooming Grove, all told. The denouement of a very strange chapter — no, more than that — this strange book in Essek’s life. Perhaps he should have tried to enjoy his stay more. But there had been no way of knowing this next storyline would begin so soon or where it would take him.

On the fifth day, the Mighty Nein were soaking in the hot spring by the Clay compound. They had just finished the daily argument about what happened next. There was talk about splitting up (which made Essek extremely worried), talk about retiring (Veth’s idea, although Yasha presented the option of opening a fight arena in Nicodranas, but her thoughts on what would make a good arena were, well, very different than what was expected on the Menagerie Coast or anywhere outside of Xhorhas’s lawless Wastes), and discussion of taking on the Cerberus Assembly (championed, unsurprisingly, by the humans). But the argument sputtered into nothing, as it had for the last few days, until they were just reclining in (or in Essek’s case around) the hot spring. They were o surer of what the next step would be than they were yesterday when they were in identical positions both physically and planning-wise.

They had just shot down Jester’s idea to open a bakery-slash-sex shop when Essek felt the tingling of words entering his head. It was an unwelcome intrusion and it filled him with perhaps even more nauseous dread than fighting Lucien had.

His posture must have changed considerably where he sat on the edge of the pool, dangling his bare feet in the water, because suddenly all eyes were on him, save, perhaps, Mollymauk’s.

“Ess—” Jester started, but Essek held up one finger to stop her, trying to focus on the Sending.

It didn’t stop her, of course, and Jester loudly whispered, “Essek, are you getting a Sending?! Who is it?! Is it your brother?!”

He ignored her as best he could and listened to the voice in his head; he felt his brow crease slightly. He wished it was Verin, but Verin didn’t know any magic beyond what came to him naturally as a drow, that which he learned training as an Echo Knight, and Levitation, which Essek had taken great pains to teach him when they were younger. Sending was not in Verin’s limited repertoire.

Instead he was ‘hearing’ the voice of one of the Queen’s aides, or rather the impression of her voice without actual sound or even language. “Shadowhand, since you must’ve completed your research, you are required back in Her Majesty’s court this afternoon. Send a message upon your arrival in Rosohna.”

No words lost or spared. Clear and concise. No wiggle room, not that the Bright Queen ever tended to leave any. She was as absolute in orders as in actions. It made him appreciate the strangeness of Jester’s Sendings. Well, no, not quite. He couldn’t exactly go that far, remembering the “You are under SCRUTINY!!” that had nearly stopped his heart in its suddenness and intensity.

“Everything alright?” asked Fjord.

“Yes, very well, thank you,” Essek lied, casting his levitation cantrip and floating to a height just above his feet.

“Where are you going?” asked Jester as he finished unrolling the cuffs of his trousers.

“To pack my belongings,” he said, turning his back to the party. He didn’t think he could trust himself to leave if he saw their disappointed faces. The small regretful noise Essek perhaps only imagined was Caleb’s almost rooted him to the spot.

“What?” Beau asked. “Why would you do that?”

“The Bright Queen has requested, or, rather demanded my presence in the Lucid Bastion.” Essek tried to clear his dry throat, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. He kept his eyes focused on the Clays’ cuddly little cabin in this joyful living graveyard. Perhaps in a few days’ time, he, too, would be amongst these graves. If the Bright Queen knew...if she had figured out the truth...well, traitors did not receive funerary rites in the Dynasty. If his friends were able to find his corpse, he hoped they would bring him here and maybe visit him, as foolish as that sounded, it was not as if he’d be present.

There was some commotion behind him and he turned in time to see Beau securing a towel around her chest and, he realized with an embarrassing and strange skip of his heart, Caleb emerging from the pool. Caleb was always incredibly cavalier about his nudity. Essek didn’t know much about Imperial religion besides what he had been taught as Dynastic propaganda, but it seemed whatever deity Caleb had been raised praying to did not have the same opinions as the mythological Luxon, or, more accurately, its clergy.

Skin was exposed minimally in Luxon-fearing individuals and those, like Essek, raised in the culture they created. Even removing one’s shoes required a level of intimacy (especially insofar as Essek was concerned as he didn’t want people to see his disproportionately small feet). It took a lot of getting used to that so many of his friends were unabashed about showing so much of their bodies. But somehow, in one special case, the longer Essek knew Caleb Widogast the more seeing him unclothed and vulnerable meant to him and made him feel rather than lessening with familiarity.

“What are you doing?” he asked the group writ large.

“Going to pack our stuff, obviously,” said Jester, jumping from the water, equally shameless.

“Your stuff?” Essek repeated

“Our belongings,” said Jester with faux-formality.

“I understood your meaning, what I do not understand is why you are doing such,” he explained.

“We can’t just leave everything here, maybe we’ll need it,” Yasha said diplomatically.

“You need not come with me,” Essek said. He would love it if they did, but he didn’t expect them to follow him. They had their own lives to plan.

“Who said anything about needing to? We want to, dude,” said Beau.

“You...want to?” Essek repeated. It was still hard to believe that they cared about him that much. His heart skipped in his chest.

“Yeah, of course,” said Beau. “You know for a self-proclaimed prodigy you’re a dumbass.”

“I would beg to differ,” he said, but he found himself smiling.

“Of course you would,” Beau replied, rolling her eyes. Essek did have to admit he was grateful. Behind her Caleb was wringing out his ponytail with a towel around his shoulders like a cloak, lower body uncovered.

“Well,” said Essek with a sheepish smile, “if you insist on coming, then I am more than happy to have you, my friends.”

“We insist!” said Jester, “Besides, we have to show Molly the hot tub!”

“Another?” Mollymauk asked, still in the pool, looking up at them, his tail stirring up the water.

He had been talking more and more often as time went on, and his voice always threw Essek for a strange loop. The intonations were Lucien’s, the rhythm, but his vocabulary had simplified substantially and his accent seemed to be flattening. His tone was also softer; the sharp edge of Lucien’s tongue had been dulled. The accent, the loss of eloquence, the new scar down the center of his face, the wide-eyed confusion, and the fact that his eyes themselves had faded from a bright bloody red in color to a rusty red-orange had started to separate Mollymauk from Lucien. The sight of him no longer immediately set off Essek’s panic response, but it was still all too often he saw Lucien’s face.

“Yes,” said Yasha, “and it has a good name.”

“Oh,” said Caduceus, “are we not telling?”

“Tell,” said Molly with a grin.

“M.T., the M.T. Spa,” said Yasha with a helpless little smile. It flickered when Mollymauk’s tail stopped moving. But it had perked in earnest interest and then curled at the tip in a way Essek had never seen a tiefling do before. Yasha offered further explanation, “B-because you always loved baths—”

However that sentence ended Essek never found out because it was covered by the rushing of water as Mollymauk launched out of the pool and wrapped himself around Yasha.

“It was Caleb’s idea,” Yasha mumbled, grinning again, “I wish I’d thought of it.”

“Still,” Mollymauk said. “But…” He turned, locked eyes on Caleb, who was innocently tugging on his trousers, and then threw himself at the Zemnian. Caleb had not been paying attention and really didn’t stand a chance. Essek wondered if he should have warned his fellow wizard.

“Hä!” Caleb said in surprise, “Mollymauk, I have only just dried off!”

“Good,” Mollymauk said. Then he gently kissed Caleb on the lips.

Caleb smiled softly, fondly. “We missed you.”

“Good,” Mollymauk repeated. Essek was very good at reading people; he was the Bright Queen’s chief interrogator, after all. But he didn’t need to be good at it to hear how touched Mollymauk was. Mollymauk detached himself from Caleb besides leaving his tail wrapped around one of Caleb’s wrists. Mollymauk stood tall, fists on his hips, still completely nude. “Go!”

“Put your fucking pants on, Molly!” snapped Beau.

“You do seem to be quite averse to trousers,” Essek quietly agreed.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Fjord said to Essek. “And you don’t want to know the half of it.”

“It’s kind of like an extremely crappy rite of passage,” said Beau.

“That’s very true,” said Jester, “Every member of the Mighty Nein has to see Molly’s dick.”

“Well, glad to finally be part of the team,” said Caduceus with a pinch of salt in his voice.

“Happy to help,” said Molly in the most full sentence Essek had heard from him all day.

“Ew, don’t say that!” Beau said. “And stop moving your eyebrows like that!”

Mollymauk wriggled them more quickly and leaned in closer to Beau.

“I am going to fucking kill you again myself!” Beau said, shoving him away by the shoulder.

“Please don’t,” said Caduceus, “the Wildmother can only perform so many miracles.”

Chapter Text

They managed to get Mollymauk dressed. It took two trips to get all nine of them back to the Kryn capital, but the wizards split the job between them and teleporting to a place as familiar as the ‘Xhorhaus’ was easy enough. Essek hoped he wouldn’t regret using the spell slot.

In returning to his homeland and the city in which he had spent most of his life, two contradictory feelings wrestled in Essek’s gut: he was terrified of what the Queen might have in store for him, but being back in the familiar darkness of Rosohna was incredibly welcoming. It felt like sinking into a hot bath, an easy relief and the earmark that a long stressful task had been completed.

Drow were, of course, naturally nocturnal, but the Kryn Dynasty was a player on the world stage. Most elfoid, intelligent races in Exandria were diurnal. Long ago the Dynasty had adjusted. The citizens of Rosohna were lucky enough to have an artificial night protecting their eyes and skin. There were many smaller, less-effective scaled-down versions in particular settlements and plans for cities like Asarius to be kitted out with a similar shield once resources freed themselves, but at the moment there was nothing on Exandria like Rosohna’s mile high all-enveloping darkness. It was wonderful after weeks of nothing but his eyes’ own nictitating membrane to protect him from the unfeeling sunshine. (This was a trick non-Rosohnan Kryn drow used, taught to Essek at the ill-fated outpost. Biologically, Essek was fairly certain the membrane was to remove or keep dirt from sensitive eyeballs underground, but the slight tint to them helped against blinding sunlight.)

Essek felt a tightness ease from his brow. He wondered if he had been unconsciously squinting since leaving Rosohna. The sudden loss of tension in his head, like a rope snapping, made him think he must have been to some extent. In the comfortable twilight he wondered how he’d ever gotten used to daylight.

As his friends settled back into their eclectic home, Essek remained with them. He had no desire to return to his cold and empty towers. He hadn’t missed his supposed ‘home’ since leaving for Eiselcross beyond the sense of privacy it provided. His towers had never actually felt like home, simply a habitat of necessity; he came of age and had wanted to leave the Lucid Bastion and his mother’s vice-grip on his career as soon as he could. He had been planning on moving out when along came an incident between mother and son that had ruined the delicate balance already clumsily negotiated for some time. It upset the scales enough that Essek had used it as an excuse to escape. He moved into a disused family property that had been intended for Verin before Verin decided he hated every aspect of life in the capital and moved to the Wastes to become the great leader their father had only pretended to be. Essek was never one to overlook an opportunity, so he snatched up Verin’s property, tore down what was there and built three towers directly in the path of the neighborhood’s view of the grandeur of the Lucid Bastion. It had all been out of spite, but spite was all he had back then. His towers had also provided him with laboratory and research space. He now had a place to be heretical with no risk of being reprimanded, fired, fined, or killed for it, depending on just how deviant he became in his experiments.

As uninviting as his towers were, the prospect of going to the Bastion and his inevitable doom was far worse. He did, however, obediently check back in for fear of what not doing so could mean. When he reported back to the aid who’d Sent to him earlier, he was told to arrive in the second half of the afternoon. It seemed curious to delay capturing or killing him, but he wouldn’t raise suspicion against himself.

Besides, there was enough to do at the Xhorhaus: cleaning, dusting, sweeping, clearing out the food they had stupidly left to rot in cupboards.

Unsurprisingly — to Essek, at least — their housekeeper was gone. Considering how easily she had left her former job for this one Essek thought the Nein should have expected the departure. She hadn’t taken anything, but clearly greener pastures had appeared once again. To their credit, Beau and Caleb didn’t seem terribly shocked. Hardest hit was Jester, who, by the sounds of her stories of childhood, had a far closer relationship to her family servants than Essek’s den, station, parents, or personality would have ever allowed. Mollymauk seemed appalled that they had hired a servant at all, although if he wanted to say anything about it he either held his tongue or his selective mutism held it for him.

Mollymauk seemed to automatically settle into Yasha’s room. There was a short fight between him and Beau to determine who got to be Yasha’s new roommate. Yasha was very obviously touched and hugged them both as they bickered. Molly spoke mostly in one- to three-word bursts and aggressive hand gestures, Beau utilized her usual swear-filled eloquence.

The ultimate decision was a sort of revolving door: Mollymauk and Beau swapping beds every other night. Then the argument became who got her first. It came down to, as it so often did with this group, Boulder/Parchment/Shears, which Mollymauk managed to win. He smugly tossed himself into Yasha’s bed, giving Beau a little five-fingered wave. He then took time to appraise Jester’s mural, hands cushioning his head, one leg bent up with the other crossed over its knee.

The guest room remained the guest room, but Jester heavily implied it could be Essek’s. No one had disagreed with her. Essek had balked at the suggestion, but allowed himself a vision of a reality where that was true. Where Rosohna was safe enough for him to stay long enough to commit such a scandal of moving into their commune.

The next time Essek found the tieflings was an hour or so later in the training room. Training room cum, apparently, hair salon. It seemed the tieflings decided they were done sweeping up the cobwebs and Jester was giving Mollymauk a haircut instead. He was sitting in a chair removed from the dining room with Jester standing behind it with a comb in one hand and a large pair of scissors in the other. Jester’s green cloak was thrown backwards over Mollymauk’s torso and arms. Tucked into her belt, beside her Traveler’s symbol, Jester had her toolkit: a hair brush, another pair of scissors, and what appeared to be Caleb’s straight razor (or it could have been somebody else’s, elves and tieflings might not grow facial hair but other races besides humans did. He wasn’t sure why his brain jumped straight to Caleb rather than Caduceus or Fjord).

Jester closed one eye and put the comb’s handle between her teeth (which disgusted Essek a bit), giving Mollymauk’s head a look of intense concentration as she tipped it to a slightly different angle. Falling all around them like rain were long strands of wavy violet hair, some catching on Mollymauk’s shoulders, chest, and horns or Jester’s arms. Judging by the accumulation of the strange precipitation, Essek had caught them in the middle stage of this process.

Jester removed her hand from Mollymauk’s head. “Keep it just like that, no more squirming, okay?” she said around the comb.

“I can’t help it! You’re tickling me!” Mollymauk said in his defense. He seemed to be in one of his chattier moods, judging by the ease and flow of those sentences.

“Come on, Molly, you must have had a haircut before!” Jester said, spitting her comb back into her hand.

“None that I can remember,” he said.

“No way! You must have just forgotten!” said Jester. Then she glanced up and saw that Essek was paused just outside the door. “Hi, Essek! Come in!”

Essek blinked, his anxiety was so piqued he almost defensively cast at being spotted. “Hello, friends,” said Essek, hopefully as smooth as his glide into the room.

Faux-confidence aside, Essek was extremely glad Jester was there as a buffer between himself and Mollymauk. Essek adored Jester and she was very easy to talk to. There was too much to unpack around Mollymauk; it was much easier at the moment for Essek to think of the tiefling like he would a colleague’s child: treated politely, delicately, and not sought for conversation or with real interest. So far being largely ignored seemed to suit Mollymauk as well. He hadn’t shown much interest in Essek. Essek wondered vaguely how and if he and Caduceus even factored into Mollymauk’s slowly materializing comprehension of reality.

Essek really didn’t know where Mollymauk’s mind was. He didn’t know much about Mollymauk Tealeaf, only what his friends had told him. They had described a strange, colorful whirlwind of a person. He was verbose. He was maternal and caring. Essek wasn’t certain who he was now, if he had changed or if he was just slow in returning to his natural state.

Then there were Mollymauk’s strange ways of communicating. He went through long bouts of unreachable silence, then noises and signs, then babbling stream-of-consciousness, then eventually regular conversation, the ratios of each also unpredictable and the stages coming without order. Essek thought he might be improving, however.

Oddly, one of the least of Essek’s worries in a potential (and inevitable) one-on-one with Mollymauk was the issue of communication. It was still a major concern — Essek was largely dependent on language while Mollymauk’s loquaciousness hinged entirely on some unseen switch in his head — but it was dwarfed by others. Largest loomed the matter of identity. Essek had no desire to delve into the Mollymauk vs Lucien or Mollymauk/Lucien enigma yet; he didn’t like dealing with the concept of souls when they were whole, let alone what a fragment of one meant. And while Mollymauk and Lucien were wildly different beings, Essek had no other memory of this tiefling to cling to. He didn’t know Mollymauk beyond the war he just fought against his…other…self? Essek lacked the basic vocabulary to describe their interactions before this point. It wasn’t just that Essek didn’t know what to talk about with Mollymauk; he didn’t know how to, neither medium nor the subject matter.

Luckily for Essek, it seemed Mollymauk himself did not want to be caught alone. Maybe he had the same anxieties regarding Essek and they were just two frightened fools staring at each other across a room. But with Jester between them, they both had some advantage. Jester knew Mollymauk and Essek well and didn’t seem to care about social convention or nuance.

“You have amazing hair!” Jester said to Essek excitedly.

“True,” Essek willingly conceded.

“And it’s kind of like what you want, right Molly?” Jester asked, still holding his head down.

Molly peered at him from below his shrinking mane. “Yeah, something like that. I want the short bit and the longer bit,” Mollymauk said. Essek watched his shoulders flinch upward as he tried not to wriggle when a large clump of hair caught on the collar of the makeshift apron.

Essek tried to distract him. “Do you want a fade? Or an undercut?” Essek asked.

“...Yes,” said Mollymauk. Meanwhile, Jester fished in her belt to swap her scissors for the razor.

Essek had noticed Mollymauk came back with some obvious memory...issues...but he hadn’t been briefed on them. He didn’t know whether Mollymauk not knowing the difference in hair styles was something forgotten or something he never knew in the first place. Not everyone was like Essek. Not everyone needed to send a message in everything they wore, did, and said. Not everyone had to stay fashionable and present himself in court as traditional without being old-fashioned, modern without being offensive lest that somehow be turned into fodder against Den Thelyss.

Mollymauk cocked his head, perhaps considering Essek’s question again. Immediately Jester’s razor stopped. “Seriously?! I just told you to stop moving!” Jester complained.

“Sorry! Not moving again, solemn promise,” said Mollymauk. As soon the last word came out of his mouth he shivered, his tail thrashed behind him.

“Mol-ly!” Jester complained, dodging his tail. But she was giggling and Essek couldn’t help but smile too, even if he hadn’t felt calm since he got that message this morning. This was a good distraction. It was amazing what friends could do.

“It’s hard!” Mollymauk whined, “Some hair went down the collar of my shirt!”

Essek would argue “collar” was a strong word for the opening in Mollymauk’s shirt. In five days Essek had not seen it laced all the way. Essek was sure it was in part because of the large size of Mollymauk’s horns. While it would be hard for a conventional collar to accommodate them, he assumed a good percentage of it was exibitionism, which would certainly be another trait he shared with Lucien. Not that Essek was keeping count of them in his head.

“That’s gonna happen,” shrugged Jester. Then she grinned mischievously behind Molly’s back and added, “buuuut if you squirm I might accidentally cut off your ears or something!”

“Does that happen?!” Molly asked, somewhere between doubting and frightened.

“Oh yeah! Totally!” said Jester, “Right, Essek?”

No, obviously. But that was Jester’s game. He liked Jester so he wanted to play along. But Essek didn’t really want to torment Mollymauk, which he thought marked his own personal growth. He knew Jester’s playful threats were, as her virtue name suggested, jokes, but Essek was new to the concept of idle, humorous threats and new to interacting with Mollymauk. While he knew he could probably handle one of those things, putting both together made him nervous. He was not good at jokes, he had found, and his hackles were already about as high as they could go considering what was waiting for him this afternoon. Besides, he wanted to befriend Mollymauk or at least be tolerable to him, just in case he actually survived court today. But then, he didn’t want to disappoint Jester by ruining the joke she had so kindly pulled Essek into. He should “yes and” out of courtesy, let alone affection. It took a long moment for him to decide his next move in this conversational chess game.

“I wouldn’t know,” Essek said, “I don’t often allow others to do my hair.”

“Omigosh! You do your own hair?! It’s soooo good! I thought you must have had a fancy stylist or something because it’s totally perfect!” Jester said.

Mollymauk tried to nod to show his agreement but Jester grabbed him by a horn to stop him.

“Den Thelyss has its own stylists, but I prefer to do it myself,” Essek explained. That was true and Essek had a lot of reasons to stop using any of the fleet of stylists in his mother’s employ.

When Essek was appointed Shadowhand, he cut his hair short. The elite Kryn of any gender usually wore their hair long and in some kind of braids. It was a style that had been maintained for at least a thousand years, supposedly honoring those who had suffered and still suffered under the Spider Queen. Braids were highly decorated. A person disgraced was made to undo theirs publically and could not retie it for as many weeks as there were infractions. The length of a braid either too short or too long could raise eyebrows. Essek had ridded himself of his entirely and made a statement, mostly to his mother, on his feelings regarding tradition and control when he adopted the style of more periferal, avant-garde members of the aristocracy and the modern commons rather than maintaining the style of the unchanging ultra elite. Doing his own hair meant den stylists wouldn’t try to put their two copper in. Rank of Shadowhand and position in Den Thelyss also made him distrusting of having anyone near his person with a weapon while his hands were encumbered, regardless of where their loyalties were said to lie. Even if they weren’t there to murder him, Essek was leery of what people who worked for his mother might take back to her, what she would figure out from what little information was spilled. He had a lot of very valid reasons for doing his own hair and in this conversation he could withhold all of them and not look too paranoid.

“Why?” asked Mollymauk in what he probably thought was an idle and non-judgmental tone. “Seems like it would be handy if you’re going to hire underlings anyway.”

“I’m better at it,” said Essek, which was also true.

“My Momma has somebody who helps with her hair and make up. Her name is Ocean and she is a really pretty pink tiefling and she is really nice and she used to cut my hair too—Molly! Stop squirming!” Jester said all in one breath.

“Stop dropping hair down my shirt!” Molly complained.

“I’ll cut off your ear, remember? Anyway, Ocean and me would talk about eeeeeeverything and she used to tell me what was going on in Nicodranas that I couldn’t see from my window,” Jester ended, somewhat wistful.

Ah...Essek struggled with what to say to that. While he and Jester grew up in privilege, his was very different from hers. Growing up secreted away and never being able to go outside sounded horrific and he was just waiting for the day that Jester’s trauma caught up with her conscious mind. However, he didn’t want to be responsible for that realization. Conversations were harder when they weren’t about the politics he didn’t care about. “She sounds wonderful,” Essek said unhelpfully.

“Why didn’t you talk to your stylists more?” Jester asked.

“I’ve told you, before I met you I did not have much in the way of friends nor was I inclined to make them. And I don’t particularly get along well with most of my family. Those facts combined mean I was never in the habit of…oh, let’s say, ingratiating myself to the den’s staff,” Essek said.

“That is so sad!” Jester gave him big sorrowful eyes. “I was friends with everybody who worked for my Momma.”

Mollymauk looked vaguely uncomfortable with this whole conversation. Essek assumed a life in the circus did not lend one much experience with hired help.

“People do better with other people, at least so far as I’ve seen. You must’ve been lonely,” said Mollymauk, offhandedly. Jester was still steering him by the horn so he was looking at the wall rather than Essek, but he knew the comment was directed at him.

“I believe it was, yes.”

“Was it just you?” Mollymauk asked.

“I always had my brother,” Essek said. Even when Essek did his best to push him away. He did not deserve Verin.

“When are we going to meet him, by the way?!” Jester asked excitedly.

Essek was surprised by the question, he hadn’t considered bringing those two parties together. The future was so indefinite. For the past six months he felt like he was running very low on time and in his day-to-day panic he hadn’t thought about the simple friendly act of introducing Verin to the rest of the Mighty Nein. “...Good question,” Essek said, buying himself time. “Perhaps we can visit Bazzoxan if I survive today—”

“Don’t say that!” Jester snapped.

Essek startled, confused. “Don’t say what?”

“That you might not survive! You don’t even know what the Queen wants, right?!”

“I…do not,” Essek replied.

“You’ll be fine!” said Jester.

“Mm,” said Essek with what he hoped was a convincing close-lipped smile. It felt tight and insincere.

“You are going to be fine, you will be so good, and then Verin is going to meet your boyfrieeend!” Jester sang the last word.

“I’m afraid I do not understand. Who?” Essek asked.

“Caleb!” said both Jester and Mollymauk together.

Essek blinked. His mind was so far from…whatever this was, it took him a second to even process what they were saying. “Caleb?” he repeated.

“Yeah, Caleb, obviously!” said Jester, brandishing her scissors at him in a way that made him uneasy enough that he floated a few more inches back.

“Caleb isn’t my boyfriend,” Essek said. Why would she think anything to the contrary? What about their relationship seemed…boyfriend-ish? Did it need to change? Was it allowed?

“Why not?” Mollymauk asked, like a small child.

“I don’t know how to answer that,” Essek said.

“Why not?!” Mollymauk repeated. This time the same question was even less answerable.

“I…there aren’t…he’s not…” said Essek, feeling his face heat and ears rise the longer he failed to produce an answer.

“Oooh! You’re blushing! You’re blushing! Look, he’s blushing!” Jester said, rapping Mollymauk on the shoulder.

“He is!” Mollymauk agreed when she allowed him to look.

“I have much more important things on my mind right now!” said Essek, trying to will the blood from his cheeks.

“What could be more important than love?!” asked Jester.

“My impending demise for one,” Essek muttered.

“Stop saying you are going to die! Holy shit, Essek!” Jester said, with another threatening swing of the razor. “If you were in trouble don’t you think she’d be like,” and Jester adopted a deeper and more flowing voice to say, “‘I demand your stupid butt get back here right now!’ Instead of whatever she said?!”

“She didn’t want me to run,” said Essek.

“So she didn’t even give you a time to show up? Just come around whenever in the afternoon?” Jester asked. “Do you think she has somebody just waiting there for you to turn up so they can jump on you? For like 12 hours or whatever? Why wouldn’t she want to catch you right away? Did she say she’d punish you if you didn’t show up?”

“No, but that doesn’t—”

“Why wouldn’t she just storm in with like a million guards and a million spells and just drag you away the second you got here? She knows where you live, she knows where we live. You only go to like two other places and she knows them both too!”

That was the first argument that actually struck Essek through his jaded armor. It was true that the Bright Queen could swoop in anywhere at any time. Maybe she wanted to keep it quiet, but considering the gravity of his actions…maybe he had a chance.

“See?!” Jester said triumphantly.

“You are irrationally confident in the conclusion you’ve come to,” said Essek.

“Yeah, so are you,” said Jester, flipping his argument on him. It was simple, but he still hadn’t expected it.

“Ah, hmm,” he said as his original reply slipped his mind.

“It’ll be fine, Essek,” she said gently.

Essek didn’t reply, his ears drooping.

“It will! Because…you know!”

“I assure you I do not,” he said.

“Because!” she said.

“You are very convincing,” said Essek dryly.

“Shut up, dickhead,” said Jester.

“You have no evidence!”

Jester grinned at him. “Neither do you,” she sang. Again he lost his train of thought to her intentional derailing. “Why do you think you are going to get murdered?” she asked.

“Executed,” Essek said, “and I should think the reason is obvious.”

“But she doesn’t know that, you know? I know you know she doesn’t know!”

“I’m sorry?” Essek asked.

“You know! Besides, didn’t that other guy get in trouble for…?” Jester trailed off, Essek had honestly expected another ‘you know.’

“‘That other guy’ was Taskhand Adeen Tasithar,” Essek supplied. Despite wearing a necklace to keep himself from being seen by Scrying eyes and despite Fjord having used the Star Razor to check for them saying this aloud made Essek nervous, his palms clammy with sweat.

“Yeah, whatever, that guy, Fally McFall-Guy,” Jester said, clearly not actually concerned what his name was. “He’s in trouble for it, so case closed!”

“Yes, and I assume the Empire will have killed him by now,” Essek said. Mollymauk made a face. Essek didn’t respond to it, he wouldn’t know how to if he wanted to.

“If he’s been…” Jester gestured with the razor too close to her throat for Essek’s liking and made a garbled “Chhhkkk” from the back of her throat to indicate Taskhand Adeen’s having been terminated. “Then nobody’s even looking for the thief anymore! Why are you still scared?”

“Because the truth cannot be erased,” said Essek. “It can always be resurrected.”

Mollymauk’s face fell further. He knew that better than anyone here. What they had just survived proved Essek’s point: things never just went away. Even if you buried them deep they were still down there, waiting to be uncovered.

“Okay, okay, okay, but consider this,” Jester said, perhaps to change the focus, perhaps having noticed Mollymauk’s reaction. “The Bright Queen likes you, right?”

“She once did at the very least,” Essek said.

“Has she said she doesn’t like you anymore?”

“No, but—”

“So she probably just wants to see you again because you’ve been gone for sooooo long! Or maybe she has some shifty Shadowhand shit for you to do!”

“That is…well, it is possible,” Essek said. “There is always more, as you so artfully say, ‘shifty Shadowhand shit’ to do in the capital.”

“I bet she hasn’t even thought about the Beacons being stolen in months! She’s probably like,” and again she put on her fake Bright Queen voice, but this time sounded more wistful, “‘oh where, oh where is Essek, my very favorite Shadowhand?’”

“I am her only Shadowhand,” Essek corrected her statement.

“Then you’re even more important! She probably just wants you to sit on her fancy dais again.”

“Then why has she ignored me for this long?” he asked.

Jester shrugged, “Maybe she thought you were busy. But now the asymmetry of her dais is pissing her off so she needs another fancy chair again.”

“If she wanted me, my ‘being busy’ wouldn’t matter,” Essek said.

“Oh, if she wanted you?” Jester asked, wriggling her eyebrows.

“What does that even mea— Jester, no!” Essek said.

“I’m not the one who said it!” Jester sing-songed.

“How is your haircut going?” Essek asked Mollymauk to change the subject, speaking over any more of Jester’s innuendos.

“Slowly,” Mollymauk immediately replied. It seemed he, too, wanted to jump topics.

“You had a lot of hair!” said Jester.

“That isn’t my fault!” said Molly. “Everyone knows your hair keeps growing after you die.”

“It does not,” Essek said.

“I’m pretty sure it does,” said Jester.

“Be that as it may, I am very certain it doesn’t.”

“Then explain all this!” said Mollymauk, shaking his apron from below and bouncing loose purple locks to the floor.

Essek fumbled. The comparison between Mollymauk and a child had never been sharper in his mind. What would he be allowed to say to this newly reborn tiefling and what would be too much? Did he remind him that Lucien had occupied that body for months? That seemed unwise, especially since it seemed he’d only just managed to shake that phantom away again. But he couldn’t allow the tieflings to think they had actually won, that they’d somehow checkmated him. That would be hard to do even if they were correct, but since their argument was an overt fallacy it was unthinkable to concede.

As Essek desperately searched for his answer it came out of the kitchen across the hall: Caduceus. Caduceus had to duck to go through any of the Xhorhaus’s thresholds, there weren’t many giant-kin in Rosohna and none had recently been in the Thelyss line as far as Essek knew. When Caduceus lifted his head again Essek gestured wildly to him. Caduceus looked around momentarily confused, clasping a pale peach between his teeth, seeing no one else around he pointed to himself with questioning eyebrows raised. Essek nodded and Caduceus crossed the hall to join them. He ducked this doorframe too, took a bite of his peach, and said “Hey, everybody,” through his full mouth.

While he was slowly chewing, Jester and Mollymauk asked their question at the same time with matching childlike enthusiasm, “Does your hair grow after you die?!”

“Huh?” Caduceus frowned as his mind registered what they were asking. When his expression smoothed back out, he replied, “Oh, no. No, it doesn’t.”

“Are you sure?!” asked Jester.

“Yup,” said Caduceus.

“But somebody told me…” Mollymauk began. “Are you really sure?”

“Yeah, I’m really sure. People say it all the time. But it isn’t true.”

“How do you know?” Jester asked.

“Because I work with the dead, remember?” said Caduceus, “People think dead hair grows because bodies shrink. Well, not bodies, exactly, but their skin, when it decays and dehydrates, it shrinks. And that makes hair and nails look longer.” He took another bite of peach before pointing at Molly with an approving nod, “I like your hair!”

“Caduceus!” gasped Jester, jumping excitedly on the spot. “You do your own hair! I’ve seen you do it!”

“Yeah, I guess I do,” said Caduceus.

“And it looks really cool!”

“Thank you,” he said.

“You need to help me with Molly’s! You and Essek! I’m getting to the tricky part and I’ve never done this before!” pleaded Jester.

“You didn’t tell me that!” said Mollymauk.

“I’m sorry, Molly! Beau always cuts my hair for me!” she said.

“Well, I was working on Mollymauk’s idol, but I can take a break,” Caduceus said with a shrug.

“My what now?” Mollymauk asked.

“For the shrine upstairs,” said Caduceus. “We’ve already got Melora and Iounn and Kord and...well, Artegan—”

“Yeah, Arty probably doesn’t need it, huh? It’s only me and he has a weasel.”

Mollymauk seemed to be struggling to follow the conversation, but the veneer of comprehension broke on the word “weasel.” “I haven’t seen…you have a weasel?”

“A weasel lives here,” said Caduceus at the same time Jester said, “Arty and me have a weasel,” and Essek said, “Not really.”

“Oh,” said Mollymauk faintly. “Right, of course. Arty.” The name sounded clumsy on his tongue. Essek didn’t blame him for his confusion, he barely understood who and what Artegan was and Jester had explained the situation to him in detail. When last Mollymauk saw Jester, her god was only known as The Traveler.

“Anyway, Yasha always said you were really dedicated to the Moonweaver so I’m making you an icon to her for our shrine,” Caduceus said warmly.

“Oh!” Mollymauk brightened at that and straightened, “Yeah! Thanks!”

“Stop moving!” Jester said but somehow it was overpowered by Caduceus’s quiet voice.

“It’s nothing, really,” said Caduceus, “This is your home, too. You’re back.”

“I am back and I worship the Moonweaver,” Mollymauk said, sounding reassured.

“And everybody can use a little help from the divine,” Caduceus added. Essek firmly disagreed on that front, but it seemed to help Caduceus and certainly had Mollymauk. After all, the latter would not be breathing were it not for the Wildmother.

“How about help from a cleric?” Jester asked, holding the razor out pleadingly.

“Oh yeah, sure,” said Caduceus. “Lemme just finish this…” He waved the peach before shoving it back in his mouth.

“It seems you two have this covered,” said Essek under his breath and used this as his excuse to flee before he got roped into cutting hair.

Essek lingered around the Xhorhaus like a ghost, moving from room to room in the sort of restless anticipation that leaves one aimless and spiraling into nebulous anxiety. He had passed by the open library door three times before Caleb looked up from the serious conversation he was having with Veth and waving him in.

“You’re making me nervous,” he said. “Come, if you are not busy, maybe you can help us.”

Essek entered and moved over to the work table, cleared of beakers and chemicals to make way for Caleb’s spellbook and another book, bound in a heavy material like the burlap imported from the Menagerie Coast. Tassels hung off the ends of the spine, and a collection of multi-coloured buttons were sewn haphazardly across the front cover.

“Do you like it?” Veth asked. Essek noted the ink pot and two quills set out beside the books and inclined his head. Veth’s new spell book, and already seeing use.

“It is... unique,” Essek said, democratically, “You should tuck the tassels in when you are carrying it, they would make a tempting target for a pickpocket.” It only struck him after the words left his mouth who he was talking to, but Veth just laughed.

“Yeah. Yeza bought it for me in Nicodranas, and he doesn’t really think about that sort of stuff.”

But it was a gift, which made the practicalities of the thing irrelevant. Essek understood. His current spellbook was a gift from Deirta, given upon the completion of his official studies at the Marble Tomes Conservatory. His feelings around it were... complicated, but it was also arguably the last kind thing his mother had done for him. Surely, there was a reason he hadn’t yet replaced it with something more modern, something less ornate and not as heavy.

“What do you need my opinion on?” he asked, leaning a hip against the side of Caleb’s chair. Maybe he imagined it, or maybe Caleb leaned closer to him.

“I am trying to explain why illusory script must be written with a lead-based ink,” Caleb said.

“And failing!” Veth cut in, pointedly. “All I’m saying is, has anyone tried doing it with acids?”

Caleb rubbed his face and dragged his hands up and back through his hair. “I am quite certain someone has, yes.”

Essek shook his head. “No,” he said, “Alright, of course, you are thinking of this like an alchemist. But you must remember that many of the components of magic are not just relying on their chemical properties, but also their symbolic meaning to the caster. In this case, the spell is not so much about the deception as it is about imbuing the parchment with the intent of both messages. Lead acts as a drier, which increases the ability of the caster to call upon the Weave only in the precise moment and in the precise location in which they are creating the messages. As long as the ink is wet, the message is fluid and as prone to imperfections as the physical ink it is written with. Most of us cannot hold a single thought in our focus for more than a few seconds, and even then it may be a challenge. The faster the ink dries, the less room there is for accidental alteration of the intent. Lead likewise keeps the magic within the bounds of the ink, not allowing for any kind of bleed of energy onto the rest of the page.”

“Ok, so could you do it by... scratching a message into soapstone or, I don’t know, cesium, whatever?”

Essek shook his head. “The caster must bring an outside component to the spell. Intent is not a sufficient reagent — the Weave allows us to transform reality in many fantastic ways, but we must provide the physical building blocks. Conservation of Mass still applies, of course.”

“Explain his fucking tower, then,” Veth said, pointing at Caleb beside her.

“...No,” said Essek as Caleb smiled smugly to himself. “Magic is intent-based. Surely you’ve realized this by now — a feather does not have the chemical properties to alter one’s gravitational field.”

“Yeah, but that’s not what it does,” Veth said. Caleb had also straightened up and started chewing on the tip of his quill as Essek spoke.

“No, no,” Caleb said, before Essek or Veth could continue, “Explain to us, Essek, how Feather Fall works. Pretend we are very stupid.”

Veth slid down in her chair to blatantly kick Caleb under the table.

“It is just as I said,” Essek frowned. “It is a pocket of reduced gravitational effect. The caster’s relation to the planet is temporarily adjusted. I suppose you could do something with density as well, but I doubt the effect would be sufficient for most caster’s needs.”

“That sounds… extremely fake,” Veth said.

“It makes sense,” Caleb said, waving a hand. “But it is not how the spell works. At least not the way it was taught to me, and the way I taught it to Veth.”

“How else, exactly, does it work, then? Enlighten me,” said Essek.

“It is transmutation,” Caleb said (of course). “The caster takes on the physical properties of the feather as they relate to mass and surface resistance.”

Essek stared at him. Well, that was blatantly ridiculous. “What does that even mean?! I have seen you cast, and I feel I would remember everyone turning into feathers.”

“To fall as a feather does, you needn’t actually be a feather,” said Caleb. “You simply must relate to your surroundings as a feather would.”

Now it was Essek’s turn to concede. “That almost makes sense.”

“I know,” said Caleb.

It was similar to how one did the simplest illusion magic. Twisting the Weave into a tapestry that was comprehensible. But, of course, that only worked on a simplest level of the illusory, the most basic spells. If you wanted anything with any artistry to it you had to get more complicated. He remembered a spell in a book on one of these shelves and wondered how Caleb would interpret it, what sort of insanity he would pull from the aether. There was, of course, only one way to find that out.

His chain of thought was broken by Caleb brushing gently against him.

“One moment,” he said after his brain rewired itself. Caleb had straightened as well and stared hard at nothing.

Essek pushed himself off the desk and pulled down a book from the shelves. He had spent most of his time in this house as a child pulling books off of these very shelves and being alternately praised or chided for it, depending on his age and who found him. Essek wondered if Caleb had done the same while he wasn’t there.

“Do you know much Illusion magic?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Veth.

At the same time Caleb shrugged bashfully and said, “Not so much.”

“Mm,” Essek said to show he had heard them. The previous owner of the selected spellbook, like many wizards, had organized it by her own methods, but her spells were written in handwriting as neat as Essek’s without the extra frills. She was a distant relative of Essek’s, the former owner of the house, and someone Essek never actually wanted to meet, her magical gifts aside. “Here we are,” said Essek, flipping through the book until he landed on the page he was looking for: Seeming. “You may have to cast Comprehend Languages, which I’m sure you do by transmuting the language center of your brain.”

Silently Caleb pulled out a small sack of salt. “Are you asking?” Caleb asked.

“Perhaps I am,” said Essek.

“You think of things too literally, my friend. The language center of the brain has nothing to do with it.”

“I believe you will find that it does.”

“No, the process begins on the page. You must transmute the language itself.”

“The words don’t change,” Essek pointed out.

“Not for you,” Caleb said.

“Of course,” said Essek sarcastically. It made very little sense, but he could see the thread of it. Caleb was essentially tricking reality into comprehension. It shouldn’t work, but apparently it did. Caleb’s mind was truly unfathomable. Essek thought his method was more foolproof. He cast the same spell by tapping into a timeline where he knew the language in question.

“This is a spell to change the appearance of a group of creatures,” Essek said, spreading the pages out across the desk. Caleb and Veth leaned over it intently.

“Much like what Fjord can do,” says Caleb. “Yes, I have a more limited version of this one.”

“Me too,” said Veth.

“Examine the mechanics of it as it is laid out here,” Essek said, and waited for the inevitable fireworks.

“This looks like that pearl spell, you know, where you two romantically touch each other’s faces for, I’m sure, completely academic and not at all sensual reasons,” said Veth in a voice increasingly dripping with sarcasm. Essek didn’t respond, but felt his face inexplicably heat up. He pulled another old spellbook off the shelf to flip idly through and hide his face behind instead of looking at the other two. He heard rather than saw Caleb elbow Veth hard enough that she complained about it.

“She’s right, though,” Caleb muttered after a moment.

“No, she isn’t,” said Essek.

“Yes, I am,” said Veth. “No spell needs that much time gently touching one another. And don’t get me started on that other forehead thing you do—”

“About Fortune’s Favor,” said Caleb, cutting her off. “This is…illusory dunamancy? It looks more like creating an area of effect, with...possibility?”

“Close,” said Essek. He floated around the table to assist, placing the second book beside Veth. “It is an AOE, you’re correct. You are generating a field of unreality around the targets so that when observed, the reality that is seen is one where their appearances are that which you have created. The stranger, the more unlikely, the more difficult. Consider it a window into what could be.”

“Does it then hold up to physical examination?” Caleb asked. He sounded fascinated and was bowed so low over the old book his nose almost brushed the page. Essek found himself smiling. His passion and enthusiasm was always contagious. It was not a unique spell, but Caleb didn’t seem to care.

“Not at the level of 5, or so the author of this spell professes. It is not an echo but a mirror. Perhaps if you were implementing only a small alteration, say, different clothing, the timelines would be close enough that the physical might be doable, but you would need to implement some material components. I suppose you could alter this spell to bring forward the physical reality, as opposed to the visual, but I’m not sure to what end, there would be easier ways to do that.”

Caleb lifted his head, pinched his nose. “Why not simply create an illusion? Light bends. It is easy to trick the eye.”

“With what components?!” Essek asked, incredulous. “We just went over this. Without a material component there is nothing to physically alter the way light interacts with the targets.”

Caleb glared down at the book. Essek allowed Caleb to spend time with it, his lips moving silently, his long elegant fingers tracing the page. He helped Caleb talk his way through it. Slowly his expression softened and Essek watched as the puzzle came together in Caleb’s uniquely wondrous mind. He could see the moment it clicked into place, the excitement in Caleb’s sky blue eyes. “May I copy this down?” Caleb asked.

“Only if you do not turn it into Empire...nonsense,” Essek bit back anything more offensive. He didn’t know why his tongue had to be so damned acidic. Yes, Caleb’s magic boggled his mind, it was nonsensical and even flatly ridiculous, but Caleb used it to do incredible things. Indeed, Essek wanted to see how Caleb made sense of Seeming. Caleb’s magic was astounding and malleable, even if it was fundamentally flawed at its very core. Perhaps because of those flaws, Caleb treated the universe like clay, rather than playing within the bounds of the deck of physical realities and using universal laws against the universe. “Weave” was a verb to Caleb Widogast. Essek altered what existed, plucked what didn’t from nearby while Caleb fabricated what he felt was missing from the things he had on hand.

“I will do my best,” he said.

Veth, unsurprisingly, had gotten distracted. She was flipping intently through the second spellbook that Essek had abandoned.

“Caleb,” she said. “I... almost don’t want to tell you about this, but you’d never forgive me if I didn’t.”

“Hmm,” Caleb said, not looking up from his fresh sheet of paper as he prepared it.

Essek leaned over to see which spell Veth was looking at and immediately glanced back at Caleb, wide-eyed.

Yes, he could see the problem.

“I have to show him,” Veth said. “I can’t not. It’s like. Illegal.”

Essek nodded slowly. Caleb’s mind was brilliant, but also terrifying. “It’s fine,” he said. “It’s fine. I’m sure this house is insured for fire damage.”

It was always a delight to watch Caleb’s magic in action as he transmuted the universe with all its — and his — mad brilliance. Or terrifying. Or both, honestly. But, all good things come to an end, at the very least in Essek’s experience. All too soon he had to leave his friends and go to the Lucid Bastion to meet his fate. Now the distraction faded, now he had to return to reality.

The fact that no one had swooped in to immediately arrest him made him hope that maybe Jester was right and he was safe and simply wanted as a member of the Queen’s court. Or maybe she was trying to avoid the fallout of a public arrest and was waiting for him to separate from the others. Or maybe his odd and fearful behavior was going to draw suspicion and he would enact his own demise. However it went, it was time to find out.

He tried to say his goodbyes and leave quickly before his friends either enticed him to stay or simply made leaving harder. Caleb followed him into the entry hall. And despite his better judgment, Essek was glad he had.

“Not so fast, my friend,” Caleb said in that soft, Zemnian voice. Essek felt a small smile forming on his lips. He had been in the process of securing his heavy mantle back across his shoulders. He looked up, his hands falling to his sides.

“If I moved much slower I would be going backwards,” Essek said.

Caleb approached him and Essek remained still. He was unsure of how to start this sort of contact, any sort of physical contact. Or emotional contact. He wanted to seek it out, but it was hardly proper for him to lean into Caleb like a cat by a fire. “You cannot spare another moment or two?” Caleb asked.

“I have given you much of the day already, Caleb Widogast,” he said.

“Then what is a moment more?”

“That depends entirely on what that valuable time will be used for,” Essek teased.

“Ah, but I thought time was one of your specialities,” said Caleb, with a smile. They seemed to spend a lot of their time just a little too close and a little too far from each other, in this in-between Essek couldn’t name.

“That is why I could spare you what has been given,” said Essek. Their hands found each other, Caleb’s thumb brushed over Essek’s knuckles. To Caleb it seemed so natural, Essek wondered if he knew what he was doing to him, because Essek certainly didn’t. Every time he thought he figured it out his confidence shattered.

The long, pale fingers of Caleb’s free hand traced gently over one of the wavelike points on the shoulder of Essek’s mantle, careful not to prick his calloused fingertips on them. “It is a heavy burden you bear.”

“My mantle or my role?” Essek asked.

“Perhaps both, although you still have not told us what a Shadowhand is.”

“Hm, curious,” said Essek benignly.

“You could change that,” Caleb said.

“I could,” said Essek. The flirtation was easy, light, which was why Essek was thrown off guard when Caleb got more serious, more genuine, when he cut straight to Essek’s core. He did not know if it was intentional.

“Are you afraid?” Caleb asked.

“...I may be,” Essek said, looking away, “I still do not know why the Bright Queen has called me here.”

“You will come back,” Caleb said reassuringly, “you will not die. You will come home to us.” The word ‘home’ sent another sting of pleasant pain through him.

“Did Jester tell you what I said to her?” Essek asked.

“No,” said Caleb.

“Then am I that transparent?” asked Essek.

“Nein, it is simply that I would be in a similar state of mind given the predicament.” Then Caleb smiled kindly, “But perhaps you are a little grim. You must not give her and the court more than they already have. Do not make them suspect what they do not already.”

“It does not matter how I act, if they know there is no hope for my survival,” Essek told him.

“You have helped save the world, she cannot do away with you so quickly.”

“Nobody knows we saved the world,” Essek reminded him. “We made sure of that. Remember, the blood of many is on my hands, I cannot counteract that.”

“And you must remember that you are not the only one whose hands drip with blood, I do not believe I have been in more esteemed company if you will bear mine.”

“Always,” Essek heard himself answer.

“Then we will defend our own.” There was a brief pause before Caleb asked, “Do you believe the queen knows anything untoward is in your history?”

Essek let out a low chuckle. “‘Anything untoward’? Yes. This specific crime? Not to my knowledge.”

“There is no evidence?”

Essek bristled. “Of course not.” He was smarter than that, there was no physical evidence of his crime and never had been. Caleb let the silence rest, and after a moment, Essek said, “Only my dread.”

“I know the feeling,” Caleb admitted, “but that anxiety is not on your side in this case. Stay on guard, but do not alert anyone else’s.”

“I fear that will be more easily said than done,” Essek said.

“Ja, that is unfortunately always true. But consider, all this dread might be for nought and that dark chapter may have truly been closed with the return of the Beacons and the death of Tasithar.”

“That certainly is the hope,” Essek said. He looked down, worrying one of the clasps of his mantle. “I must admit, I feel a little guilty about his arrest and death. Adeen Tasithar was not a good man and the world is no worse off without him, but the same could be said of me.”

Caleb cupped his cheek not forcing his gaze in any direction, but seemingly just to remind Essek of his presence. “That is not true anymore.”

“So you say.” Essek leaned into Caleb’s hand, one of his hands came up to hold Caleb’s against his face.

“So I know,” said Caleb. He kissed his cheek. His expression, once soft, became more serious. “You must be calm, collected. The jig is not yet up.”

His mind caught on yet another of Caleb’s inexplicable Common turns of phrase, his mouth said, “I am very tired of the performance.”

“I know,” said Caleb gently, empathetically. Essek knew he did. His eyes found Caleb’s and for once he was looking back into Essek’s, that bright blue on his own deep purple. “I know how hard it is to return to the place you once called home after abandoning it, to wear again the mask you both made and shattered. I know the anxiety and not knowing if you are more afraid of having forgotten the dance or remembering it. I can warn you of this…while it is not easy to return home nor to face those who have harmed you, it is frighteningly easy to repair and put on the mask you broke. But you will be able to remove it again, do not betray your fear. It takes only a misplaced word or phrase to make an innocent man guilty to the masses.”

“There is no man further from innocent than I,” Essek reminded him.

“All the more reason not to give them cause to suspect when they do not already.”

“There is no way to know what they suspect. I have only heard 25 words from the court in weeks. It may be as simple as the Bright Queen being concerned for my well being or it could be that I am about to tie my own noose around my throat.”

Caleb’s hand tightened on nothing for a moment. “You are a member of the Mighty Nein, Essek Thelyss; we will not let you die so easily.”

Essek laughed bitterly. “Caleb, please, be reasonable. Leylas Kryn holds all of the meaningful power in Xhorhas as well as the loyalty and strength of the majority of its people. I would not blame you if—”

“I—” Caleb cut him off, then corrected himself, “We will not let any harm come to you.”

Essek smiled sadly. If only it were that simple. But he didn’t voice that out loud. Instead he said, “Thank you, my friend.”

“There is nothing to thank me for — I have only told you the truth,” Caleb replied. He leaned down and gave Essek’s forehead a kiss, that quiet contact Essek had learned to seek out from the other wizard. Comfort. The Mighty Nein provided him with a comfort he had not known since...maybe ever. “And we may be paranoid, you and I. I am often accused of it. Perhaps she doesn’t know anything.”

“Ah, but in that case, can you save me from the boredom of an ordinary session of the Bright Queen’s court?” Essek asked, trying to convince himself as well as Caleb. Neither of them was, but they were both good actors. Unfortunately being good actors they could also spot another.

“Is it so boring?” asked Caleb with a small smile.

“I’ve told you I’ve no interest in or taste for politics and when no filthy strangers with holy relics come bursting in there is not much that happens. Just taxes and troop movement, petty complaints, funding cuts, denials of research—”

“Some of those complaints sound personal,” said Caleb.

“Because some of them are,” Essek replied.

“You can tell me all about them this evening when you return to the Xhorhaus.”

“Yes, I shall.” Then he sighed, “Be well, Caleb. Light be willing I will see you this evening, and if not…”

“If you need us we will be there in an instant,” Caleb snapped his fingers to demonstrate, sparks flickering from his fingers like fireworks. “I can and will incinerate the palace in a Whitestone minute. I can try out my new spell.”

“Hopefully that will not prove necessary,” said Essek. Caleb watched as Essek finally finished attaching his mantle over his cloak. It was the first time he’d put it on in over a week and he had forgotten just how uncomfortable it was. Just as he finished giving the latter a few finicky adjustments, Caleb’s hand found his again.

“We will get you free of this place. We will think of some way to extradite you from the court’s clutches. Just hold on a few days more,” Caleb said.

Essek nodded, not voicing his fear that a few days would already be pushing his luck to the breaking point.

“Contact one of us the moment there is any sort of trouble,” said Caleb, gently turning Essek’s arm by the wrist so his palm faced up.

“I will,” Essek replied.

“Good. Here,” Caleb said, he dropped something cool into Essek’s palm and closed his fingers over it. Essek frowned in confusion. “My keys,” the human explained, “so if you need to hide out you can get into this home no matter where we are without having to worry about components, spell slots, or Veth’s booby traps.” For a moment all that existed were the cold keys in his palm and Caleb’s hot fingers on his.

“Thank you,” Essek managed to choke out.

“There is nothing to thank me for,” Caleb answered.

“Goodbye Caleb,” Essek said, regretfully pulling his hand away.

“Bis später, Essek,” Caleb replied, “I will see you later.”

And Essek could not help but believe him.

Chapter Text

Order, tradition, den fidelity, reciprocity, wisdom, piety, loyalty to the Bright Queen, unwavering devotion to the Luxon. These were the tenets by which the social, religious, and governmental structure of the Kryn Dynasty and its elite functioned; these were the pillars that upheld the Lucid Bastion.

Each den acted as a microcosm of the Bastion itself: each had a matriarch and all fell behind her. There was a strict hierarchy — or a series of them — on the grandest scale of the pseudo-divine all the way down to one’s immediate family. Every relationship had order, everyone had a place, and while one’s place might change through social climbing, careful machinations, marriage, or time, the relationality didn’t. Younger would always be behind older, father behind mother, child behind parent, den member behind matriarch, matriarch behind Umavi, subject behind the Bright Queen, all behind the Luxon. The metaphor often used was that each person received a different amount of light from the Luxon, The Bright Queen had no one between her and her god, the other two Umavi had only the Queen in their path, and the rest of them were ordered behind the Umavi.

And with the virtues of the Lucid Bastion and its rigid social hierarchy in mind it only made sense that the Umavi, their army of clerics and priests, and the bloated court of nobles had concocted an enormous catalog of rules surrounding, well, everything.

There were hundreds if not thousands of rules — spoken and unspoken, written and unwritten — surrounding how one behaved with seemingly every step one took in the halls of the Lucid Bastion. There was procedure and purpose built into every square foot of the immense palace complex, the heart of Rosohna, the brain of the Kryn Dynasty. Most people, rather most citizens of the Dynasty, knew the very basics, but there was so much more to it than that. For example, no one outside of the elite of Rosohna knew how to address an Umavi, because they were not invited to do so. Though Essek was rarely invited to and he was an Umavi’s son by blood (den), bone (genetics), law (in the eye of mortals) and soul (in the eyes of the divine Luxon); as bound to her as was possible.

The sheer volume of the canon of rules meant trying to learn all these useless little pieces of protocol and ceremony could overwhelm even a gifted mind. Luckily for Essek — or, perhaps, unluckily for him, he was both more than gifted and born into this world of artificial order. He was sure he had learned all of it by this point. Not that it mattered, a lot of the rules were abandoned aside from times of extreme pettiness.

Of course there were punishments for breaking those not ignored. Some as minor as a tisk of the tongue or waggled finger, some requiring copious prayer. On the opposite end of the scale and with the most dire of offenses: imprisonment or banishment from the court or even the city. It was rare for something like that to happen to a member of a Noble Den, however, and even less likely in the highest of them all, the Ruling Dens of Thelyss, Mirimm, and, of course, Kryn. That was in part because of who doled out punishments — the Umavi rarely punished their own, the clergy and guard knew where their gold and power came from, and the Queen rarely wanted to cause so large a stir or intra-den conflict. The other complication was that, like any corrupt official, those who ran the church of the Luxon could be paid off. A sinner could get an indulgence and erase anything, from spreading false gossip to blasphemy to murder. Every crime had a price. Which was extremely convenient considering that the Luxon had no need for wealth and the accumulated income always seemed to go to the clergy with the Umavi at its helm.

Just more proof that Luxon worship was a ridiculous and elaborate farce. On the best of days Essek was an audience member, privately laughing at the idiocy of the players; on the worst he was press-ganged onto the stage, dragged into the pointless pageantry and corruption.

The Dynasty’s nobility adored tradition and order, yet they worshiped the Luxon, a thing that’s only material form was pure Dunamis energy. They followed the same rote routines while claiming loyalty to and lavishing devotion on fragments of change. The Beacons were literally a piece of all things that could be and could have been, a window into endless potential, a fractured chunk of undetermined spacetime. The Luxon Beacons granted elfoid hands the ability to write timelines and mold realities on the most minute scale, but the court of the Queen would deny it. The Dynasty built a culture and society based entirely around unchanging sameness. Tradition, continuity, and permanence — day to day, lifetime to lifetime, millennium to millennium, and yet they bowed to chaos in the form of the Luxon Beacons. Even intellectually knowing what the Luxon was, they still didn’t understand what the Luxon was even on the most fundamental level.

Because they didn’t want to.

That was why despite Essek’s own brilliance and accomplishments, he was banned from investigating the Beacons. They — the clergy, the Noble Dens, and the Umavi on their thrones — were afraid of what Essek would find if he was allowed to dissect their supposed god. If it was up to Essek, he would tear down the rules along with the faith that created them. He would illuminate the Luxon in a new way: bring reason and science to a society built on belief and religion; replace “truth” with fact. But no, to the powers that be in this place, his incredible mind would be better spent on learning meaningless pieces of decorum, empty prayer, and boring genealogical charts. It still made his blood boil and his fists and jaw clench.

Essek let out a breath to calm himself. A half-century of rage had only resulted in his committing mass murder and starting a war. By virtue of how the Noble Dens functioned, there wasn’t a soul in the Lucid Bastion who didn’t have blood on their hands, so it said a lot that he was the worst of them all. It was not something he was proud of and that reminder cooled his anger, like water over hot embers or a dampener on a flame. He tried not to let his nauseous guilt show on his face and to settle back into the smugness of knowing more than everyone else in the whole damned citadel.

Essek made his way through the enormous complex, passed government and military offices, through courtyards, to the Halls of Governance, where the Queen’s court was housed in one of three glowing quartz towers on one end of the citadel. The Firmaments of Rosohna had many impressive houses in it, built to that purpose, but behind the gates of the Lucid Bastion was another world entirely. There was plantlife carefully cultivated here that would not grow anywhere else in this country, art painstakingly carved from gemstone, clockwork animals and elfoids that could perform simple functions of without aid of magic, there were huge gem and marble mosaics of complicated geometric fractals and natural scenes that could not exist in the blighted landscape of Xhorhas, there were specially created fountains that could run with water, wine, or in carefully sealed ones, quicksilver, everywhere symbology of the Luxon was rendered in just about any metal or stone one could think of. It was beautiful and a display of wealth that Essek now found harrowing after having seen how others lived. Elsewhere in the Dynasty this kind of funding went into military and religious ventures, how convenient that the Ruling Dens’ home served as both.

But Essek could not show a change of heart. He made sure he didn’t do anything out of the norm. He hovered at his usual height and speed, kept the Shadowhand’s polite unfazed smile on his face, fingers steepled in front of him, most of his body concealed by his fine robes. As Caleb had said, it was terrifyingly easy to put the mask back on. It made Essek feel a little sick thinking about just how simple it was and how comfortably it fit. But Caleb had also promised him he would be able to remove it again. He had to trust his friend on this. He did trust his friend on this.

Essek wondered if he should visit Hall Thelyss first. His ancestral home loomed high and proud over his head on the central of the Bastion’s three pillars, one of four jutting towers. He should at the very least announce himself to his mother, his Umavi, first. But that would lead to a private conversation with her, something he wanted to avoid as long as possible. Perhaps he would be unlucky enough to walk right into her. Or perhaps she was even already in court, although Essek very much doubted it.

The Queen and Deirta Thelyss did not get along. The longstanding tensions between the two had become near-open disdain in the last decade and a half after the Umavi Thelyss had raised a hatchet that would take some centuries to bury again. On the surface the Umavi of Thelyss, Kryn, and Mirimm were united as ever, less than an inch below Deirta had been absent from the less vital events of the Ruling Dens for over a decade. That was why Essek sat on the See of Den Thelyss on the Bright Queen’s dais and took his mother’s place in many ceremonies.

Essek should at least find one of his mother’s servants and inquire after her. If Deirta Thelyss felt Essek was snubbing her for the Bright Queen he might be making things worse for himself. His mother was petty, and besides, filial piety was central to the den system, Essek was still her son and the oldest child of this lifetime. There was a chance she could act as his ally. If the ax was coming down on him he wanted to try to get his mother on his side, either so she could deflect it or at the very least he could drag her to the Hells with him.

The reminder that the fight for his literal survival may have been about to begin sent a cold jolt of anxiety down his spine, the blood draining away from his head to his hovering feet. He had just survived a life-or-death battle, but the Neosomnovum could be fought and killed. The political power of the Dynasty couldn’t. The only real solution was to make sure nobody figured out the truth.

He knew the odds were slim that they knew what he had done, just as Jester had assured him. But as he’d told her and Caleb he couldn’t fight this dread. He was being paranoid. But then, was it paranoia if everyone was truly out to get you?

A few weeks ago being found out would probably have felt like a relief from his near constant panic attack, but things had changed, life had improved, and now he was formulating a plan to keep the Dynasty away a little longer: convince the others to leave the Dynasty, fake his own death, and…he didn’t really know what would happen after that.

But if he was going to fake his death he had to survive this meeting. Deflect, deflect, deflect. Smile. Support the Queen. Traverse the Lucid Bastion and interactions therein. Keep calm. Stop his heart pounding like a drum in his ears. Keep the mask in place. Keep smiling. Remain untouchable.

Then set the scene, fake his death, and disappear. Disappear from the court, from the Queen, from the Aurora Watch, and the Lens for the next 600 years.

‘Should be easy enough,’ thought Essek with self-inflicted sarcasm.

“Essek!”

The Shadowhand froze. His ears pricked up at the sound of his name. His name and the accompanying sound of Kryn battle armor — that low, eerie insect whistle. Between distance, distraction, and the sound from the armor the voice was not clear enough for Essek to recognize. Now he wondered who here would be so brash as to call him by his first name? Who would call him by any name at all and not just his rank of Shadowhand? It was unheard of, one of those innumerable social laws being broken at his expense. He levitated a little higher, stood a little straighter, smiled a little more cruelly, but then heard the voice again, closer this time.

“Esseeeek!”

This time he recognized the voice, even over the armor. He spun around to face the speaker. “Ver—oh no!”

It was indeed Verin, his mother’s only other child of this lifetime and Essek’s full brother: blood, bone, law, and soul. Verin was running at full and substantial speed toward Essek, his armor roaring. Essek attempted to throw up Mage Armor, but of course Verin was expecting that. As soon as Essek started his somatic component Verin sent out his Echo ahead of him. Then, still running, he teleported the 15 feet to swap positions with the Echo. Essek had a split second to regret the research he’d put into improving that spell before he was tackled.

Verin slammed full-force into Essek and got a tight hold on him. The brothers stumbled together, but Verin kept them upright by using his momentum to spin on the stone walkway. They were in the middle of an orchard of skinny fruit trees in high stone planters, but they did little to hide the shenanigans Verin was inflicting on Essek. The Brothers Thelyss were in full view of anyone and everyone in the offices in the building behind them, the twin Aurora Watch and Lens headquarters on either side, and the three quartz towers dead ahead.

Essek’s toes hadn’t touched ground since he left the Xhorhaus but now he didn’t even need his levitation cantrip. Verin kept him high above the ground, pinning Essek’s arms to his sides. He knew Essek well, and knew had to keep Essek’s arms from moving or have his armor Immovable Object-ed.

“Did you miss me, Essek?” Verin asked enthusiastically. He held Essek close with one arm. With the size difference between the brothers, Verin’s strength, and Essek’s levitating, Verin could easily keep a grip on Essek and free up his other arm enough to press his fist against Essek’s head.

“Don’t you dare!” Essek shouted, a little too embarrassingly shrilly. Even as the words were leaving his mouth Verin made good on his unspoken threat, destroying Essek’s dignity and hair with one obnoxious noogie. “Let go of me! Damn you, Verin! Do you know how long it takes to get my hair looking this good?!”

Verin finally released him and Essek pushed off of his brother’s chest plate, bobbing like a buoy before he could correct his levitation.

“Yes, and that’s why I had to do it! You look like a stuck-up asshole!” said Verin.

“Because I am one,” Essek said. Then he sighed and added, “hello, Verin,” while trying to undo the carnage.

“Hello, Essek,” Verin politely replied, bowing reverently to his brother, leave it to a Thelyss to make a gesture sarcastic. Beyond the bow neither brother used the lengthy religious greetings their rank demanded of them. “Did you mi—”

“I missed you precisely until I saw you running across the courtyard,” Essek assured him, pulling a hand mirror from his Wristpocket to see exactly how bad the damage to his quiff was and how well he had corrected it.

Essek caught the eye of another drow in the reflection. She was about his age, holding more scrolls than she could comfortably carry, and dressed as a page. She immediately looked away after making eye contact with the reflection of the Shadowhand and turned on her heel so quickly she almost tripped, fumbling the scrolls. Essek’s eyes quickly scanned the courtyard as well as the balconies and windows of the surrounding buildings to find any other onlookers. He could see four other people watching them: two Aurora Watch officers on the balcony taking their lunch break, one gnoll priest, and one tiefling courtier of Den Mirimm. And of course there were the countless invisible eyes of the Lens, Watch, and den spies that permeated the Lucid Bastion at all times.

Verin waved vaguely to the Aurora Watchmen without any concern as Essek dusted himself off, straightened his robe. Between Verin’s nonchalance, Essek’s death glare, and social propriety the awkward moment popped like a soap bubble. The Watchmen went back to drinking their coffee and eating their meals, the priest continued their unhurried stroll, and courtier hung around a little longer but Essek was certain he would ultimately give up the hope of something else interesting happening. This sort of behavior was not unusual for Verin Thelyss, perhaps they thought he’d been made wild by his being posted out in the Wastes. By the end of the day this would be, at best, a blip of gossip. And if something more came of it Essek was more than capable of making it disappear.

It wasn’t as if the Thelyss Brothers had ever been above scrutiny — quite the opposite, actually. And their behavior had raised eyebrows for the entirety of their brief adult lives thus far. Verin disappeared completely from the capital and political life before even reaching a century old, rare for a Thelyss and the prodigy Essek cut his hair short and dabbled in mysterious magics beyond common comprehension; a spinning hug in one of the Lucid Bastion’s courtyards would not cause any sort of upset either of them had to worry about.

Then there was the nature of their friendship. Even before they reached adulthood their companionship had caused something of a stir. People talked, Essek and Verin did not act like brothers as the Lucid Bastion understood brothers to act. They liked each other. They were friends.

Besides the respect and deference the nature of their relationship required, brothers in the Noble Dens, particularly in the Ruling Dens, did not get along. They weren’t precisely enemies either, more...uneasy allies. Usually they were rivals. Each loved their den, their parents, their matriarch, their Umavi, and of course their Queen and god, but siblings were often competition for social growth. The nature of the place of their gender in the Dynastic hierarchy meant that brothers made for particularly fierce rivals, they had a lot more to prove than their sisters did. Like all members of the den, siblings were most loyal in the face of outside influence. When one was challenged, all were challenged, when one was accused, all came to the defense, when swords were drawn against one, all shields were raised, and, when the incident called for it, they all pulled out their blades and slung their spells. But as fiercely as a den fought outsiders, that violence could just as easily be turned inward. Even when they dutifully helped on another there was often something underhanded to it.

And that was how it was supposed to be, after all both siblings fought for their den and recognition in it. And if both siblings created great things in the name of competition that only added to the prestige of the den overall and every single member of it.

From very early on Essek and Verin had been clear exceptions. Maybe it was because they were only a decade apart, maybe it was because they were both new souls, or maybe it was because their unique abilities lay on opposite sides of a spectrum, but even when the den tried to stoke the fires of competition between them it had failed. It had been years since any jealousy between them ebbed away; a coating that had worn down over time and companionship until nothing was left but the tender material below.

Before the Mighty Nein, Verin had been the closest thing Essek had to a friend. Although it had been years since they had spent any amount of time together. Essek had shut himself off from Verin, too consumed by his work and his research. He had convinced himself he didn’t need anyone, including Verin, the Mighty Nein showed him he was wrong.

“I missed you too,” said Verin. “Luxon, it’s been too long! I haven’t even heard from you in a blink dog’s age!”

“I’ve been...busy,” Essek said, decidedly understatedly.

“You always say you’re busy,” said Verin, rolling his eyes.

“I am always busy,” Essek assured him, which wasn’t a lie; even if he hadn’t been living a double (and at one point triple) life his status as Shadowhand and favorite of the Bright Queen was demanding enough.

“No one is busy all the time,” Verin insisted.

“I can assure you of the contrary.”

The courtier finally gave up the hopes for a scandal. He acted as if he had suddenly remembered something, made a sharp right turn, and walked by them with a toss of his braid. Essek was now finally satisfied that anyone who had witnessed Verin’s greeting now feared retribution from the powers that be and had moved on. He turned his attention fully to his brother and snickered. “What under the Light does the Umavi have you wearing?” he asked, smirking behind his hand.

Verin held his arms to the side for further assessment and sighed heavily. “Yes, yes, take it in.”

In reality Verin was not dressed too differently than any high ranked commissioned officer of the Aurora Watch would be if they were going to appear in the Queen’s court. Verin was the son of Den Thelyss and its Umavi, so he could not be mistaken for a common soldier or even a common officer. On top of the typical ceremonial armor there were some added layers of finery, representations of rank and position, but Essek saw far more pretentious get-ups every day he was at his office. Verin’s costume was downright tame compared to what some wouldbe nobles wore to attempt to impress the higher dens. But those pompous windbags were not Verin. There was a reason Verin didn’t work in the Lucid Bastion. Well, there were dozens of reasons Verin didn’t work in the Lucid Bastion. But one was that he did not have the gravitas and dignity to dress like a courtier, let alone a member of the elite Ruling Dens and he was too self-aware to be content with the attention others lacking those traits received.

Verin’s usual armor was dented, scuffed, and used. It was scarred from six years of serving as active protector of the Dynasty, battling monsters in the dark below Bazzoxan. It was simple and largely unadorned, mail and a few pieces of cold-forged plate. The only decorations came in the form of a simple dodecahedron on the chest and the insectoid features of the helmet. The armored skirt was made of undecorated cold-forged steel and treated goat leather in the mountain pattern. His helmet was horrifically dented and instead of a visor had a bevor to protect his throat. In Bazzoxan he wore leather and mail ear armor that protected the long cartilage shell of it when his helmet was off, held in place by his earring holes. He wore his hair up, braid often tied back in a bun. He usually wore no make up at all, Verin never liked it and besides there was no one to impress.

Now he was glittering. This armor was black, buffed, and polished. He had left his helmet sitting in the gravel so he could tackle Essek, but when he went back for it Essek could see it had a grill made to look like a shiny insect mandible and almost certainly wouldn’t stop a bolt or arrow let alone a fiend’s claw. His armor was noisy, far too loud to be worn against what lay beneath Bazzoxan. Elfoid enemies might be thrown off or intimidated by the call of Kryn armor, the denizens of the Abyss were not.

There were pointed insectoid spines on the greaves and couters. The individual pieces of armor had repeating patterns of the Beacon embossed in silver, notably the specific patterns that belonged only to Den Thelyss. At the center of the chest piece was a round mirror plate that glittered whenever the light hit it, representative of the Luxon of course, with a large reflective wart in its center. The worst were the weird insectoid wings that curved out from the back plate, like the unfolded carapace of a beetle, with feathers dangling down from them. The metallic part of the wings and the material holding the feathers were decorated with Thelyss patterns interlocked with dodecahedrons. There were gems dangling from his delicate earrings and the gold cuffs on the points of his ears. The chain that connected them all would be just begging to get caught on an outcrop or an enemy’s claw. His hair was in an immaculate braid which hung down his back. His face was covered in bright metallic powders to draw attention to him, like the tail of one of the peacocks pecking around the courtyards.

Usually when Verin came from Bazzoxan to the capital it was in the wake of some huge event or particular success. He came looking the part of a soldier; cleaned up of the mud, blood, and gore typical of battle, of course, but still very clearly a man who slew monsters every day. The image was often helped by his presenting their severed heads, hides, and claws to the Queen and court. Those had been the only times Essek had seen his brother in years, and they hadn’t had the time to speak much, or so Essek said. But this was a unique circumstance where Verin was clearly here as a son of Den Thelyss and not the Taskhand of Bazzoxan.

Essek nodded as if satisfied in his appraisal. “I fear you have only given me more ammunition against you,” Essek said, one hand on his chin doing nothing to hide the enormous smirk on his face.

“Oh, I am very aware. But the Umavi, Luxon bless Her, in her infinite wisdom from her countless lifetimes has done me the great honor of summoning me to the court of her Eternal and Radiant Majesty the Bright Queen who found the Light of the Luxon, saved us from the clutches of Lolth and led us through the Wastes so that she can try to convince me to be more involved in politics. And to honor both of their perfect and luminescent souls, holy second only to the Light itself, who guide us and love us I wore this armor so I can turn her down and go home,” the words shone with gratitude while his tone was thickly dripping with annoyance. He was a Thelyss in some respects at least. He may have dodged ruthlessness and cruelty, but he was still fluent in sarcasm.

It wasn’t surprising that their mother was trying to drag Verin into a more centralized role. She had been for some time and now there was Adeen’s empty seat in court, just waiting to be filled by another military officer. Verin had never interested their mother much, but now she had been trying to sink her claws into Verin since Essek had dislodged them.

Essek was a prodigy, which was why Deirta took to molding him to her liking from a young age. But she seemed to forget that with a superior intelligence came a sense of self and identity. She wanted him to be something she was proud of, something to show off and keep on hand for display. He had grown into someone in his own right, not an envoy for Den Thelyss nor the trained dog of Deirta. Essek didn’t feel any particular loyalty to his den beyond Verin and lip service. He was no longer a spy for Den Thelyss and that had been evident since he took his mother’s seat. A very real and constant reminder to Deirta Thelyss that she had no control over her son. Essek had gone from her lacky to a free agent to, until this very moment, MIA in Eiselcross. He was hardly serving his intended purpose insofar as the Umavi was concerned. Unfortunately for her, a lifetime of ignoring her second son had not made him terribly inclined to jump to her every whim either.

That was not to say Verin was not loyal. He was disgustingly loyal and true. He took his role extremely seriously and as such he protected the people of the Dynasty and led a city.

“I’m glad we managed to run into each other then,” said Essek, “your visit is bound to be short.” They usually were, especially since Essek started dodging him.

“One can only hope. I left my second in command in charge and told her I would be home by the end of the week if not sooner. But given the Umavi’s insistence I come in the first place, I worry that might be wishful thinking on my part,” said Verin walking along beside his brother, helmet held under his arm. They walked in step toward the Halls of Governance, the right most tower and the court’s hub. Or rather Verin matched his steps to Essek’s hovering.

“We’ll think of some distraction for you to escape. Or if you play dead for long enough she’ll lose interest,” Essek said.

Verin laughed. “Luxon above, I’m so happy to see you, Essek! I’d heard you’d run off to Eiselcross for some misbegotten reason!”

“I did,” Essek said, wondering what it meant that that news had reached Verin. His mind immediately conjured new complicated webs of potential consequences and new anxieties. “But I completed my business there.”

“Then I’m glad for that. Now my trip won’t be a total waste of time!”

“I feel much the same way,” Essek said.

“So, you aren’t busy this time?” Verin asked, looking sidelong at his brother.

“No, I’m not,” said Essek.

“...Really?! Then let’s go out, get dinner, a drink, go somewhere fun!” Verin said.

Essek grimaced slightly at the word “fun.”

“Oh no, I said the dreaded word! Come on, I feel like pushing my luck with you!” said Verin. He nodded to the guards standing at the entry to the Halls of Governance as the brothers passed. Essek wondered if Verin knew them. Verin had always seemed to know everyone.

As much as Essek did not trust Verin’s concept of “fun” he did want to spend time with him. There was so much to tell him. It felt like he had lived an entire life since they parted and started a new one. He had so much now that he had never had nor even understood before. And he understood Verin in a way he hadn’t before thanks to it. Essek wanted to tell him that he, Verin, was actually right about something.

“Alright,” said Essek.

“Alright?” Verin repeated, stopping short just inside the grand hallway.

“Yes. I’ll go,” Essek said. “Come on, Verin! You cannot block the doorway!”

“But—that’s it? You really aren’t going to argue? You’re not going to come up with some excuse?” asked Verin.

“That’s it. We have a lot to catch up on,” Essek gently tugged him along, through the busy hallway.

“I can’t believe I am getting the Shadowhand to enjoy a nice family dinner,” said Verin with a slow grin.

“Don’t go spreading it around,” Essek replied, releasing him.

“I had a whole speech to try to convince you,” said Verin, “a debate with multiple arguments. I even wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget anything.”

“Save them for next time,” Essek said.

“I shall. Well, this is unprecedented! We could celebrate your finally celebrating, but from what little I know, or I think I know, we have a lot to talk about anyway.”

“Indeed we do,” said Essek. “Where do you recommend?”

“Somewhere in the Gallimaufry, unbefitting of our station, of course.”

“Of course,” agreed Essek.

“We could go to the Dim’s Inn?” Verin recommended. “That was always fun when we were younger.”

“No,” said Essek.

“Whyever not?”

“It’s too far below our station, besides I’ve been using it to drop off unwanted guests,” said Essek. Verin laughed and Essek smiled. “The Umavi doesn’t think it is as funny as we do.”

“The Umavi doesn’t think anything is funny, what did you expect?”

“Fair point,” Essek conceded.

“So, not Dim’s Inn? Are you afraid you’ve made too many visits and your mystique is wearing off?” Verin asked.

“Something like that,” Essek shrugged. “We could try...oh damn it all, what is the name of that place?”

“You’re the one who still lives here, Essek,” Verin reminded him.

“You know I do not go out if I can avoid it.”

“Of course,” said Verin with a nod.

“It’s the place with the good selection of wine.”

“There are a lot of those,” said Verin.

“Finger foods,” Essek said.

“Again, doesn’t narrow it down,” Verin said.

“It’s across the street from a book shop…” Essek added.

“Of course you remember that,” said Verin.

“The logo is blue and green, I think, with a spilled glass,” said Essek.

“Ah! ‘Hangover’!” said Verin, snapping his fingers in recognition, “I thought you hated it there!”

“I hate it slightly less than your other dives.”

“Excuse me, I have excellent taste,” said Verin with mock offense.

“No, you don’t,” Essek assured him. “But I can stand that place.”

“Well then, it’s settled!” said Verin, clapping his hands triumphantly, “After your meeting we’ll go out!”

“Are you leaving me now?” Essek asked, trying not to show his anxiety.

“Yes, and quickly,” said Verin.

“Oh, won’t you join me in Her Majesty’s throne room?” Essek asked, gesturing to the antechamber door.

Verin laughed, “Absolutely not!”

“Are you really avoiding the Umavi?” Essek asked with a toothy smile. “Are you hiding from her like a little boy?”

“I am, yes,” said Verin without a hint of shame. “I would rather face the whole of the Spider Queen’s hoard than face the Umavi. Add in the Skysybil and the Bright Queen and whoever else decided to show up today?” Verin shivered in the pantomime of fright. “I would rather take on a Betrayer God.”

“What would it take to get you to join me? Two Betrayer Gods?” Essek asked jokingly.

“Maybe three.”

“Come, come! The Umavi called you here for the good of Den Thelyss!” Essek said, tone heavy with irony.

“And for the good of Den Thelyss I will meet her. But probably in the hallway or an audience chamber when there are between three and ten witnesses who are not also Umavi.”

“You know she would pull you into an empty room before she killed you.”

“I know,” sighed Verin. “You know, I would say recently I’ve become the favorite child, but we both know that isn’t true.”

“Neither of us is the favorite child,” said Essek.

“True, but to our credit I don’t think she has one,” said Verin. He then pointed with his thumb over his shoulder toward the hall behind them, “On that note, I’ll be off before someone sees me.”

“We’re still going out later?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for Catha, Ruidus, and all the stars in the sky,” said Verin. “We’ll meet outside the Aurora Watch HQ when you’re finished being told off for whatever you’ve done this time. Sneezing near a Beacon or something equally sinister I assume.”

“Something like that,” said Essek, feeling that stone of anxiety settle heavily in his gut.

“Message me,” Verin said, breaking away from Essek with a final playful and gentle punch to the arm, just below Essek’s mantle.

“Yes, of course,” said Essek. Verin gave a wave over his shoulder to acknowledge he had heard. Essek swallowed. At the very least he hoped he would be able to meet Verin again and that he had not been found out as the traitor he was. He turned back to the antechamber doors, took a deep breath, pulled them open, and stepped inside.

Chapter Text

‘Consecuted.’

Mollymauk had heard his friends say that word maybe four times since they got here. The usage had been in one conversation, but still it came up. Molly had been alive…a little while. Two? Years? ...Well no, he was...what? Could he be three if he’d been…Not-Asleep... for a third of that time? Did he start over? Then he was only a few days old with more words and more weight and more memories than a proper newborn. Did he pick up where he left off? At two and a half-ish? Or did he pick up where…he left off? 26, although he spent his birthday underground. (Molly hated that he knew that).

No, Molly would not give Lucien the honor of being a unit of measure. ‘He doesn’t matter. Push this aside. Lock it away. Lock him away like he tried to do to you,’ he thought.

The point was he had been alive long enough and was dumb enough that he heard a lot of words he didn’t know. They usually just sort of buzzed by him; he ignored them. There was almost some comfort in the word ‘consecuted’. It served as a reminder of simpler times when he didn’t need to know anything, before the shroud of darkness and paranoia had engulfed him along with his actual burial shroud. But the more he heard it, the more it reminded him of first hearing the word…there was a word. Probably demon or devil or something equally shitty. He didn’t recognize a word and it immediately caused problems for him. If he heard a word often enough, it was because it turned out to be…relevant. Molly learned some words are important, that came at some point, somewhere when someone threw a heavy something at his head. He didn’t want that to happen again this time. Not even metaphorically.

So now he was trying to figure out what ‘consecuted’ meant without asking. Because he couldn’t just ask. Not now when everyone was worried about his memory as it was. What if he had already known the word and couldn’t remember it? That was easily possible! Anyway, he thought he had done this kind of detective work before because he already had a couple of methods to work it out, which came to him too fast for them to be new: listen to the sentence with the buzzy word, figure out what’s missing, put the sentence together backwards, and there was the meaning of your word. That didn’t work. So he tried the other version of this technique: pay attention to what was always there when people said the buzzy word, but that didn’t work either, because nobody was saying it now. It came up just enough to be obnoxiously mysterious, like a linguistic pebble in his shoe.

Now he tried to use what (he was pretty sure) Caleb taught him his first time around. Molly remembered Caleb giving him reading lessons and he was extremely happy to hear that those lessons had indeed happened (he would ask Caleb when he was feeling more optimistic if they actually hooked up or if that was just wishful thinking on his part). Caleb’s trick was to find the words he knew within the buzzy word or find a word the buzzy word sounded like. It was not the best technique in Molly’s humble opinion — Caleb knew more words than Molly did, which was probably why it worked for him — but all else was failing.

‘Consecuted…well, let’s see,’ thought Molly, ‘what’ve we got? It doesn’t really sound like anything…but it’s got lots of words.’

He could find ‘con’, which was one of his earliest words, he was pretty sure. ‘Se’ wasn’t a word but it was kind of like ‘second’ or ‘secure’. The word ‘cute’ was almost in there.

As he thought this over Molly was working hard in repairing his original coat, sitting in the crowded Happy Room. Caduceus had a sewing kit that Molly happily borrowed. The damage to this, his real coat, was...bad. Horrible, really.

There was the hole and bloodstain left by Lorenzo’s attack. Looking at them he felt the ghost of the wound that killed him; the stabbing pain coursing through the rough scar tissue on his chest and back. There were patches of mildew and mold on the coat left by wet and neglect, which he was forced to cut away. Somebody had sliced off some of the fabric, the cut was neat and careful — Molly would even call it precious — but the fabric was still missing and the edge had gone ragged. Probably the least of his worries was the weathered and worn-white embroidery, simply because the spoiled decorations did not in turn ruin the integrity of the coat as a coat, they just looked terrible. The coat as a whole had been so utterly destroyed he didn’t know how much of it was actually salvageable…which felt a bit like himself, actually, when he thought about it. So he definitely did not think about it.

Back to sewing.

Back to sewing. Molly frowned. He didn’t think sewing used to be this hard to do. Or thinking, for that matter. As if reflecting his inner turmoil the thread had caught on itself and knotted. He growled in annoyance.

“Are you alright?” Yasha asked from where she sat beside him on one of the sofas.

Molly smiled. “I’m quite alright, dear,” he said, leaning back against her shoulder. Being around people was good. Being around people brought words, support, was better, being around these specific people was possibly the best welcome back to the world that Molly could ask for. “It’s no big deal and I’m not sure you can help anyway.”

Which was a lie. Of course she could help, she probably knew what the new buzzy word meant, but he didn’t want to worry her. Lies were so much easier, so much more comfortable, wasn’t that their whole point? A nicer, polished version of the grimy truth? Molly was certain he always thought so.

He focused back on his word puzzle as he cut his textile losses. ‘Con’, con meant a job, a scheme, a story to be told, something Molly could do, something he could control in that loose way he could control anything. But it was also the opposite of pro, a pro was a good thing so a con was a bad thing. ‘Cute’, loads of things were cute. There were even different kinds of cute. Jester was cute. So were Caleb, Fjord, and (formally) Molly himself. Puppies and lion cubs were cute, so were bunnies and cows when they weren’t dinner. And if ‘cute’ was (nearly) in there then ‘cut’ was (maybe) in there. ‘Cut’ gave him the ability to defend himself, because he needed to defend himself, but it also dredged up some horrible images in the darkest murkiest parts of his mind. The memories were hazy and unfocused but the feelings they summoned weren’t; anger, pride, curiosity, a sense of wavering loyalty. The smell of iron, the sound of footsteps on dark stone, pain, monsters, death rattles, boots stained with dried blood and gravedirt. A face with black fur, fangs far larger than his, and yellow feline eyes saying a name that wasn’t his but was his all the same…

‘This isn’t working!’

“Molly?” Yasha asked. Yasha’s fingers paused in their journey repeatedly tracing the edge of his haircut, following the sharp line made by the razor.

Molly hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes until he opened them. He had dug his claws so deeply into the battered, faded rainbow of his coat that he had created several new holes in the material, the needle lay forgotten and unthreaded on the floor in front of his foot.

“Hey, Molly?” asked Beau from where she was reading, sitting in a lotus position in a chair by the fire. “You okay, man?”

“Fine” said Molly tightly. He bent to pick up the needle, but when he sat up Beau was still looking at him. “Really, Unpleasant One,” he added.

“What’cha thinking about?” Beau asked. She used her thumb to mark her page in a very definitive gesture and continued to look at him skeptically with those bright blue eyes. He wasn’t fine and she knew it. Her gaze then flicked upward toward Yasha’s face. Molly could practically feel the look they were exchanging. “You sure you’re okay?” Beau asked.

“I said I’m fine!” Molly snapped.

“You wanna wallow? Go ahead and wallow!” Beau grumbled.

“I’m not wallowing!” Molly said, sounding unconvincing even to himself, a person ready and willing to believe lies. He let out a breath. A lot of eyes found him.

The room was pretty full. Beau was sitting in her chair, her body lit unevenly by the fire. Caleb was lying on his stomach on the carpet, reading with one hand propped up under his chin, his hair starting to fall loose from his ponytail. The tieflings and a partner each took the two couches, low table between them. Jester was sitting draped across Fjord. She was sketching thoughtfully; Molly could see cartoon cats, a detailed drawing of Molly himself, a doodle of Beau, an incomplete sketch of Fjord, and some random dicks and cute animals. The sketchbook was familiar. The action of Jester’s hands was familiar. Watching her pencil work its way across the page and leave behind miraculous images was familiar.

In the days at Cad’s house Jester sat down with Molly and they went through her sketchbooks, page after page, drawing after drawing, a log of everything they had seen on their adventures while Jester narrated. In the earliest sketchbooks Molly found the things he remembered. He even saw drawings that he had done, his writing practice, a couple of games of exquisite corpse that he and Jester had played. It helped. It helped him calm down and it helped him remember. Some of it had disappeared again, but he knew it was below the surface, he knew there was more that could be found. His mind was a sieve, but there was always more material to throw on top. The sketchbook was still calming and comforting now.

He watched Jester adjust her position on Fjord’s lap. Fjord had his arm lazily draped over Jester, just a casual point of contact, a simple show of love. Molly was happy Jester got the boy. He was happy Fjord discovered or developed feelings for Jester. He was happy for both of them. He was happy to for their happiness, he loved their love. He was just sorry he didn’t get to see it happen. There was so much he wished he had been there for, that he had experienced rather than just seeing the event drawn in Jester’s sketchbook, hearing her commentary, and finding the aftermath.

Nott becoming Veth (as it was there was a constant disconnect between her face and voice that almost made Molly feel dizzy). Caleb transforming from a filthy mess of a wizard to one that was much less filthy and slightly less of a mess. Yasha falling in love, her hair becoming white. Meeting Luc and Yeza, who he still had yet to see beyond Jester’s drawings. Meeting Caduceus and Essek, the not-so-new newbies. He tried so hard not to think of what he lost, tried instead to focus on what he gained on his return. He couldn’t understand why his usual tactic of ignoring his negative feelings wasn’t working, but it wasn’t.

There was a pause, Molly went back to work, struggling to thread his needle. He didn’t know how he felt about this kind of attention and treatment, like they were all waiting for him to collapse or explode so they could rush to the rescue. He knew they were trying their best. He didn’t know what would help, so he couldn’t blame them for failing or being on edge around him, as much as he sometimes wanted to.

After missing the eye of the needle what felt like a hundred times in a row Molly finally decided to ask. “What’s ‘consecuted’ mean?”

“Hm?” asked Yasha, “what does what mean?”

“Consecuted,” Molly repeated, he said it slowly and carefully. “Consecuted. I’ve heard people say it.” He didn’t say ‘I don’t know if I should know it’ or ‘I don’t know if I knew it.’

Caleb glanced up, his eyes flicked momentarily toward Molly and Yasha, then very quickly away to Beau and then the fire as if he didn’t know where to let them rest. Jester’s pencil paused so briefly Molly wondered if he was imagining it.

“Ah, well, the Kryn,” said Caleb after what Molly thought felt like a beat too long. “Rather consecution is a way for…it is the way a selected few in the Dynasty…”

Molly was smart enough to recognize when people were talking around something, it had happened before. He could remember it happening before. He didn’t think it happened with the Mighty Nein, he knew it never happened with Yasha, but he knew some people had tried this on him. They tried to make things simpler or avoided them entirely, like he couldn’t hear it, like he shouldn’t hear it. That was why it was a relief when Beau came in with her usual bluntness, causing his building stormcloud of feelings to dissipate; like she was a stick shoved into a soap bubble.

“It’s a name for this ritual people do here. The rich and powerful in the Dynasty get to live forever because they do something that ties their souls to that dodecahedron we found. You remember that? Back in Zadash?”

“Yes,” Molly said, truthfully, although the memory was vague and amber. He was trying to make sense of what she had just said.

She specified, “so that way even after they die their souls come back for another round. After a while they get all their old memories back and pick up where they left off.”

Oh.

Beau was still talking but Molly couldn’t hear her over his own thoughts and a distant sort of ringing in his ears. He felt like he was falling. His heart had plummeted into his feet.

“Molly?” Jester asked sweetly and Molly realized he had been staring at nothing.

“Oh,” Molly said aloud. Or he tried to, he wasn’t sure if anything came out. Speaking felt like trying to hammer a tent pole into frozen ground.

“Are you okay, Molly?” Jester asked.

He gave her a weak smile, even more lopsided and insincere than usual.

He didn’t realize how much that would affect him. A soul returning from the dead. Over and over and over. Did Molly even count as a soul? Was he anything at all? Below the pounding in his eardrums he swore he could hear Lucien’s manic laughter and behind his eyes was the swirling void of too much color.

‘Soul’ was a word heavy with concept and implications. Memory, even heavier. For days now he’d been grappling with the idea that he might potentially be Lucien and now there was another new and somehow worse option: that he wasn’t already Lucien but was about to become Lucien. That it would all come rushing back. That whatever piece of Lucien that separated the two of them would reappear, grow back like a cancer.

Yasha had her hand on his shoulder now. He realized he had pushed himself upright.

“It’s not like…” Yasha said nervously.

“Like what?” Molly asked as if it wasn’t obvious. He smiled, hoping he looked vacant and not haunted. He hoped his voice didn’t sound too winded and forced.

“What?!” Beau threw up her hands as Caleb looked sidelong at her. “He asked! I’m not gonna lie when he asks!”

Molly was rarely thankful for the truth. He wasn’t exactly thankful for it now. He didn’t want to know what he knew, he didn’t want this new horrible scenario, but he was grateful that Beau treated him like an adult who could handle a difficult truth. So he took a deep breath and forced the words out of his brain and through his lungs, like pushing a boulder. “Thanks, Beau.”

She looked over at him, “yeah, you’re welcome. Sorry if that was…you know…‘vicious’.”

He shook his head, swatted his hand dismissively, not acknowledging that comment further. He changed tactics, “any…” he said, feeling completely exhausted suddenly, “anybody know where a tiefling can buy some fabric around here?”

“I do,” said Jester sympathetically, jumping to her feet, “yeah, um, there’s a fabric shop next door to my favorite bakery. If you go out—you know, I’ll draw you a map for you, okay?”

Molly nodded. He was thankful that Jester thought of a map. He wanted to leave and his brain wasn’t working, as if it ever did, but a map he could follow, especially one of Jester’s. The map she was drawing was bright and color-coded with landmarks quickly sketched in. No words to stagger through. She was a blessing from the Moonweaver. She did glance anxiously up at him, tail hanging mostly limp except for a little curl by the spade.

“Mollymauk?” Yasha asked.

“I’m fine,” he assured her, trying to sound soothing.

Do you want me to come with you?” Jester asked as she handed him the map.

“No,” he said as he took it from her, the simple word was hard to choke out. He didn’t want to be alone. He hated being alone. (Had he ever been alone?) But he also didn’t want those nervous looks or to have to explain himself. In that moment his desire not to be pitied outweighed his fear of being alone among strangers.

“Oh. Okay, no problem,” said Jester. “Are you sure you don’t want any company?”

“No...one,” Molly said, he needed to not talk. His chest felt heavy. He wanted noise but he didn’t want to make it. He wanted distraction without having to find it. He didn’t look around, just gave the map a once-over, smiled as convincingly as he could and nodded to Jester. Then he turned on his heel and walked out, shutting the door behind him. As he was leaving he heard Caleb say something about souls.

Molly walked away quickly, he would be content if he never heard the word ‘soul’ again. He had never actually understood what a soul was anyway. Probably because he didn’t have a proper one. He just couldn’t understand how self could be quantifiable. But it wasn’t just quantifiable it was...objective, it was something that could break and be fixed. It could return. And it did. The Kryn did. Lucien had. Molly had. Maybe Lucien was on his way back. Maybe Lucien was already here. Maybe there wasn’t even a Molly to begin with.

Maybe Molly was Lucien, Lucien was just waiting to pop back up out of the lakebed in his mind.

‘Moonweaver save me from that,’ he thought.

No, the Wildmother did. He, Molly, was what came back. Just him. Just Molly. And maybe not even all of him. He tried to convince himself Lucien was dead and gone, Molly had helped kill him himself. Lucien was a million pieces lost in the shimmering void.

‘Well, all lost to the void besides one…’

Molly slammed the door to the mudroom perhaps a little too hard. He made himself jump and felt a new sting of annoyance at his own nerves. At the very least it brought him back to reality and the present.

He was sitting on the slight step pulling on his boots when the door opened and enormous familiar form blocked the hall’s light, casting her wide shadow over the floor in front of him. Yasha. He smiled despite himself and turned to look up at her, pausing in tying the laces of his right boot, the left crumpled on the floor.

“Hi, Molly,” said Yasha quietly. “I-I know that you said you wanted no one for company, but I thought maybe I was no one?” He felt his expression fall when she said she was ‘no one’ and Yasha doubled back, “oh, you didn’t like that. I know I’m not no one but—”

Molly stood up, still wearing only the one shoe, and hugged her. He stood back to free up his hands, balancing awkwardly on the one heel. Jester’s recreation of his coat was fairly close to the original minus a lot of the patterns, but she mistakenly gave his thigh-highs a taller heel than he thought they had had, surely he wouldn’t have been so incautious. ‘You’re not no one. You’re Yasha.’ He hugged her again, hoping she understood what he meant without him trying to articulate what no words could explain. She seemed to as she laid her face between his horns, where it only just fit.

“Can I come with you?” she asked.

‘Please do.’ he signed.

“We need to put our shoes on if we’re going out,” she said.

Molly dropped down onto the step again. ‘Yes. It’s cold.’ Molly signed. Then he pushed his luck. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever liked the cold…’ He looked askance at Yasha where she sat on the floor pulling on her heavy black boots.

He felt a wave of relief wash over him when she nodded.

“You’ve always hated it as long as I’ve known you,” Yasha said. “Oh!” She smiled, “I learned something! Tieflings don’t like the cold in general.”

Molly cocked his head curious, he gave her the single gesture that meant ‘How do you know?’

“When we were in Eiselcross our guide, I think you would have liked him, he was a little macho but not in a bad way and he had a wheelchair that could ski, his name was, is, Dagen, Dagen said that tieflings don’t usually go to Eiselcross and when they do they rarely go far because of the cold. Except for Jester and Jester’s dad isn’t a tiefling.”

That was one of the first things Jester told Molly: they found her father and that he was the Gentleman. He was told he’d met the Gentleman, that the Mighty Nein had worked with him. The missions sounded familiar and he even remembered parts of them, still paintings or crystal clear scenes pulled from the aether and leading to nothing, like the acts of a play. He didn’t remember the Gentleman, however, not well, he had felt some vague tingle of recognition as he looked at Jester’s drawings of him, even if he was only in ink and pencil and often made simpler and cuter than reality could be.

“I thought you might like to know why you don’t like the cold…” Yasha knew that Jester was the only tiefling Mollymauk had ever spent any length of time with. (She was also the only tiefling Lucien had spent any length of time with in decades. There was someone else, but, thankfully, Molly did not know their face or voice. Reassuring, that.)

‘Thank you,’ Molly signed, and he meant it. There was a lot he didn’t know about himself, about existing, about what he was. Whether he was at all. It was nice to know that there were certain undeniable realities about himself. He was alive. He was a tiefling. And both of those things meant…well, something. Something fundamental below either Lucien or Mollymauk. A natural state of tiefling.

“You are going to like Rosohna, I think. Or, you will like it more than a lot of other cities. There are walls but there aren’t so many guards and, well, you’ll see. The people here are different. I don’t know if you noticed yet.”

He hadn’t. He hadn’t noticed much about Rosohna, he hadn’t left the Xhorhaus at all. He was still trying to get used to...being and he had never had the desire to stray away from the pack. He was relearning the controls and wandering off into a strange city seemed unappealing, especially when he wasn’t feeling as fleet of foot as usual. And was weaponless. He pretended that the walls of the Xhorhaus could protect him from the unknown. The unknown that wasn’t inside of him.

He took Yasha’s hand when she offered it and leaned against her body. She was sturdy, she had always been sturdy. He felt calmer or at least stable. All he needed was her strength. Together they stepped out into the twilit city.

He wasn’t impressed by Rosohna at first, which worried him. Yasha should know him well enough to realize he wouldn’t like this boxed-in neighborhood with its posh houses and high walls. But the Firmament’s gates easily parted when they came upon them, which was a nice surprise, leading into what Yasha called The Gallimaufry.

And that was beautiful. Molly felt tension rushing from his body, leaving him feeling warm and loose.

The Gallimaufry was the weirdest and most wonderful shopping district he had ever seen. It was busy and bustling in a fantastically distracting way; the products for sale were completely different from what Molly could remember being in the Empire: the styles, the materials, the foods, the languages tossed around (there were so many conversations in Infernal!). All of it was different and new and inviting.

One thing Molly remembered vividly from his first/last life was attention. Good or bad, he was someone people saw, and often someone people didn’t trust. If he remembered correctly it was one of the reasons he’d embroidered his coat; it was a distraction, like a butterfly’s wing. But the people of Rosohna were going about their own lives and for once nobody seemed to notice him. The reason for it was obvious: there were tieflings all over the place!

Tieflings, goblins, bugbears, drow, and duergar…just going about their lives! There wasn’t a human, high elf, or halfling in sight! The world had been upended. Molly was certain he had never seen this many tieflings in one place in either part of his fractured life. He soon saw more tieflings than he had cumulatively encountered in all his time alive. All their time alive.

He swiftly found things designed for tieflings that he had never seen for sale in the Empire: horn protectors, tail and horn warmers, pants and skirts with special tail flies already built in (Molly had always cut and sewn his own). Despite never having been here before and only being alive a few days Molly felt at home on the streets of Rosohna.

Oh, Yasha still knew him. Yasha knew him well.

He felt happy, light. He ran from stall to stall, looking through options and making purchases with the handful of coins he had. For the first time in his albeit poor memory Molly’s grinning visage didn’t immediately cause fear or loathing. Indeed, Yasha seemed to be the one bearing the brunt of the strange and concerned looks until she flashed the little metal that marked her as a ‘Hero of the Dynasty’ or something or other.

For once Molly’s race wasn’t the strangest or most frightening thing about him. He was asked by a shopkeeper, maybe for the first time ever, why he was wearing his clothes, because for once the mixed and matched patterns were the only weird thing about him. His answer was a surprised–sounding and stammered, “I came from the Empire” to which the response was, “oh, you poor thing.”

He stopped at a stall selling absolutely beautiful horn caps and charms. There were at least a dozen different designs with dodecahedrons, multi-pointed stars, cats, little colorful balls, one had a glittery red Ruidus nestled in a crescent Catha, which Molly immediately fell in love with. He gestured enthusiastically for Yasha to come over. She did from where she had been absently sorting through some necklaces that were hanging around a delicate metal stand. He held the cap up to his horn. “What do you think?” His voice and energy had come back strong in this fantastic new place.

“I like it. It’s very bright, like you,” said Yasha.

“And look at this!” said Molly, he pushed the Ruidus bead so that it spun on its little metal spindle. “It spins!”

“Ooh! I like that!” Yasha said, reaching to spin it herself. Molly held it out for her and they both marveled at the smooth movement together.

“Can I help you?” asked a voice with an Infernal accent much like Jester’s. Molly looked up to see a tiefling with dark red skin and pale yellow eyes. She had long curly black hair and tall horns. The horns themselves were thin, almost delicate looking, and grew up and inward, curling toward each other, dark brown at the base to a pale gray at the tips. He had seen more horn types in Rosohna than he had ever imagined and this was a new style to add to the collection.

She looked sidelong at Yasha. Molly elbowed his friend in the ribs, “show her your thing.”

Silently Yasha stopped playing with the horn cap and pawed the medal from her pocket. She flashed it to the tiefling who visibly relaxed. Molly felt stinging sympathy for Yasha, but just as she had been powerless to help him in the Empire, he didn’t exactly know how to help here, besides smoothing things over quickly with his questionable charisma.

“Absolutely you can help,” said Mollymauk. He passed her the horn cap. “I don’t think my friend and I are done looking yet, but I’ll definitely take this!”

“Oh, very good!” she said, taking it from him. “Do you like it, then?”

“Like it? I love it! These caps are the best I’ve ever seen!” he said.

“Thank you so much,” she said with a proud little smile.

“Do you make them yourself, then?” he asked.

“My son and I do, together.”

“And how old is he?”

“15 next month.”

“Talented lad,” said Molly.

“The one you picked, with the moons, is one of his,” she said, positively beaming with pride. Seeing that kind of love made Molly’s heart float in his chest.

“Tell him it’s brilliant!” Molly said.

“I will!” she grinned her wide fanged grin at Mollymauk as money changed hands. “You gave me an extra two silver,” she said, with one hand she dropped the silver to cover the cap into some unseen receptacle behind the counter, but she held out her palm flat with the two extra coins resting on it.

“No, I didn’t. That,” he tapped the coins in her palm, “is a tip for the artist.”

The woman looked touched, her eyes shining, as she closed her fist around the coins and pressed her hand to her chest, “thank you again.”

“I do have one question,” said Molly.

“Yes?”

“I haven’t seen any piercings anywhere…”

“Ah!” she flitted down the counter and Molly followed. “I actually have a collection of nose and lip rings and earrings if you’d like—” She pulled several display stands closer for him to look through.

His eyes scanned over them, but he still wasn’t seeing what he was looking for. “What about for horns?” he asked.

She looked up from her display of piercings in surprise, “what?”

“You can’t tell anymore, but I’ve been a bit ill for some time now, only just starting to feel like myself again. I used to have my horns pierced but—”

Her eyes flicked from Molly’s face to his horns. He saw the jolt of recognition as she found the pitted scars along his shamefully bare horns. Lucien had taken the piercings out, gotten rid of all but his horn jewelry except the cuffs and he’d ripped the charms off those.

The woman cut him off, “why?!” she was clearly trying not to sound agast, but her acting skills were below Molly’s own.

Molly blinked at her. He remembered Jester telling him that no one she knew had their horns pierced. She had been amazed by the piercings when they first met. This woman looked almost frightened. “Is that not…?” Molly asked, “sorry, I’m not from around here. Right, Yasha?”

Yasha was looking through the earrings, she’d found some cartilage cuffs with a flower pattern along them. “Yes, he just got here,” she said.

“Do you not do that? Pierce horns?” Molly finished.

“How did you even do it? Did you drill into your horn?”

“So…no, it’s not—” Molly said.

“No!” then her dismay softened at his obvious confusion. She spoke more gently when she asked, “you haven’t spent much time around your own kind, have you?”

Yasha looked to Molly, probably to see how he would respond. Her answers would have to match his from now on. “...No,” Molly admitted after a second. “Not yet, at least. You see, I was raised in the Empire by a noble family. I was taken in by humans and brought up as one of their own. They tried to treat me like a human, I barely knew what I was for years. There’s just not a lot of tieflings about.”

Yasha picked earrings off the display and held them up to her ears in the mirror standing on the counter.

“Besides the military from what I’ve heard,” said the tiefling, accepting the earrings from Yasha as she passed them off.

“Yes, besides the military,” Molly answered with a nod. He had no idea if that was true, but he wanted to give her this, a tidbit of information she had that she could repeat to others and feel like she had a fun fact about some far off land and to feel like she was relating to him somehow. He wasn’t sure if she believed his nobility story, but it didn’t seem to matter. “So why don’t you pierce your horns?” he asked.

“Luxon bless you, I don’t know where to start,” she said without malice or condescension. “Well, there’s a bone in there for one, a living bone, a growing bone. And your horns themselves regulate temperature in your body. They store heat or something like that. There’re blood vessels in there too, you must have bled a lot!”

“He did. It was like a hose,” said Yasha as she passed over the copper for her purchase. Molly suddenly remembered the scene. Gushing blood. Yasha worrying about how pale he was getting. The circus’s animal tamer, a middle-aged male dwarf, cursing and nearly dropping the hand-drill he had dug halfway through Mollymauk’s horn. He was dizzy and queasy, caught by Yasha and the tamer when he lost his balance. Somehow it was a very good memory, full of love.

“I’ll rethink piercing them again, then,” said Molly, who would do no such thing.

“I’m sorry I can’t give you what you’re looking for,” said the tiefling.

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” said Molly. “I’m still learning things about myself. Well, in that case I’ll take another couple caps…Yasha, could you help?”

“Sure,” she said.

As they searched through the basket of metal caps of various sizes and shapes the woman said, “You’ll like Rosohna, if you don’t already.”

“It’s growing on me,” Molly said truthfully.

“You may have noticed there are loads of tieflings here to set you straight.”

“Thankfully that would be impossible,” said Molly with a wink. Beside him he heard Yasha let out a huff of laughter.

The tiefling laughed, “Understood. Then how about ‘there are loads of tieflings to help you out if you need it?’”

“Thank you,” Molly said with a respectful nod. Internally, however, he winced at how confused he apparently looked. That which struck fear in the Empire now sparked curiosity and pity. “There’re more tieflings here than I have ever seen in my life,” he said.

“Did you know this is where tieflings were first created?” she asked.

“Really?” Molly asked, looking up at her and then at Yasha and back again.

“I think I have heard that,” said Yasha, passing Molly a cap with an elaborate three-dimensional multi-pointed star charm hanging off it.

The tiefling shrugged, “I don’t know the truth-truth, I don’t think anyone actually does, but that’s how the legend goes, it is what we all say and what we were all told. Rosohna, Ghor Dranas back then, is where the deals were struck and bloodlines drawn, where Infernal was breathed into our lungs, where our fangs were cut from our gums, and where each of our ancestors set out into the wide world.”

“I hadn’t a clue,” said Molly, but he found himself instantly charmed by the idea. He passed her the second horn cap. “Same price for this one?”

She smiled fondly at him and passed it back, “it’s on the house.”

“I insist,” Molly said, “artists should be paid for their art.”

“This one is a gift. Call it a welcome home present.”

And that touched Molly deeply. He had never had a place to call home before. It had always been tied to people rather than geographic location and even that had recently (or not so recently now) been completely upended. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Thank you from the very bottom of my beating heart.”

“Enjoy your stay Mx….”

“Mollymauk Tealeaf,” he said automatically, “Molly to my friends, and we’re friends now.” And he loved that that still came so easily to him. “And this is Yasha, she’s the charm.”

“Hello,” said Yasha awkwardly.

“I’m Harmonia,” the tiefling said, “enjoy the rest of your day, Molly and Yasha.”

“Thank you,” said Molly with a deep show-tiefling’s bow.

“She was nice!” said Yasha cheerfully as they set off again.

“She was amazing!” Molly said. “I’m going back there again and giving her all the money I have and then all the money Beau has!”

“Beau’s money?” Yasha asked.

“Well, she’s practically my sister-in-law, isn’t she? She should give to the cause,” Molly answered earnestly.

“Which cause is that?” Yasha asked.

“Me, of course!” said Molly.

“Oh, yes, obviously,” Yasha nodded.

“Have you really heard that? About the tieflings coming from Rosohna?” he asked.

“I have heard it, but I do not know if that means it is true. It was…never said with any kindness when I was growing up. We were taught anyone outside of our tribe was evil and the people in the cities were slavers, cannibals, and monsters. Rosohna used to be home of the Betrayer Gods and where they made tieflings and now it is where the drow live, so it has never been good as they see it. I don’t know if that makes it true. We should ask Essek when he gets back. He knows a lot about history.”

“I think I will,” said Molly. “Ah, this must be Jester’s pastry shop so next door is…”

And so it was, the fabric shop. Molly and Yasha pushed inside to the sound of chimes.

The shop was small, crowded, and wondrous. The stock hung floor to ceiling somehow both fantastically disorderly but weirdly organized, beautifully displayed controlled chaos. Molly let out a low whistle and walked along the aisles made only by wooden display racks. He ran his fingers over and scrutinized the many different colorful options available in the store. He didn’t know what he wanted, but he assumed he would know it when he found it. Yasha pointed out bright and glittery fabrics to him and he made a show of considering them for purchase. There were fabrics in colors so vivid he thought the dye had to be magic. But ultimately they were all too much. It was overwhelming in an uncomfortable way that made him feel like he was floating in the Astral Plane again. As much as Mollymauk wished it wasn’t the case, it was. The Mollymauk he once was would have wanted to buy all of these fabrics and make a coat from a quilt of them. But he didn’t. He wasn’t the Mollymauk he once was. As much as he wanted to be him, he was a very different being.

He took a deep breath, shut his eyes, and acknowledged that. He didn’t know who exactly he was anymore, so he left it up to chance. He took a few tentative spins and when he opened his eyes again he was facing skeins of shiny black silk and matte velvet. And that seemed just right to him.

“I think I’ve found what I want,” said Molly, the beginnings of his new project forming in his mind. He crossed to the shopkeep, an aging full-orc woman, without another word.

“Oh, huh,” said Yasha in surprise as the shopkeep set about cutting the lengths of material Molly needed.

“Something wrong, dear?” Molly asked.

“No, no...I’m just surprised…by all the black. That’s all.”

“Ah, yes. That’s fair,” said Molly. It only made sense, his memory was a patchwork of color. “I need a change, I think.”

“Okay,” Yasha said. The question hung in the air between them.

“Sorry,” Molly muttered, turning away from her to sort through embroidery floss.

Yasha slowly followed him. He faced away from her assessing the floss on the rack. “You don’t owe me anything,” Yasha said.

“I know,” Molly answered, still busy with the rack, simply touching thread, occasionally picking it up, but barely registering what he was looking at. “I’m…I’ll get better, but I...need a break, I suppose.”

Yasha waited, he could feel her concerned gaze on his back.

“I think I’m just a little bit overwhelmed, at the moment,” Molly said.

“Overwhelmed? By colors?” Yasha asked.

“It’s hard to explain…”

She very quickly added, “it’s okay, you don’t need to explain.”

“I want to,” Molly said. “I want to tell you, because you’re you and I’m me. But it’s hard, so I’m not going to look at you, okay?”

“That always helps me,” said Yasha.

“When I was in...in Lucien’s mind...when I was part of Lucien’s mind, whatever it was, I was looking through his eyes.” He shivered thinking about it, going all the way down his spine to the tip of his tail. “Everything he saw was so bright, brighter than it should have been, there were colors I’d never seen before. And that should have been…if somebody’d told me, ‘Mollymauk, I’m going to show you a brand new color you will never be able to describe to another person’ I think I would have been really excited. But…maybe it’s because it was him, yeah? Maybe that’s why. Maybe because it was through Lucien’s dragonfly eyes, but it all makes me feel a little sick to think about. Then when I woke up everything was still so bright and blinding and then...then I saw you, my angel, my charm, and you were black and white and it made me feel...is ‘grounded’ the right word? You felt real…” He took a deep breath. “Nothing felt real or safe or familiar except for you.”

“I-I didn’t realize you were being hurt,” Yasha said.

“I just need a break,” Molly said, his shoulders slumping. “I’m fine. I’m not hurt. I just need a break. I’m fine.” Molly knew repeating ‘I’m fine’ was not something a person who was fine did, but he had to be fine. Even if he could no longer force himself into the old Mollymauk mold he had to be fine. He had to be fine.

“Can I hug you?” Yasha asked.

“Please,” Molly said. He turned for her to wrap her arms around him.

“I’m not good at this, I do not really know what to say, but I love you.”

“I love you too,” said Molly, pressing his face into her shoulder. They stood there for a moment until he became aware of where they were and that the woman who owned the place could pop over to them at any moment. “Here, help me pick my embroidery floss. You’re better at this aesthetic than me.”

“I don’t really know if it is an aesthetic,” Yasha said. “It’s just what I wear.”

“It’s going to be an aesthetic,” said Molly.

Yasha let out a little huff of laughter. “Yeah, okay.”

Working together over the next 20 or so minutes they carefully chose floss. Their selections were wound with metal so it shimmered in silver, gold, and bronze. He also found and purchased small bottles of silver, gold, and black sequins. As Molly made his purchases the orc woman verified what Harmonia had said about Rosohna being the mythical origin point of his species. It made him feel…something, he wasn’t sure what. But he liked it. That sensation, along with his new supplies, made him feel much better. It let him push the dark truth out of his head again. Safely preoccupied with mythology and costumes. Molly felt lighter than he had in a long time, maybe the most carefree since he returned.

On the way home he and Yasha were talking in a way that almost made him feel like he had never been gone. Harmonia’s shop was being closed up for the evening. She waved them over. “Molly and…” she looked at Yasha for a long moment.

“Yasha,” Molly supplied.

“Right, yes, Yasha, I’m so sorry. Molly and Yasha,” she said, “would you like to go out for drinks? I’m meeting some friends, mostly tieflings, and I thought maybe you’d like to come?”

Molly looked at Yasha who shrugged. “Let’s expand your horizons,” Molly said quietly. ‘And mine,’ he thought, but kept that in his head.

“Okay,” said Yasha and he thought she might be thinking the same thing; that Molly needed to do this.

Then Molly looked at Harmonia and smiled, “yeah! We’d love to!”

And so they did.

Chapter Text

‘A Pleasant Hangover’ probably wasn’t the hole-in-the-wall that Essek insisted it was to Verin, but to be fair, it was the closest to a dive bar Essek had ever visited. He supposed that that would probably change now that he was part of the Mighty Nein.

The pub was dim; lit by overhead oil lamps made of colored glass and iron that cast bright abstract shapes across the walls and floor. The atmosphere was noisy, jovial. It was crowded with the commons of Rosohna, a mix of races, ages, occupations, and religions, all determinedly having a grand time. Essek wanted to enjoy the atmosphere and the time he had with his brother, but his nerves were still frayed to the point of snapping.

Obviously he had not been killed in the Lucid Bastion, and that was certainly a relief. It did mean that he had to continue to dance the jig, as Caleb put it, but the alternative was the curtain on his life with one final bow before the executioner.

The throne room had been all but empty when he entered through its grand doors. That had not been reassuring; his first thought had been that there were not enough witnesses. The few nobles there were either not a high enough rank to make a sound about Ruling Den business or too far away from the dais to see its drama clearly. The second thing that struck him and sent icy terror through his veins was that the Thelyss seat on the dais was occupied. Even at the huge distance from the grand entry to the thrones he knew who it was from her slight height and the colored horns on her tiara: Deirta Thelyss, his Umavi and mother. His fear was that his replacement had spelled his doom.

But somehow it hadn’t.

Thanks to his nerves, everything that happened after entering was something of a blur. The Queen apparently noticed his apprehension at seeing the Thelyss throne filled or felt guilty about it because without Essek saying a word she whispered to him that the See of a Ruling Den could not be left empty for long. He wasn’t sure if it helped, it wasn’t as if he could trust anything said in that room.

The rest of the meeting was mostly just welcoming him back to the capital, expressions of gratitude, underhanded critique of his choice of makeup and jewelry from his mother, and, seemingly heartfelt admissions of having missed his company from the Bright Queen along with the unsubtle implication that his mother was a poor substitute. His mother had been terse, but she had been terse with him for more than a decade now. The Skysybil had little to add, but that wasn’t unusual either in affairs involving Essek. The Queen said she looked forward to his return to work the next day. And then they’d let him leave. He had felt like an animal who had been snagged in a trap only for the returning hunter to cut him free and let him stagger back into the wild. Which he had done, limping and confused.

It had not alleviated all his anxieties, obviously, it would take a miracle on par with Mollymauk’s resurrection to do that, but he did not think he was going to be immediately attacked and carried off to the Dungeon of Penance. Especially now that he had been allowed into the chaos of the Gallimaufry without so much as an Aurora Watchman tailing him.

Essek couldn’t wait to leave Rosohna again, and go...Luxon, he didn’t know where he would go. He didn’t know where he could possibly be safe from the fury of the Bright Queen, but anywhere would be safer than here, standing in the Tarrasque’s den, even uncertainty. He wasn’t looking forward to what he had to do to escape, but it could not be helped. Faking his death was certainly preferable to actually being dead.

He tried to swallow his anxiety and lose himself again in the moment. He had not seen Verin in years and a random toss of the cosmic dice had brought them together when Essek missed him most. He watched Verin as he returned from the bar with their drinks (a rice wine for Essek and a mixed berry cider for himself) and dropped down opposite Essek in their somewhat secluded corner booth.

They were not disguised or hidden in the least. Verin had scrubbed off his court cosmetics and heavy perfumes. He left much of his ceremonial armor behind: the back plate (and wings), helmet, mirror plate, and the shrieking joints of his armor were with some Aurora Watch friend at their headquarters. (The Umavi would have thrown a fit if she knew that the likes of common NCOs and Watchmen — many not even consecuted — were leaving their fingerprints on Thelyss courtly armor; but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt Verin). But he was still wearing the pauldrons, the less ostentatious mail shirt, and armored skirt. Essek was not so foolhardy with his marks of office as to leave them with anyone. He still wore his cumbersome mantle. Annoying and heavy as it was, it had become as natural to him as a carapace to a beetle.

One unfamiliar with the intricacies of the marks of station within the Noble Dens and/or the Lucid Bastion’s court would not necessarily know exactly who was sitting in the shadowy booth beyond maybe that the two men were important. Without the knowledge of their identities one might not even deduce they were siblings. The similarities were there, but really only became obvious when the familial connection was pointed out.

Essek was slight, though not terribly so for a drow (“for a drow” was not a phrase he had thought before joining the Mighty Nein, when suddenly he was no longer part of the predominant race), Verin, on the other hand, was tall and muscular for their kind. Their skin was the same shade of dusky purple. Essek’s was smooth and unmarred as was most of Verin’s (at least that which was visible), the most notable exception being a scar on Verin’s face, three diagonal slashes starting above his brow, slicing across his left eye, and ending at his cheekbone. It was pink and upraised and a permanent reminder of how dangerous life could be.

Verin lifted his cup and held it out, “cheers.”

“Cheers,” Essek echoed, bringing his delicate wineglass to meet Verin’s clay mug. Essek took a sip of the smooth bright wine, better than any of the alcohol he had had in months. He took a moment to enjoy it before asking, “Anything new in Bazzoxan?”

“Absolutely not,” said Verin. “But things have certainly changed for you!”

“I suppose they have,” said Essek noncommittally.

Verin scoffed. “Don’t do that political thing.”

Essek looked at him incredulously, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You ‘suppose,’” said Verin in audible inverted commas.

“‘Suppose’ is not political. Everyone says ‘suppose’. You say ‘suppose’,” Essek pointed out.

Verin gestured vaguely, “no, no, you’re missing the point. It isn’t the word—”

“You objected to the word ‘suppose’. What are you complaining about if it isn’t the word,” Essek said.

“The sentiment! Luxon, Essek, keep up!”

Essek continued to stare skeptically at Verin.

The younger brother sighed and elaborated. “‘Suppose’, ‘perhaps’, ‘possibly’, ‘taken into consideration’. It’s all half-talk so as to not disappoint while getting out of giving a real answer,” said Verin.

Essek tried to argue, then he sighed, “fair enough. You’re better at that than most politicians. I didn’t even get in a sentence of carefully crafted bullshit.”

“That’s because I neither want to curry your favor nor am I afraid of you,” said Verin. “You’re not the Shadowhand to me, you’re my asshole brother.” Verin took a long gulp from his mug. “From what I’ve heard this is your first time home in months, you’ve disappeared from court and then work altogether, you’ve befriended the Heroes of the Dynasty. You’ve befriended anyone, honestly. So just say ‘yes.’”

“Why must you ask a question you know the answer to?” Essek asked.

“To make you say it. You know I need to hear you say it,” Verin said.

“This was cute when we were children but the fact that you still think you can tell when I am lying is shockingly arrogant.”

“You should talk about ‘shockingly arrogant’,” Verin rolled his eyes, mug half raised.

“I speak from experience.”

“Come on, Essek,” Verin said in a mock chiding tone, like someone about to ask a mischievous pet what they had done wrong.

“Fine. Yes, it has been a very strange few months.”

“You’ve really made friends?”

“I have indeed,” Essek said, twirling the stem of the wine glass between his fingers feeling slightly awkward.

But Verin grinned, “I can’t believe you actually have friends! I’m so proud of you!”

Essek made a face, “I’m not made of stone!”

“But you were!”

“I was,” Essek admitted.

“The Heroes—”

“The Mighty Nein,” Essek corrected Verin.

“Yes, the Mighty Nein,” Verin conceded, “must be an exceptional bunch to de-petrify you.”

“They are,” said Essek, feeling a small smile tug at the corners of his lips.

“I wish I’d seen them when they were in Bazzoxan before they ripped open a new gateway to the Abyss,” sighed Verin.

“I did say I was sorry for that,” said Essek.

“You didn’t.”

“Ah, well. I meant to. I’m sure someone did.”

“You’re an ass, Essek,” Verin snickered, shaking his head.

“Would you have me any other way?” Essek asked, smirking over the lip of his glass.

“No. Truly it is the only way I can be confident you aren’t some imposter wearing my brother’s face.”

“They wouldn’t wear it half as well as I do.”

“Speaking of, I’ve heard you have a new nickname,” said Verin with a smirk.

“Oh no,” said Essek.

“‘Sexy guy’? ‘Hot dude?” Verin asked, saying the phrases in Common rather than Undercommon in which the rest of their conversation had been. It was nice to speak at length in his native tongue again. Like being back in the dark it felt like a load off his back.

Essek let out a laugh, “this is why the Aurora Watch should leave espionage to those of us with actual skill.”

“Do your friends not call you one of those?” Verin asked.

“They do not call me ‘sexy guy’ or ‘hot dude,” Essek said.

“But they call you something similar!” Verin said. “What do they call you?”

“Why would I ever tell you?” Essek asked.

“You saw me in the ridiculous costume the Umavi put me in,” said Verin.

“That was your mistake,” said Essek. “And I am not going to make it.”

“Fine, don’t tell me,” said Verin in sullen annoyance.

“I won’t,” Essek assured him.

“I’ll just ask your friends when I meet them,” said Verin flashing a smug grin.

“By the Luxon, you and Jester are going to be even more insufferable together,” said Essek, burying his face in his hands and rubbing his eyes.

That wasn’t entirely true. It was true that they would be insufferable, but Essek would gladly suffer them. Jester was his closest comrade in the Mighty Nein besides Caleb, of course. Jester’s joy, undying loyalty, her kindness and fierceness all reminded Essek of Verin. Although Essek didn’t think even Verin could melt his heart as thoroughly as Jester had with a hug and a single damnable cupcake.

“Which one is Jester?” Verin asked.

Essek raised his eyebrows. “Do you know anything about them besides that they have given me a humiliating nickname?”

“I got some descriptions from my men who met them and the palace guard. I have a vested interest in them, after all.”

“But not enough to learn their names?” asked Essek,

“Eh,” Verin shrugged.

Essek snickered, “amazing, you are an exceptional spy. The Dynasty would be lost without your intelligence work.”

“Maybe I was trying to give you some privacy,” said Verin.

“Your informants didn’t know, did they?” Essek asked.

“Some of them said they knew, but I got different answers,” Verin sighed, “you said it yourself, the Watch is not the Lens.”

“Jester is the blue tiefling, about my height, freckles, broad, very tightly curled horns,” Essek said.

“Oh yes!” said Verin. “You know, she’s very popular. There is a lot of chat about her, a lot of Talk.”

“I can only begin to guess,” said Essek.

“The words the palace guards used most often were ‘adorable’ and ‘obnoxious.’”

“Fair assessments both, although she grows on you. Quickly and indivisibly as a graft. She is also exceptionally kind,” Essek replied, running his fingers over the base of his wine glass, smiling fondly. Then he looked back up at Verin and his smile sharpened to a smirk, “oh, she has the same taste in books as you do.”

“Historical fiction about the early Dynasty?” asked Verin, cocking his head.

“You know which genre I mean.”

Verin scowled in thought and let out an exasperated groan, head tipped back. “You’re not talking about romance novels!”

“I am absolutely talking about romance novels.”

“It was one book, Essek!” Verin said defensively.

“It was more than one book and you know it,” Essek felt his grin widen as Verin’s cheeks darkened slightly in embarrassment.

“A lot of historical fiction has that sort of subplot…or plot-plot,” he muttered into his cider.

“Mm-hm,” Essek had just taken a sip, but nodded in a show of understanding. “Anyway, you two can exchange texts.”

“I’ve heard rumors about that, as well,” Verin said, perking back up.

“Your taste in literature? I should hope so, I’ve started a number of them.”

“Exchanging texts. That is what you and the human wizard have been doing, yes?” asked Verin, clearly fighting a smile.

Essek frowned at him. “Which version have you heard?”

“Both,” said Verin, “but I know better than to think you a traitor, of all things! And if you aren’t handing over magical secrets, I can only assume you’re handing over,” Verin grinned hugely and said, “other things.”

The wine soured in Essek’s stomach, but he forced himself past the guilt — a skill he’d been getting very good at lately. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Which is not a denial.”

Essek, against his will, found himself thinking back to his conversation with Caleb just before he’d left to attend the Queen. “Because there is nothing to deny.”

“Come, come, Essek, I must know if my big bad brother is in love!”

“You know I’m not interested in such things.”

Verin huffed out a breath, leaning back in his seat. “I do. But you can’t tell me there isn’t something going on there, even if it isn’t so salacious.”

“I need not tell you anything, actually,” said Essek mildly.

“Fine, keep your secrets!” said Verin, “I don’t care.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I do, but I’ll weasel it out of you,” Verin said confidently.

“You won’t, but you can certainly try,” Essek said, taking a smug swig of wine. Across the table Verin was looking at him wistfully. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?” Essek asked, putting down his glass, brow furrowing.

Verin shook his head, his gaze was a weird blend of fondness, curiosity, and keen interest.

Essek’s was skeptical.

Verin sighed, took a gulp of his cider as if to buy himself time, and said, “You look different.”

“Is that an insult?” Essek asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“No, no. You look…hm, how to say this?” Verin paused, fiddling with the chip of fiend fang he kept on a leather strap around his neck.

“I haven’t any idea, but now you must,” Essek said.

“Give me a moment to collect my…you look like you’ve had an adventure…Don’t make that face at me!” said Verin.

“I’m not! There’s no face!” said Essek. He had not been trying to make any expression, but he also had not been carefully curating his face’s movements the way he would in court.

“There’s a look that new recruits get—”

“The incredulity or the adventure?”

“Adventure, obviously,” said Verin, “there is a look new recruits get the first time they come back through the Umbra Gates to the surface—”

“Trauma?”

“I swear on the den there is no person alive who likes to hear his own voice more than you do!”

“You clearly don’t spend enough time amongst the nobles in court,” Essek replied.

“Luxon above, Essek, would you let me finish?!” Verin asked. Before Essek could get out a snide remark Verin plowed forward, speaking over him. He knew Essek too well. “Trauma, yes, that is absolutely part of it. But there’s also a palpable…” Verin narrowed his eyes and twisted his lip, trying to think of the right words. For once Essek didn’t cut him off to tease him. “‘Excitement’ isn’t quite the right word…hm, there’s a lot to it. It’s a look of excitement, but also relief; and it’s horror and joy, it’s…a dedication to the family you have fought beside…” he sighed. “You can see all of it in your face. Especially in your eyes. It’s like someone reached into your head and set in some new eyeballs. They’ve seen things now both ghastly and triumphant. You’ve seen things. You’ve done things. You’re marked by it, maybe you’re wiser for it. You have ‘come out to see the other side’ as they say.” He said ‘come out to see the other side’ in Common as if it was a phrase in that language.

Essek was dumbstruck by his brother’s speech. He couldn’t help but wonder if it was true. He didn’t know how to respond meaningfully, so instead he just muttered, “that is not an idiom.”

“Oh, fuck off!” said Verin.

“I sincerely apologize,” Essek said, “you have given me a great deal to meditate on.”

“Oh, now you apologize! That’s new, too,” said Verin with a teasing smirk.

Essek chuckled lightly.

“But now you see why I said ‘you look like you had an adventure’ rather than all of that. It’s much easier. Shorter too.”

“Yes,” said Essek.

“So did you? Did you have an adventure?” Verin asked.

“Yes,” said Essek without a thought. “I believe one could easily classify the past…oh, some time…as an adventure. The Mighty Nein will drag you into their escapades whether or not you ask.”

“It’s not a bad look on you.”

“Thank you, but nothing is a bad look on me,” said Essek.

“You are impossible,” Verin said with a grin and a shake of his head. He took another gulp of his cider looking into the crowded tavern. A companionary moment of pleasant silence passed and then Verin said, “How are—” but he stopped himself. “Never mind,” he muttered, picking up his cider and looking into it.

“How are what?” Essek asked.

“I said ‘never mind,’” said Verin into his mug.

“But now you have piqued my stubborn curiosity. What were you asking about? How are what?” Essek asked.

Verin sighed. He leaned closer across the table so he could speak more quietly, directly to Essek. That was when Essek began to feel concerned. Then Verin said, “how are your legs?”

Essek froze, a flare of anger and embarrassment burned white hot through him. “How’s your eye?” he snapped back, cruelly.

Verin rolled his eyes, the one with the scar unfocused and slightly dull when viewed closely.

“Still blind,” he said without hint of shame. Essek knew that of course. He had been there when it happened. He had been the indirect cause of it.

Essek sat back, crossing his arms and looking away. He knew he wasn’t being fair. Verin was worried about him, and with good reason, but this was not a discussion he wanted to have.

“Oh, very mature,” said Verin.

Essek didn’t answer or even look at him.

“You brought this on yourself, I told you I was going to drop it,” Verin pointed out.

There was a silence while Essek gathered his resolve. “Can you tell? Is it obvious?” Essek muttered so quietly he could scarcely hear himself over the pub chatter, without moving a muscle, peering at Verin out of the corner of his eyes.

Verin’s expression softened as he sat back. “Yes. No. Well, yes.”

“Which is it, Verin?” Essek asked more anxiously.

“I can tell, but I know what happened and I know you. I don’t think anyone else would.”

That wasn’t good enough. That wasn’t assurance that no one else had caught on that the Shadowhand’s physical body was doing all it could to betray him. “Damn your eyes,” he muttered.

“You know I’m not doubting you,” Verin assured him, sitting back. “I’m concerned.”

“I know,” Essek said, still not looking at him straight on. Verin was one of the only people he believed when he said that. “How could you tell?”

“You’re floating even all the way out here,” Verin said.

Essek was surprised. He had been hiding that below his cloak and using a spell to create footsteps. It was a trick he’d been using for a few years now, whenever he got too tired but needed to seem like he was walking he could make the sound of footsteps; his cloak concealed much and no one knew to watch his legs closely enough to find mistakes. “You noticed,” Essek said, somewhere between a question and a comment.

“Yes.”

“How?” Essek asked sharply, the voice of the Shadowhand who would not be denied.

Verin raised his eyebrow but answered anyway, “One of your fake magic footsteps didn’t line up.”

“It’s real magic,” Essek said while trying to assess how bad his mistake had been, if anyone else could have seen.

“You know what I meant. Magic fake footsteps, you bloody pedant!”

“I’m not pedantic, I’m simply correct,” said Essek because he felt like he had to say something. Finally he added, “I’ll have to be more careful.”

“I wasn’t trying to frighten you,” Verin said.

“I know, I am not frightened. I am just…considering,” he said.

“Of course. How do you feel?” Verin asked.

“I feel as fine as I always do,” Essek said.

“Don’t you dare do this avoidance bullshit,” Verin said. “If you are sick, take some time off.”

“Hm,” said Essek.

“Don’t ‘hm’ at me! Actually take time off! You’re only going to make it worse!”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do so know what I mean!” Verin said.

“I haven’t the slightest,” Essek retorted like a child.

“Don’t lie to me! I’ve known you 122 years—”

“You’ve known me 112 years. Or did you forget your age?”

“I didn’t!”

“You are 112,” Essek pointed out.

“I know that! I just meant I’ve known you for your entire life—Most of your life!” Verin qualified when Essek opened his mouth to point out the missing decade. “You were a toddler when I was born. So what was I missing, really?”

“You have no idea,” said Essek, “consider, I have always been a prodigy.”

“Is that so? A toilet training prodigy?” Verin asked.

“You and Jester will get along very well,” Essek said dryly.

“I am very eager to meet her.”

“I am...oddly eager for you to as well,” said Essek.

There was a pause then Verin sighed and looked down at his hands on the table. “I am going to worry about you, but I won’t ask, how’s that?”

“Verin,” said Essek, not knowing if the tone of his voice was frustration or concern.

“I saw you almost die as a child, that feeling, that weight will never exactly go away,” Verin spoke quietly, still looking at his callused hands. Essek bristled.

Essek had been a young child of 33 when he got sick.

Their father held the post as Taskhand and martial leader of Bazzoxan at the time, what would, decades later, become Verin’s exact post. It had been their father’s city for centuries, this was his second lifetime with Bazzoxan under his command. He had held it satisfactorily, he met expectations, but was no better than that and with no desire to be anything better than that. At the time Essek was too young to realize how much better his father could have been had he even a scrap of self-discipline, ambition, or creativity. At the time he was his father and that was all Essek understood.

Essek didn’t know then why he, Verin, and the Umavi were dragged out to Bazzoxan, but he had since learned it was because their father’s troops had had to push back a particularly powerful wave of fiends and suffered heavy losses as a result. There was both a fall in morale and murmurs about the Taskhand’s ability to lead. So the Taskhand went crying to his wife, the Umavi of Den Thelyss, to save him. And she had bailed him out by honoring the troops with her presence, doling out blessings and sermons of the Luxon. She had even brought her young children with her, so young there was still hope that they would actually be someone and not just New Souls. But as they were then, the children who would one day be Essek and Verin were shining beacons of promise and potential. When Deirta Thelyss had had enough of Bazzoxan she left the boys with their father, their governess, a couple of servants and tutors. They could stay there to act as symbols and she could return to Rosohna and court life.

But it hadn’t gone to plan. Maybe a week after the Umavi returned to Rosohna Essek became sick. Very sick. It had started simply enough and snowballed quickly. Stomach pains. Nausea. Headache. Exhaustion. A fever. But it became clear exactly what was wrong when a tingling pain shot down his legs. The limbs quickly became stiff and useless. Then breathing became difficult. This far out from civilization things were fairly slapdash. Their father was predictably useless. Besides, it wouldn’t do for troops to know that this icon of innocence and hope had gotten sick, people would talk. It all had to be kept under wraps. But when it became clear he was not recovering the children’s caretaker begged for assistance either from the Umavi or another experienced cleric of Den Thelyss. And thankfully one was finally sent. Magic eased his breathing and eventually he was ridded of the virus. Somehow they even managed to keep it discreet.

Essek was hardly the first to contract paraliż dziecięcy in the Wastes of Xhorhas. Even if the disease was largely eradicated in the more established and well off cities, the frontier was still wild and dangerous. Essek was one of the lucky ones who survived, even when it seemed like he would not.

Verin had not left Essek’s bedside for the duration of his illness. He was there for the fever, the struggling for breath, the paralysis; there to see that the majority of the adults in their lives were not all that concerned. They had no reason to be, after all, Essek was young. He still bore a childhood name. He hadn’t gone through the anamnesis yet. If he died and he was a Returning Soul he would simply go back to the cycle through Bazzoxan’s Beacon and get a new body strong enough that it didn’t succumb to disease. If he was a New Soul, well, the consecuted were never terribly concerned with New Souls, especially those that had no accomplishments to speak of. There would always be more New Souls. Essek as he was back then was more or less worthless. He was only good as an accessory of his family and the hope he would be something more.

But as he was he mattered to Verin, Verin loved him, and Verin cared about him enough to almost make up for the parental neglect.

Essek knew a bit of that horror, the fear of losing your brother and your only friend, especially since Verin took up his post in Bazzoxan, but he had always been better at hiding his feelings than Verin.

“Please don’t,” Essek muttered.

“You can’t stop me from feeling things,” Verin said.

“I can try.”

“Why would you?”

“Because—” Essek stopped himself then just let it rush out of him, “because I am unworthy of your concern and care.”

Verin stared at him first in surprise and then with concern. He searched his face, and Essek diligently avoided his gaze again. After a long moment Verin spoke gently but firmly, “You don’t get to decide what I am concerned with or who I care about. And I think you’re very worthy.”

Essek let out a single mirthless chuckle.

“What happened to you?” Verin asked.

Essek shook his head, “let it go.”

“Essek…” but Verin let himself trail off. “Fine. Let’s change the subject. Who knows how much time we have together, let’s not waste it in misery, hm?”

“Yes, I could not agree more,” said Essek.

The Thelyss brothers were both experts at deflecting. The evening was wonderful after that. They talked and laughed and ribbed one another and reminisced about their miserable childhoods. The abnormality of it and life in the Lucid Bastion in general had been thrown into stark relief by Essek’s time with the Mighty Nein. His childhood had been spent forced to worship an unfeeling light, but he never truly felt warmth until he met his friends. The perfection of the Umavi had been stained and would never wash clean again. The Watch had given Verin a similar experience even if he would never put it so unkindly.

Of course there had been the genuine shining jewel in Essek’s childhood, Verin. He loved Verin with all of his heart, as little as he cared for his father or the Umavi, as much as he adored the rest of the Mighty Nein, he loved Verin. And speaking to him again reminded Essek just how dear he was. He didn’t think he had ever told Verin that. At the very least it had been years since he showed Verin real affection, it was unbefitting of his station and if he wanted to maintain the feared and revered persona of Shadowhand he had to put aside things like that, and he was sorry for it.

Eventually the evening came to an end. The clock on the wall sounded and Verin sighed, admitting he had to meet the Umavi. They both stood and made their way out. Verin went to hug Essek, then stopped. Essek closed the distance to wrap his arms around his brother. Verin happily hugged him back.

“I thought hugs were undignified,” Verin said.

“You said it yourself, a lot has changed.”

Verin smiled, “I am eager to meet your friends.”

“Tomorrow, perhaps,” Essek said.

“Tomorrow definitely,” Verin replied. “Well, off to see mother. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” said Essek warmly. “If she needs an excuse for your tardiness, feel free to use me.”

“As if it would matter,” said Verin before giving his brother a parting noogie.

Essek stood fixing his hair and watching his brother’s retreating back until Verin was rendered indistinct by distance, just another drow on the streets of Rosohna. With him went the warmth from his company and alcohol, it felt as if both were draining from Essek. With a sickening lurch Essek realized that with his plan as it was, as it had to be, Verin would also have to be made to believe his brother was dead. One day in the future maybe he could let Verin in on the truth, but until Essek was confident that the Rosohnian elite whole-heartedly believed he was dead and gone from this mortal plane Verin’s knowledge would be both an unnecessary liability and potentially a danger to his, Verin’s, safety. Verin would probably spend the rest of his life thinking his brother was dead.

Essek had spent so much of his adult life lying and hurting people. That had been his job in the Bright Queen’s court, it had been his role as the eldest child of a Ruling Den. But he could not blame the Bright Queen or his mother for all of his ill-deeds. He had been cruel and villainous in his own right. It only made sense that his grand exit from this melodrama would be his most spectacular lie in which he would hurt the only person in this whole damned country who he truly cared about. He shivered and held himself, cold and sober and alone on the busy streets of the Gallimaufry.

What a fitting swan song it would be for Shadowhand Essek Thelyss.

Chapter Text

Essek was later in coming back to the Xhorhaus than he expected to be. He hadn’t thought anything of it; it had been a long time since his tardiness affected anyone. One was never anything but on time when meeting the Bright Queen, even if one was, like Essek, a busier member of her court; lateness would be dubbed disrespectful, insulting, and borderline sacreligious. Essek may have been disinterested in politics, but he was an excellent politician, and he had never been late in her presence. In his personal life no one had been waiting for him in 20 years, when his tardy returns no longer reflected poorly on his mother. He and Verin had an understanding as adolescents, they covered for one another when they snuck out; Verin usually doing so to socialize, Essek to study in peace. They kept a schedule so one of them was home to cover while the other was out.

Standing on the threshold of the Xhorhaus and considering how much he had to drink that night, Essek decided to use Caleb’s house key. There was too high a risk of setting off something of Veth’s that would potentially punch him in the gut, burn off his hair, or shoot him in the genitals. Essek fished the keys out of his pocket, three copper keys bound together by a ring with a small clay cat hanging from it. He looked at it in his dark palm and felt the wine warmth of personal affection chase away the cold of self-loathing. A small smile quirked the corner of his lip and softened his brow. Essek opened the door to the sound of Caduceus’s chimes; Caleb was already there to meet him in the entry hall.

Essek barely had time to notice Caleb’s expression of anxiety and concern break into one of relief and tender endearment before he quickly scooped Essek up in a pleasant, if tight, hug. More than a full head shorter than the other wizard, Essek found himself smiling into Caleb’s shirt. He felt very silly, but somehow acceptably so. It helped that he and Caleb were alone and Essek’s indignity was not witnessed by anyone else, but he had never felt “silly” of any sort could be excused before meeting the Mighty Nein.

After a moment both too long and too short Caleb dropped his arms robotically to his sides. When Essek looked up Caleb had his face turned away and was blushing a rosy pink. Essek had never so much as thought the word “adorable” before, but it flitted through his conscious mind as he noted the subtle blush had reached Caleb’s blunt ears. Caleb stuffed his hands into his pockets in a way Essek had never seen him do before, as if he needed to find a place for them that wasn’t on Essek’s body. “I apologize, my friend. I was becoming concerned,” he said.

That sent a tingling feeling through Essek’s nerves, “were you?”

“Ja, well…” Caleb trailed off, awkwardly cleared his throat, and then began again, “good evening, Essek, I hope all went well with the Queen.”

Essek was quietly moved by the concern and the poorly attempted cover-up. He thought it might be the first time someone was waiting up for him out of concern for him rather than reasons of decorum or threat to their own reputation. Especially considering Caleb was a human and, as Essek had learned, they needed very regular sleep. He also understood Caleb’s embarrassment; having feelings was difficult and hard to admit.

“You need not apologize. I was later than I intended to be,” Essek assured him, floating backward a hypothetical step. “Good evening, everything went well. It wasn’t the Bright Queen who kept me, I was distracted by my brother.”

Caleb looked excited, “oh! Is Verin in Rosohna?”

Essek wasn’t sure why Caleb was so eager, unless like Verin he was thrilled by the prospect of meeting a member of Essek’s family. “He is. The Umavi has called him here to try and fail to entice him into politics.”

“Your mother, yes?” Caleb clarified. It was always striking to remember how very insular the Kryn Dynasty was. The Lucid Bastion’s socio-religious-political world had been all Essek knew for most of his life, but to outsiders even the most important and powerful members of the Ruling Dens were unrecognizable.

Before very recently the only thing that had granted him perspective was the study of dunamancy. Dunamancy showed him how fragile and random the universe was, but it took interacting with people from beyond the Dynasty to reveal how very small and how very insignificant the elite of Rosohna truly were. He now supposed that perhaps he had held the mistaken theory that being a magic prodigy bearing the name of not only a Noble Den but a Ruling one would garner some respect from the likes of the Cerberus Assembly. Now he realized they probably had not known the name Thelyss before his naïve entrance.

“Yes, and much more than that,” Essek explained, there was no way to quickly remind Caleb of what an Umavi was.

“Right, of course, a perfect soul and some such hooey,” said Caleb dismissively. Apparently he had managed to find the definition of ‘Umavi’ in his remarkable memory. Then he asked, “how is your brother?” There was something oddly thrilling about how dismissive Caleb was about one of the most pious, blessed, and elite people in the whole of the Dynasty. Even in her shunned state Deirta Thelyss deserved more than a wave of an Imperial mage’s hand before asking with far more interest about her youngest, least impressive child. By the Light of the Luxon that should not have delighted Essek as much as it did.

“He is well,” said Essek. “As well as he ever is.” Essek laughed at the look of confusion and concern on Caleb’s face. “Do not worry about him. I am, hm…” Essek tried to think of the Common word before settling on, “fucking with him, as you might say. I only mean that Verin is very reckless and very social. He often does things that I would not.”

“He sounds very different from you,” said Caleb with friendly sarcasm, “who are simply reckless and solitary.”

“More reckless and less solitary than I once was.”

“I hate to remind you that you committed a particular crime well before we met. You cannot blame the rest of the Mighty Nein for your recklessness,” Caleb pointed out. Essek noted that Caleb spoke around this crime rather than saying it outright. Caleb possessed a sense of paranoia that Essek appreciated. Both wizards were wearing necklaces that prevented them from being scryed on, but that didn’t prevent the fear that somehow they might be circumvented; without Fjord and his Star Razor there was no way of confidently disabusing themselves of that fear.

“Fair enough,” Essek said. “I merely found company here.”

“Ja, precisely,” said Caleb. “You know, if Jester catches wind that Verin is in the city you will have to introduce them.”

“I do know that, and there is no need to be concerned about it. Verin has already arranged to visit tomorrow,” Essek said.

“Has he?” asked Caleb.

“Quite so. Jester Lavorre might be disarmingly charismatic, but Verin Thelyss has had 112 years to learn, as the saying goes, how to get under my skin.”

“Understandable. From what I have seen siblings are very good at that,” said Caleb.

“The Clays, I assume?”

“Caduceus and his family make a very good case study, oder?”

“A rather…intense one, certainly,” said Essek.

“If Verin is coming, I should warn you Jester and Veth have started a betting pool around him,” said Caleb.

Essek raised his eyebrows. “Around Verin? Whatever about him?” The Mighty Nein knew next to nothing of his brother as far as Essek could remember. They knew he was a New Soul, younger than Essek, and that Essek trusted him. Perhaps Essek had mentioned he was a Taskhand, but he could truly think of nothing else that had come up. He didn’t think any of those topics was interesting enough or even fit to be the core of some kind of gambling game.

Caleb chuckled a little nervously, looked away, and rubbed a hand down his arm in a show of awkward anxiety that Essek had seen many times. If only Frumpkin had remained, but Caleb was kind and unselfish and released his familiar back to the Feywild. “They have put money on whether or not he is more attractive than you are and thus will snag the title of ‘Hot Boi’ out from under you.”

Essek burst into laughter, which made Caleb grin more broadly.

“As willing as I am to hand over the dubious honorific, I am confident that I am the more attractive Thelyss brother,” Essek assured him.

“It would be hard for him to steal it given his competition,” said Caleb with a wink that made Essek’s heart skip embarrassingly.

Essek had flirted before, obviously; there were social situations in which banter buzzing with innuendo was necessary. Sometimes — if his partner was suitably witty — it was even amusing, especially when he inevitably bested them. It certainly made court feasts more entertaining. And it was a way to strike out at people who annoyed him, raise them up and then send them crashing down to their social deaths with nothing but a few words and smiles. But with Caleb the usual procedure was turned on its head.

Essek did not know how to respond to his body’s treacherous reaction so instead he asked, “so who has championed which Thelyss?”

“Jester is ever your defender. Veth feels that your description of Verin being taller and more muscular will make him more attractive as well,” said Caleb.

“That sounds like Veth,” said Essek, remembering some of the others Veth had expressed interest in. “Well, I hope she is prepared to lose her money.” Then Essek thought of something, “have you, by chance, joined this pool?”

“I may have,” Caleb said. “In your favor, of course,” he added quickly, rubbing harder at his arm.

“Interesting,” Essek said quietly, and it was, although it should not have been. “Now,” he opened his Wristpocket and fished out his spellbook. “Shall we get to work?”

Essek should have left when Caleb fell asleep and dropped a book on his face. Caleb had been lying on one of the number of daybeds the Nein had accumulated, holding a Dunamancy tome over his head as he read. When fatigue got the better of him, gravity got the better of the book. Essek had been immersed in his own text, seated at the study’s table and pointing interesting things out to Caleb. The human’s responses had become increasingly lackluster over the past few minutes, which should have been a clue to Essek. He looked up when he heard a thump, just in time to see Caleb startle awake with a surprised grunt. He picked the book up from his face and rubbed his nose where the book’s spine collided with it.

Essek found himself almost painfully charmed by the scene, “are you alright?”

Caleb muttered something indistinct that sounded like confirmation, disorientedly rolled onto his side, and was asleep again almost immediately. This time he dropped the book onto the floor. It landed on its pages, which caused them to crease in a way that Essek knew would horrify Caleb if he were awake. Caleb had been aghast to learn that Essek dog-eared his texts instead of using a bookmark and nearly snatched a book out of Essek’s hands when he bent its spine with perhaps more vigor than was necessary. Caleb’s reaction to the resulting crack had been as if it was his spine in Essek’s hands. Essek got up and righted the fallen book for Caleb’s sake, placing it on the table. Then he should have gone back to his towers.

But he hadn’t. He had been warm and comfortable. He felt inexplicably safe here in this cramped study, in Caleb’s company. Happy, or maybe that wasn’t the right word. Content? Secure? Cozy? He didn’t know what word he was searching for in any language he knew, perhaps because he didn’t quite know what he was feeling.

Either way, the thought of returning to his towers was even less appealing than it had been earlier that day. Verin was doing his due diligence as a child of the Umavi Thelyss and spending the night in their ancestral hall in the Lucid Bastion, so Essek’s supposed home would be as devoid of life as it always was. Even if Essek’s towers had been filled with the greatest treasures in Exandria — and to a certain extent they were, there were some books among his shelves that could only be found in a few places on the planet, as far as he knew, as well as his own research, which was entirely unique and priceless — he would rather be here with the Mighty Nein. He was struck by the idea that he could be the first person Caleb saw come morning and Caleb being the same for him. It made him smile a little to himself. It felt scandalously personal as well as inviting. He was filled up with a giddy springtime warmth like water filled a vase.

So Essek decided to stay on a whim. Jester had invited him to do so, Caleb had called the Xhorhaus his home, the others had called him a member of the Mighty Nein. It seemed almost stranger to leave, didn’t it? Or so he tried to tell himself. Here in the warm contentment of the study he thought, maybe, he was allowed to even have this fantasy of safety and belonging; he could entertain the idea that he deserved to belong somewhere, anywhere with someone, anyone.

He could read until Caleb woke up, or until he tranced himself, whichever came first. Then it was settled.

Essek removed his jewelry, prestidigitated away his make up for the sake of his pores, and ended up in an armchair by the fire, curled in on himself in a way that was comfortable for now but he knew with the certainty of a diviner would make his legs ache in the morning. He read for some time and ended the night by picking up one of his friends’ favorite books, an extremely trashy novel called Tusk Love, which proved the perfect boring and inane drivel to help him drift into a trance.

From behind his eyes he watched the lighting in the room shift as the fire slowly burned away and the lantern oil ran dry. At some point during his rest, he wasn’t sure exactly when — time was much more fluid when trancing — pale hands draped a blanket over him, and he felt a soft kiss on the top of his head. Essek found himself cuddling into the blanket’s warmth as the remaining lamp was snuffed out. After that the room was still and calm.

Then it was morning. Essek slid into proper consciousness. The room looked much like it had when he fell into his trance. The sky outside was only slightly lighter and for the first time in Essek’s life that lack of sun seemed odd. Welcome, but odd. It was as if the sun was a persistent and obnoxious social climber or upstart member of the court who had been pestering him for weeks that suddenly gave up and vanished; Essek was surprised, but not sorry to see the damn thing go. He cuddled into the wooly blanket Caleb had placed over him and simply enjoyed the calm of the moment. Everything about this scenario was unique, and while that pleasant strangeness also brought old anxiety and new guilt, those were, for the moment, background noise. He was amongst friends, the world was safe from the existential threat of Lucien, the Somnovum, and their ‘Pattern.’

He was amongst friends…that was mad on its own. ‘I am very glad I met you’ Essek had said that to them once. It was a huge admission on his part, but it was also an equally immense understatement.

Essek heard a noise from the hall and his legs protested as he turned to look over the back of the armchair at the source, but he bared it easily. He had spent years ignoring pain like this…well, almost like this.

Why had Eiselcross and Aeor made it so much worse? That was something he would have to research and this was the rare occasion when the prospect of new knowledge did not pique his curiosity or intrigue him in the least. He resented that he needed to know anything about his weakness and he would take that resentment out on his own body if he had to. He had done it before.

After his initial illness in Bazzoxan as a child he had recovered nearly entirely. He was a prodigy in all things. His illness could be kept secret and was quickly buried by his parents. His weakness would never be revealed. There had been very few lasting ill effects. If only it had stayed that way. The only physical marker he’d borne for years was that his feet and legs were smaller than they should have been; but he had always been slight and the defects were easily hidden below flowing robes and well cut trousers, even under the sharpest scrutiny from the most eager eyes in the Dynasty. His legs were also weak and grew tired quickly but that was why Essek figured out his floating cantrip in the first place before it became the trick the court expected of him like a trained dog. Eventually he also learned to reduce his own mass so his legs could support him for longer periods of time when it was needed.

But shortly after Essek had finally been granted status as an adult it changed. He had taken his proper name, his identity, a place in court, everything was going right…then he was struck by fatigue unlike any he’d ever experienced. And pain. He had ignored it for a long time, but it never went away. When he found himself falling asleep again for the first time in a decade his condition frightened him enough that he went grudgingly to a doctor.

He found out that he had been one of the unlucky ones to have vanquished paraliż dziecięcy only to have the chronic side effects spring up years later. There were only three people besides Essek who knew that. One was the Thelyss physician who diagnosed him. One was the Umavi, informed by the clinician. The final one was Verin, Verin was the only person Essek had ever told or had ever wanted to tell. He never wanted his friends to find out. He didn’t want them to know he was weak. He knew they would accept it — and him — but it was a point of personal pride. He didn’t want them to look at him differently, as someone literally incapable of carrying his own weight. He had seen the pity and care they showed Mollymauk, and he did not want it.

Eiselcross had been worth it. All of it — the waiting, the journey through Aeor and the Cognoza, being able to help his friends fight for and save the very nature of existence from the physical incarnation of madness on the Astral Sea, saving Mollymauk — has been worth it, but he feared he would be paying for his adventure for the rest of his life. He would not let that fear show, however, he would hide as long as he could. He was good at that.

“Essek?” Caleb’s voice, gentle, quiet, and fuzzy with sleep, “are you sleeping?” Then the man himself appeared, stopping in the doorway, dressed in a brown fuzzy bathrobe, cotton trousers, and his bare feet. He held a steaming clay mug in either hand. “Oh, so you are not.” As happened embarrassingly often to Essek he found his eyes momentarily drawn to where some of Caleb’s copper-colored chest hair peeked out from the ‘v’ of his robe. It was one part fascination with the novelty of it after a lifetime populated primarily by overdressed drow, who had no body hair even if they had ever dared to bear skin (which they would not), one part...Essek didn’t know what.

“Elves don’t sleep,” he reminded Caleb. Caleb had just taken a sip of whatever he was carrying, but cocked his head. Essek felt the need to clarify. “Elves rarely sleep and I was not sleeping.”

“Very true, but it is early and I do not remember how one puts words together in Common…Trance.” He uncharacteristically fumbled then, as if he was trying to jumpstart his brain said, “‘in einer Trance sein’ would be it in Zemnian.”

“Trancing,” said Essek, “I was trancing.”

“Mm, so it is. Same word, different...kind of word,” he stalled on that for a moment, took another sip from his cup, then seemed to register he had another one. He held it out. “Would you like tea?”

“Very much so,” said Essek, accepting the cup from Caleb with both hands. As the human crossed to sit by the fire Essek took the time to move from chair to couch so he could sit beside him. He took a sip of the tea, finding it pleasant and earthy. “This is lovely,” said Essek.

“I was told the family and what is inside it, but I am very tired and did not hear all of what Caduceus said,” Caleb dunked his tea bag a few times as he spoke. “I know only it contains caffeine.”

“Ah, of course,” said Essek. He looked down into the cup for a moment, “I am still not sure how I feel about dead people tea…”

“No one but Caduceus is. And now Mollymauk, strangely. He says he will be happy to be tea if he dies again.”

“Is Mollymauk…” Essek didn’t know what he wanted to ask. Is he like Lucien? Is he how you remember him? Is he what you wanted, scrambled and scared? Is he going to get better? “Is he alright?”

Caleb let out a thoughtful breath. He stared into what was left of the fire and repeatedly rubbed the fingers of one hand over the sleeve of his robe. Then he said, “nein, no. And I do not think he ever will be. But he lives. He…geht weiter…he go…s, goes farther.”

Essek considered this response. There was something truly wonderful in how rapidly his friends accepted Mollymauk back into the fold, damaged or not, Lucien or not. Essek didn’t know if he would have been able to do the same. But he hoped he could learn. And he very much wanted to like Mollymauk, from all the stories he’d been told.

Caleb spoke again, breaking through his thoughts. “I am sorry I do not have a more...good... answer. Come back when the tea has…ah…” a long pause, “kicked in.”

Essek asked something that might have been offensive, but he was curious about, “If it is not too rude to ask, and I beg your forgiveness if it is, when did you learn Common?”

“Can you tell that so lightly?” Caleb muttered.

“Yes. Because it is ‘easily’ in this case, I am afraid.”

Caleb smiled and let out a self-deprecating little laugh. “Ja, genau. So it is. I learned later than all the rest, I think. There was not a need in my…Kindheit…child…thing…child-ness.”

“Childhood?” Essek asked gently, trying to avoid his usual condescension.

Caleb nodded, “Ja, yes, that! You see, my parents spoke only Zemnian, as did our neighbors, as did my friends. I learned some Common to help my mother with, ah, buyers and things like this from Rexxentrum. She was very...kind…she would not harm a fly and I did not want them to cheat her. But I was not truly fluent and Common was not an all-the-time thing until I went to the Academy. They teach everything in Common there. Zemnian is...it makes...it is not looked upon highly in the capital.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Essek. A lot of what he heard about from the Empire was ridiculous or stupid, and he was at a level of comfort in his relationship with Caleb beyond diplomatic stiffness and anxious kindness. He had settled into perhaps too harsh honesty, as he had demonstrated yesterday when teaching Caleb magic. He had to work on that.

But Caleb’s sip of tea was disrupted by a laugh. Thankfully he wasn’t far enough from the cup to spill. He wiped the tea from his beard with the back of his sleeve, coughing and chuckling at once.

“I apologize for making you breathe your tea,” said Essek.

“Schon gut,” he mumbled, “do not be worried, my friend. I, ah, I liked your being frank, while also being Essek.” He seemed to have amused himself with the almost-pun.

“It seems to me, hm, how to say it diplomatically, it seems very strange. After all, Zemnian speakers built Rexxentrum. Every elfoid being in Wildemount knows that,” said Essek. “The crown still sits on a Zemnian’s head, for the Bright Queen’s sake!”

“Arguably Zemnian only. One would not call him thus. He is Dv—Dwendalian. Common is the language of the Dwendalian Empire, not Zemnian. Common is the language of trade. It is the language of learning.”

“And Zemnian is the language of what?” Essek asked.

“Ah, farmers. The King would never be heard speaking Zemnian. It identifies one as…ah…malerisch…as…like a painting? Pretty, yes, but empty. Charming but silly. From a small place with a small outlook and small ambitions…there is a word I am looking—quaint! Quaint is a good word. Or, at worst, a...Scheiße,” he mumbled, “ein Hinterwälder...a backwoods person. Do you know what I mean? Quaint but in a bad way.”

“I do understand,” said Essek. It was interesting to think how far a conquering language had fallen. That at one time, not so long ago, Zemnian speakers had marched across the continent and swallowed up lands and civilizations and now even while their Empire thrived their language was being driven to extinction.

“Good. The proper word will come to me later,” Caleb took another sip of tea, both hands wrapped around his clay mug, it appeared to be handmade and had not come with the house, but it fitted the Mighty Nein, imperfect and lovely. “What about you?”

“What do I think about Zemnian?” Essek asked.

“No, no. I mean, when did you learn Common? With great respect, you fumble more often than Yasha or Beauregard or Fjord who were raised with Common as their…fuck…in Zemnian one would say ‘Muttersprache’, mother language, but you are cozy with it.” Essek did not correct him, nor did he the second time when Caleb added, “more cozy than I. Much more.”

Essek didn’t take offense, it was a fair assessment. His Common wasn’t perfect. As in Undercommon he chose his words carefully, but in Common there was often an obvious pause while he searched through his lexicon. “Young. I think I was about 30 when language lessons began. Perhaps a little older. But certainly no more than 40.”

“I am afraid I need to, ah, crunch some numbers,” said Caleb.

“Oh, of course! You are not yet 40 years of age, is that correct?” he asked.

“That is correct,” said Caleb. “I am 34.”

“Well, in simple terms I was a young child,” Essek clarified, “about when general studies begin. Common was never the subject that interested me most, beyond needing to know it for other studies. Politics and trade do not interest me, as I have told you, and that is where Common is mostly used within the Dynasty.”

“What is the language of the court, when the likes of us are not there?”

“Undercommon, of course. Common is for international and intercontinental politics, but does not have terminology complex enough to express the relationship dynamics, social nuance, or barely concealed contempt necessary for the royal court. Undercommon does.”

Caleb laughed again, “that is a plus. There are many Zemnian terms that do not translate well into Common. I am sure that is true of Undercommon as well.”

“Yes,” said Essek. There are several that come to mind immediately. The first two were ‘załatwić’ meaning ‘to take care of or finish off something (or someone)’ and ‘kombinować’ translated best as ‘to do something creatively but underhandedly’. They were not kind or friendly words, but they were words that saw a lot of use in his life in the Lucid Bastion. They tasted bitter on his tongue, familiar and unwelcome. Instead he took a moment to cast around for another.

“Kilkanaście,” he said. Speaking seemed to rouse Caleb from a dreamy state, thoughts wandering in the gap Essek left. “It means, well, I suppose the closest I can think of is ‘over or around a dozen’ but that is not quite it. I would say it refers to any number between 12 and 19.”

“Oh, I like that,” said Caleb. “That is a good one. The only one that comes to me right now is Morgenmuffel.”

“Morgen means morning and I’m afraid I am a bit lost on the second part,” said Essek.

“A...ah...sourpuss, if you will. It is one word to describe what you see before you. Not-A-Morning-Person. I wish I had another example that is not so personally…personal. But it is too early for a proper list, I assure you there are at least a kilkanaście on it.” His pronunciation was bad enough that Essek felt his ears twitch back, but he was trying.

Caleb smiled fondly. “Not so good?”

“No, but in truth, it was better than I expected. Have you been studying?” Essek asked.

“Only a small amount,” Caleb said, slightly embarrassed, “I am not very good yet. But it is a fascinating language.”

"I suppose, I have never thought much about it.”

“That is fair, I have never thought much about Zemnian. I know most people, especially speakers of Common, think it sounds…ah, mean? Or perhaps angry,” said Caleb.

“I don’t think it does.”

“Danke.”

“Przyjemność po mojej stronie.” Essek tried to think of something interesting about his own language, “Xhorhasian Undercommon is, I know, very different from Tal’Dorian Undercommon.”

“That seems right, Xhorhasian Undercommon has come a long way beyond the Underdark,” said Caleb.

“Yes, it differs from the Marquesian dialect as well, although not as much. Kryn has more nuance but also more religious terminology.”

“It has many sounds, complicated, but subtle. It is like a puzzle. I like it, and I would like to learn more of it.”

“I would like to try my hand at Zemnian one day. Or my tongue I suppose—” Essek realized what he had said and how it could be misconstrued. He felt his face heat and ears prick.

Caleb grinned more and let out a little chuckle. He was blushing adorably again. This was the second time he’d had that thought about Caleb’s little blush in less than 24 hours. It was such a foreign thought; strange and uncomfortable. And the more often things like that occured the more confused, annoyed, and out of his element Essek felt. He refused to humor the thought that presently brushed across his mind like a breeze through grass, that this might have been what they called ‘attraction.’

He had never had much interest in relationships of any kind — platonic, filial, or romantic — beyond the one he had with his brother and those he had to maintain politically, but the ones he found least appealing in concept were romantic liaisons. He had been written into a few politically beneficial engagements, arranged between the Umavi and other den leaders when he was younger and more suitable, but the shifting social landscape of Rosohna was tumultuous enough that Essek never had to worry about betrothal becoming marriage. When he first came of age some twenty years ago he had had many social climbing would-be suitors hoping to flirt their way into a Noble Den or to link theirs to a Ruling Den with more finality than loose fealty (bonds of blood were hard to break) but Essek gained a reputation after destroying the intents and egos of a fair few. Now that reputation allowed him to remain single.

He had long held the theory that romantic feelings weren’t actually real, just a mechanism to allow for courtship and child rearing without discomfort. Like sex itself it came down to politics. The world’s hopeless romantics like Verin were like all optimists, simply deluding themselves. They attached a name and heavy baggage to a chemical reaction, pretending it was anything more than that. He knew now that somehow even that biological response was lost on him. It was not something he had ever heard of happening to people. But he thought, obsessed as the Dynasty was with continuation, lineage, and legacy, if Essek was not the first of his kind it would have been covered up by tradition and filial piety. He would also not be surprised if he was unique, Essek had always been different from other people.

It was not something that ever bothered him; it was, he had long held, advantageous to not get bogged down with the likes of love and lust. The only minimal response he had was a preference on appearance and aesthetic, finding himself drawn to men over women, especially flat chested men. And, as he was finding, hairy-chested men. With Copper-colored hair. And blue eyes. And pale skin. And cute, short ears that reddened when he blushed.

That was the problem with Caleb Widogast. At this point there was truly nothing he wanted more in the world than to be with Caleb. Just like this. Well, not exactly like this, the thoughts he entertained most often involved more magic and science. Sometimes he thought he would like very much to properly kiss Caleb. Or to cuddle with him beside a fire for as long as possible. He didn’t know what that should be called, what it meant, what strange spell he was under. All he knew was he could stay with Caleb. Forever? Logically no, but to his own strangely clouded mind…certainly for the foreseeable future.

Forever was a long time in the Dynasty. That was why things were often pragmatic and logical in a way that had horrified Jester when he explained it to her. Amongst the elite marriages were usually about politics and were chosen based on what was best for the den as a whole. One lifetime of one person was just a little piece of a far larger puzzle; the den as a whole bore far more importance and thus more weight than the individual. Soon-to-be spouses sometimes didn’t meet until after an arrangement for marriage had been made and agreed upon; a deal struck and beneficial for all sides. Marriages were prosperous rather than passionate. The couple should get along but ‘love’ or whatever it was, was something expected to come later. Usually it did, but also usually it was partially obligation as far as Essek could tell.

That wasn’t to say what Jester called ‘love’ didn’t exist, that random spark between two people so often written about. So-called ‘love-match’ marriages in the Noble and Ruling Dens of the Dynasty were rare, but occasionally were performed over more politically advantageous matches. In general this was between couples with many lifetimes under their belts, believed to be wise enough to understand the gravity of their choice. There were sometimes rumors of people concocting the accomplishments of a beloved partner to pull them up from some Low Den. Often people had concubines they were madly in love with, who were acknowledged though nowhere near as highly regarded as their actual spouse.

There had to be arrangements made. Rebirth was not an exact science, there was no timer, there was no guarantee one would return at the same time as the person they professed to love or had previously married. Often people moved on and found new partners and/or embraced a political arrangement; that had always made sense to Essek in so far as relationships ever made sense to him. If one was seeking that sensation wouldn’t they look for it elsewhere? But when the beloved of a previous life or lives returned, there were instances where the lovers would reunite as lovers, so long as newly formed bonds of bone didn’t make it taboo, that was their bodies were not directly related. If they chose to come together again and co-osteogy allowed, there were a few outcomes in those cases: sometimes the lover from the lower of the two dens became a concubine of the higher noble, if the souls had been married in another life and had new spouses in this one they might have a less serious arrangement where a polycule without legal standing was formed between all parties (new spouses included), or even, in some extreme and rare cases, abandoning present courtships for that lover. That would always cause a stir, but the former two were completely respectable, the argument was that they were so very much in love they could not be stopped by death, by changed bodies, by time, that they wanted that particular person no matter what. Those were what they called ‘soulmates’. It was said the Bright Queen and the Dusk Captain were such soulmates. Some people had claimed his mother and father were, despite only having been together three lifetimes thus far, two-thirds of his mother’s lives spent without him.

But even ‘soulmates’ were not eternal. They grew apart over time. Who was to say his parents would reunite when his father returned?

Essek had never paid much attention to the romantic goings-on of his fellows nor chased them himself, no more than he had to by virtue of being a member of the Queen’s court and a Ruling Den. He watched as an outsider, taking in these strange and pointless rituals. He knew about a lot of the fictional pieces because of Verin. Essek had flipped through some out of boredom and heard his brother talk about others. He never put much stock in any of it, real or imagined. If he listened to Verin, love was something like a virus, Verin falling in and out of it seemingly once a week. To Essek it seemed like what people called ‘love’ was either excitement and sensation in their brief affairs or married couples getting used to each other and becoming comfortable.

But now Essek thought he might have understood people who connected across time. It was not something silly like ‘romance.’ Not so fiery and useless as ‘passion.’ It was not some physical sensation being sought or a rose-colored state of mind. Instead, it was this strangely powerful intellectual and, yes, emotional bond, like the one he and Caleb had formed. They were like magnets, drawn together by some unseen force. He wanted to be around Caleb in a way he had never felt before. Somehow in a way he couldn’t explain it was different from the others, but it was there and it made him happy.

With a jolt of horror Essek realized this may have been what romance was. ‘No,’ he told himself, ‘No, “romance” is silliness and sensation, it’s physical and chemical. This is the thrill of finally finding someone who can match wits with oneself, someone on one’s level when the rest have been far below.’

“It is, ah, tricky, I have been told,” said Caleb, dragging Essek out of his terrifyingly romantic thoughts.

“What? Oh, Zemnian, you mean?” Essek asked, taking a moment to remember what they were talking about before Essek got lost in Caleb’s eyes and his own mind.

“Ja, it is hardly in vogue to learn, but there were people who came from Rexxentrum to collect the crops who tried their tongues at it, sometimes curious students of history, too. The grammar is more unyielding than Common,” Caleb said, “the word order is very different. Common speakers are often…confused by the…äh…fuck, give me a moment, Fälle is the word in Zemnian…when words are different, but only certain words…” There was a long pause in which Caleb stared off into the distance, muttering indistinctly as he probed the depths of his brain. Then he said with perhaps a little too much excitement, “Cases!”

“Oh, you will need to give me a moment as well. You are not the only one whose Common must warm up in the morning,” said Essek sheepishly, trying to remember that use of the word and coming up blank.

“I am glad such a brilliant mind sometimes…stalls, just as those of us mere mortals do.”

“Mm, sometimes,” Essek agreed. It did take him a long moment to pull the linguistic meaning from his mind, it wasn’t exactly a topic he often talked about in Undercommon, let alone Common, but he determinedly got there. “Yyyes,” he carried the word on as his thoughts solidified. “I believe I know what you mean. Nouns changing based on what they do in a sentence, yes?”

Caleb was drinking and gave a thumb’s up as a non-verbal affirmative.

“How many does Zemnian have?” he asked.

“Four.”

“Oh! Very cute! Undercommon has seven.”

Caleb laughed. “That does sound complicated. Perhaps we can teach each other our mother languages. It has worked well with magic thus far.” As he spoke Essek fumbled for his nerve. He tried to tip his head onto Caleb’s shoulder. Caleb had once fallen asleep on Essek’s shoulder and Essek had felt warm for hours afterward. But Caleb had finished speaking and Essek hadn’t moved.

“I look forward to it,” said Essek earnestly.

Caleb turned toward him for the first time since they sat down together rather than staring into the low fire. And suddenly their faces had gotten very close. Essek’s mouth went dry, his eyes flitted from Caleb’s eyes to his lips to his chest to his lips again. Caleb tipped his head forward enough that their foreheads were touching. Essek leaned into it and Caleb smiled fondly. Essek loved this contact, this touch, but didn’t know how to proceed further. Did he kiss Caleb? He internally balked at the very thought…but their mouths were so close now. He would barely have to move. Essek might be forced to call the scene romantic if he wasn’t so averse to the word, but just the thought brought reality back. They were two men in a cold room in their pajamas, their breaths stale and tea going cold. He let out an amused huff at his own silliness. He sat back and cold air rushed between them. Essek had lost his opening and any inclination he had had to close the gap between them. Almost any.

“We cannot sit around all day, ja?” Caleb said.

“We cannot,” agreed Essek.

“I firmly believe Aeor is the origin of the Beacons,” Essek said, showered, teeth brushed, jewelry replaced. He passed Caleb the blanket he had put over Essek the night before.

“Danke,” Caleb said as he took it. “And it would make perfect sense, but until we sift through, translate, and noodle over all the material I am not comfortable in stating that as a fact,” said Caleb as he shook out the blanket.

“It fits my theory perfectly,” Essek pointed out.

“And that is why you want to believe it so wholeheartedly,” Caleb replied, folding the blanket over itself.

“You sound like you doubt not only me but your own eyes,” Essek said as Caleb tossed the blanket over the chaise.

“I don’t doubt you, nor do I doubt the evidence I have seen. But I have learned in my time on Exandria that nothing is ever as simple as it seems.” As he spoke Caleb scratched his neck and seemed dissatisfied with some aspect of his beard. Still worrying the hair there he crossed to the door on the other side of the room, one Essek had not entered since the Mighty Nein had taken this building over. Walking off mid-conversation was odd. At one point in his life Essek would have chalked all of Caleb’s eccentricities up to Empire custom, but having interacted not only with Beau but the likes of Trent Ikithon, Vess Derogna, and the Empire’s adopted Myiasmierian son Ludinus Da’leth Essek knew many of them were just Caleb. Both the charming and uncharming ones. This one was somewhere in the middle, harmlessly strange. Their debate continued as Caleb unlocked the door.

“Your time on Exandria is, what, 34 years, wasn’t that what you said, Young Man?” Essek asked.

“It has been an eventful 34 years, Großvater. How many times had you left Rosohna before Eiselcross? Before Rexxentrum?”

He had no argument there. It was extremely rare he left the capital. “Perhaps worldly wisdom is neither of our specialities,” Essek conceded.

Caleb gave him an infuriating smile. “I promise I am not doubting your theory. Given the evidence we have found so far I am inclined to believe you. However, I am weary of jumping to conclusions.” With that Caleb had stepped into his bedroom and Essek, realizing now that that was what this room was, remained in the open doorway. “Things are not always what they—” Caleb paused, “please come in and close the door. I, ah, well, it is probably foolish, the people in this house know so much about me, but I like to keep the pretense of privacy.”

“They have all seen you naked,” Essek pointed out.

“Many times at this point, but there is more to privacy than the nooks and crannies of one’s physical body as well you know.”

“I do indeed,” Essek replied. He wanted to ask why he was granted permission for entry, what he had done to justify this trust over the likes of Veth, Beau, Jester, or even the newly minted Mollymauk. He wasn’t worthy of it and it felt fragile in his clumsy grip. But he stepped inside the room and closed the door. He tried not to glance around too obviously, but he was always a curious man and even with all of his attempts at reform, a selfish one. Caleb had made the space his own, crowded, warm, and charming. Essek found himself incredibly taken by the cat figurines on the windowsill, the carefully curated books on the bedside table, and the mug on the desk filled with the lightly chewed quills. Caleb said, “things are not always what they seem, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, but—” There was more to Essek’s argument but it took him a moment to find it, his train of thought catastrophically derailing as Caleb stood over his wash basin, finishing up brushing shaving foam over his neck and underside of his jaw, looking in the mirror. The ritual of shaving was one that still baffled Essek. He was genuinely concerned about Caleb wielding a blade this early in the morning with nothing between it and his skin but a generous dollop of water soluble froth.

Caleb glanced at Essek through the mirror and Essek realized his sentence had ended in a conjunction. Essek continued, “—but as wizards and scientists we must use our senses and — I apologize, but could you keep your eyes on the very real, very sharp weapon you are wielding against yourself? I assure you I have no plans for your cat figures.”

“Hm? Oh I was not concerned. I was only...no, never mind.”

Essek wanted to know where that sentence was headed, but he was more worried about the razor. His eyes followed it to the basin to see if there was any blood coming off the blade when Caleb rinsed it. It seemed to be shedding only short red hair and white foam.

“Does this really worry you?” Caleb asked, with an amused little smile.

“Of course it does!” Essek said.

“Hm,” Caleb looked down at the razor then back at Essek, still smiling despite himself. “I suppose drow are like other elves then? No need to shave?”

“Not unless you have a mixed lineage of some sort,” said Essek.

“I had wondered about…” Caleb trailed off and swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing below the foam, his eyes fixed on the razor in the mirror and not Essek, “thank you for your concern. I assure you that I am perfectly safe.”

“You say as you scrape a deadly blade across your own throat,” Essek added as Caleb did just that.

“Yes, fine, but I have done so since I was 16,” Caleb said. “Not to flatter myself too much, but I am very accomplished in the maintenance of facial hair.”

“It has never bothered you before,” said Essek.

“When I can keep it short and neat I do. I don’t like when it grows beyond the intended borders,” Caleb said, tapping the back of the razor on the lip of the tub and sending the clinging foam into the basin.

“I mean to say, in the past you have not been bothered by flattering yourself,” Essek clarified.

Caleb laughed, moving the blade away for a moment as he did so. “That is fair. But again, this is a very standard human ritual.”

“Drow are born with the hair follicles they will have. At 16 more don’t suddenly burst out from one’s face,” Essek said.

“Among other places,” Caleb said, rinsing his neck of foam, beard now corralled to his face. Essek couldn’t help how his eyes went to Caleb’s shirt collar, the hair there was now concealed by layers of fabric but the reminder of it sent a warm pulse through him. “What do drow think of beards?” Caleb asked.

Essek blinked and looked up at him. “That is offensive, we are not a hive mind,” he said playfully.

“Of course, es tut mir sehr leid, forgive me,” Caleb took his hand. Essek wasn’t sure if he had floated to Caleb or Caleb had walked to him. Judging by their geographical location it had been a bit of both. Now he floated in close to the human, too close. He wanted to be closer.

“I think I have it in my heart to forgive you,” he said.

“What does the drow population present in this room think of this particular beard?”

Ordinarily Essek would need to figure out if this was a genuine question or if there was a trap he didn’t see. But this was Caleb. He could trust him. A lifetime of looking over his shoulder in hallways without windows had made trust difficult, but after all they had been through it would be just as difficult to distrust the Mighty Nein and Caleb in particular. “I am rather fond of it,” Essek said.

“Good, yes.” Then Caleb straightened, clearing his throat, spell broken. “I was curious because, ah, sometimes I consider getting rid of it again and I wanted a second opinion. Yours has always proven invaluable.”

“I am always eager to help, and unlike the population of this house, I know what is fashionable.”

“That is not why your opinion matters to me,” Caleb said. “I hope you know that you are much more than a tool to me—to us, the rest of the Mighty Nein. You are our dearest friend and a marvel of a man.”

Essek let out a breath, “don’t…” he whispered, then said more loudly, “thank you, but I do not deserve kindness or praise.”

“Perhaps neither of us do,” Caleb answered. “But perhaps one day we will. You have made me believe in redemption, Essek Thelyss.”

“You have made me believe there is a reason to seek it, Caleb Widogast,” said Essek.

A moment passed in friendly silence. Then Caleb kissed his forehead. “You are nearly the perfect height for that,” he muttered into Essek’s hairline.

“Nearly, you say?” asked Essek, then he manipulated his cantrip to push himself a little higher so Caleb did not have to bend so much to reach him. “You should know I do not do ‘nearly’.”

Caleb smiled broadly, “I—love that fact about you!” Essek wondered if he imagined the slight hiccup on that word.

“Shall we go back out to the others?” Essek said out of anxiety, not knowing what else to say. “I am concerned Jester will tear down the door soon.”

“Do not forget Veth,” said Caleb.

Ultimately both women came running at them as they emerged from the study.

“Were you having sex?!” Jester asked.

“Use protection!” shouted Veth.

It was decided that Essek and Verin would come that evening after normal office hours were finished. Essek was going to spend some time in his office setting his affairs in order so that there was nothing incriminating or dangerous left behind when he finally took action. Time was ticking closer to Essek’s ‘death’ and the Mighty Nein’s leaving Xhorhas. He couldn’t wait but also had no desire to do it, the safety of being anywhere but here was incredibly tempting, he just wished there was another way to get there.

Essek said his goodbyes to the other eight of the Nein and stepped out into the streets of the Firmaments. He would return to his towers, shower properly, change, redo his hair and make up, and go to the Lucid Bastion. He could easily hide that he had rested in an armchair last night, which was undignified in the best way. He felt better than he had since arriving in Rosohna. And that was probably why he didn’t immediately notice the figure that slipped out to follow him, smooth and silent as a shadow.

Chapter Text

“Do you want your cards back?” Jester asked.

“Hm?” Molly asked. He was eating a bar of the pitch-dark, rock-hard chocolate-substitute popular amongst tieflings in Rosohna. He snapped off a piece between his fangs then held out the rest of the bar in Jester’s direction from where he half-reclined on the fainting couch in the happy room. It was far from her favorite food (there was not enough sugar in almost anything around here) but if Molly was offering it, she would take it. Jester leaned down and bit off a piece with her fangs like Molly had; there was something joyfully feral about it, especially when she coupled it with a quiet growl from deep in her chest. Molly chuckled.

“Do you want your Tarot cards back?” Jester clarified, chewing the semi-sweet. She pulled the deck from the pocket of her dress to illustrate her point.

Jester had shown Molly the new cards back in the Blooming Grove to help explain their adventures, but only now had it struck her that the rightful owner of the cards had returned. She wasn’t sure if Molly had properly understood what she was showing him back then, he had been pretty out of it. He had been fascinated and seemingly comforted by the cards he had created but Jester thought it was probably because he recognized them.

Presently Jester fanned the cards out in front of her face, peering at him over their tops. She saw recognition brighten his eyes.

Molly took another noisy bite so he spoke with his mouth full, “they’re yours now,” he said without a hint of reluctance.

“Are you sure?” Jester asked, dropping down next to him on the daybed, he moved his feet just in time to keep them from being squashed under her.

“Yes, I’m very sure. You are their rightful owner,” said Molly. “The cards told me so.”

“Oh, then thank you, cards!” Jester said to the deck in her hands.

“I think I may make a new one,” Molly said, then he glanced sidelong at Jester as if waiting for her opinion. She thought it was a great idea. She remembered how he used to constantly check his deck — her deck now — for guidance, like his version of flipping a coin. Maybe it was silly, but often silly things were the most important things. Molly needed something to hold onto, something stable while he continued to get his sea legs.

“Let’s consult the cards!” Jester excitedly said. Molly smiled his unconcious soft smile rather than his wild sharp grin, which Jester took as a good sign. She shuffled the deck and Molly watched, wrapping the rest of his candy in a cloth and putting it on the coffee table. Jester fanned the cards between both hands, presenting them to him upside down. Molly reached out, pulled a card from the deck, looked at it, then smiled more sharply. He held the card between pointer and middle finger, its back facing her, then turned it dramatically to show its face, eyes twinkling. It was her and Fjord’s card: Joy and Sea. The drawing of her was upright.

“Joy,” said Molly.

For a moment Jester hadn’t answered, expecting Molly to do his own reading.

“What does it mean, my dear?” he prompted her. With a flick of his wrist he flipped the card and then held it flat and out toward her, watching her face patiently all the while.

“Okay, okay, okay!” These were her cards now and her answers to find. She cleared her throat and tried to sound authoritative or at least confident. “So because this is a one-card reading it is directly answering your question?” Jester half-asked. She worried she was doing this wrong, but when she looked at Molly for help he just nodded encouragingly to her. “So it means…um…” She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to reach the answer that she didn’t make up.

“Trust your instincts,” said Molly. It sounded like very good advice.

So she did what she had always done, found the meaning that jumped out at her and then bullshitted to elaborate. “It totally means…thaaaat…iiiit’s…up to me!” she waited to see if Molly would call her out on making things up. But he seemed to be waiting for her to continue. Maybe she was doing it right after all, maybe the cards were really speaking to her. She spoke with more confidence as she went on, “And if it’s up to me, which it is, obviously, because I am on the ‘Joy’ card, and as the ‘Joy’ card I think you should make a new deck!”

Molly nodded and she nodded back, they continued to nod adding “Mm-hm!” noises to each other, they both looked somewhere between sage and fool, which was where they belonged. Molly passed the Tarot card back to her.

“Well, I’ll need supplies,” he said, pillowing his hands behind his head, but his rust red eyes were still expectant.

“There’s an art supply store near where you got your fabric last night!” Jester said.

“Is it expensive?” Molly asked.

“I don’t think so,” said Jester. Molly seemed to consider that answer, head cocked to the side.

“Hmm,” he looked unsure but then said, “let’s give it a go. It seems we have a day planned!”

“It seems we do!” said Jester.

Jester jumped up and took Molly’s arm, tugging it from behind his head and pulling him off the couch.

She was glad Molly chuckled a little and came up willingly. She could easily carry Mollymauk, he was thin with muscle like wire; he was fast and flexible rather than stocky, strong, and sturdy like Jester. She could have carried him if she had to, but she was glad he wanted to come. Molly had been understandably moody lately, but Jester was happy to note he was glowing brighter than he had been. Or, at the very least, he was feeling well enough to start faking it, it was hard to tell with Mollymauk. In any case it was progress, going out with Jester was another step towards recovery.

Yesterday, before Jester cut his hair Molly had been particularly dour. She had found him in Yasha’s room — now Molly and Beau and Yasha’s room she remembered happily — where he was lying sprawled out on the bed. At first she thought he might be asleep, but then his tail twitched in a very conscious way.

“Molly?” she asked. No response. “Molly?” she repeated, softly, gently. His feigned sleep was getting increasingly unbelievable as his tail twitched more and she saw a sliver of red under his eyelid. “Come on, Molly! I know you aren’t asleep!” Jester said, finally losing patience.

His eyes opened, glowing slightly in the low-light of the room. “What gave me away?” he asked in his tired voice. It surprised Jester how quickly almost any hint of Lucien’s accent disappeared from Molly’s voice. Well, no, maybe it didn’t actually surprise her. Fjord had ridded himself of his own accent for months. After everything, Molly probably didn’t want any reminders of Lucien. In the last four days Lucien’s accent had been viciously and intentionally stripped away, like scouring off mud and dead skin after weeks on the road or dumping a brush in a cup of turpentine, besides the cadence and the occasional slip up. Jester had realized by now why Molly’s accent used to fluctuate so much: sometimes he was talking like Gustav, Desmond, Toya, and some of the other circus folk who taught M.T. to speak and sometimes Lucien’s original voice came through. She would never make fun of his accent again. She wouldn’t apologize, but she wouldn’t do it again.

“Your tail,” she said. The offending appendage swung at its mention. “You can’t wave it around like that when you’re sleeping.”

“I can,” said Molly.

“No way! That’s not how tails work,” Jester told him.

“Mine does.”

Back when Molly was first with them, Jester noticed Molly did many strange things she had never seen another tiefling do. She might not have known many people growing up, let alone many specifically tieflings, but she had her Mama, of course, and while hadn’t seen much of the street level of Nicadranas, her Mama had had tiefling clientele and visits from her two sisters, Jester’s aunts. Molly had confided in Jester that she was the first tiefling with whom he’d ever spent any amount of time. A fact that had made Jester feel both very important and very sad.

His aforementioned tail twitched again, just the lowest third by the spade. Jester always thought Molly moved his tail a bit like Frumpkin, twitching with curiosity or irritation, still when he was content. There was a language tieflings had with their tails and Molly didn’t seem to “speak” it. She knew he only knew Infernal because of the devil blood in his veins, or maybe because of Lucien, which was basically the same thing, but the language learned through community rather than inheritance was lost on him. Seeing Lucien had opened her eyes to a lot of things, made a lot of the lasting mysteries of Molly less mysterious, and the tail language was part of it. Lucien’s tail mirrored Cree’s. The language Molly could dredge up from the days before he was Molly was tabaxi and not tiefling.

There were so many ways Molly was older than Jester and so many ways he was younger than her; so many ways they taught each other. They were like siblings. They were siblings, their bonds were real as infernal bloodlines or genetics. And she was glad to have her stupid, brave, and loving sibling back.

Missing him had made her heart hurt constantly. Over time grief had gone from an inescapable elephantine weight crushing her whole body to a marble in her chest cavity. It was always there; sometimes it was a small thing she could live with, but when it struck her the size didn’t matter, it hurt, and all she could do was miss Mollymauk. Often she would cry thinking about him, even months later. It was so unbelievable that he was here with her, with them, again. The weight was gone, replaced by a firelight glow.

It was the best gift she had ever been given. It was literally a dream come true, since she had many recurring dreams about Molly. The only way she knew it was really real was that Molly was so visibly changed, he seemed to be lost in his own pain. She wasn’t sure but she thought the tail twitches came from deep but not necessarily welcome thoughts. She wouldn’t let him be lonely or sad. Not now. Not ever, if she could help it. And she could always help it. Jester flopped down onto the bed next to Molly. It wasn’t a huge bed, but it was large enough for Yasha, so the tieflings fit in it side-by-side.

Jester’s pratfall was more careful than she hoped it looked. She didn’t want to get their horns tangled together. It had happened right outside of Zadash when the tieflings napped against a tree side-by-side. And it took forever and all their friends to properly untangle them. Back then her horns had been one loop-de-loop smaller, so she was taking great care.

Molly snuggled against her and his horn clacked against hers. Molly’s horns were big and thick as they always had been, Jester’s horns were still small and thinner but the new growth glanced off his where the enormous curve of them turned outward into points.

“Are your horns bigger or do I not remember…?” Molly asked. He trailed off and his voice became slightly shaky and very rushed when he said, “actually, don’t answer that!”

“No, no,” Jester said, hugging Molly as best she could from her position, “you remember! They used to be smaller! I got zapped by some weird statues and got older but they told us some stuff.”

Molly looked up at her, their horns again clicking and catching as he moved his head. “Are you alright?” he asked in a voice aching with concern.

“Don’t worry, it was only five years!” Jester explained. The zap hadn’t actually even made her feel that different, 20 to 25 hadn’t added much beyond some extra horn. Any anxiety she had felt about it before had since vanished entirely. She had forgotten about it for the most part.

“Jester, that’s a really long time!” Molly said with a voice made breathless by fear.

It registered to Jester that while Lucien must have been around 30, Molly had never been five. If he picked up where he left off, he was two. To Molly five years was more than twice his entire life.

“I guess it is kinda a long time. I don’t mind, though,” she said.

“You’re not scared?!” he asked.

“Of what?”

Molly heaved a shrug as best he could lying on his side, horn buried in the pillow. “Losing five years, I’ve only lost one and…” he let out a dark chuckle.

“So we both lost some time,” she said, calmly. “But we’re both here now! And that’s what really matters, right?”

“I hate time,” he muttered quietly, rolling onto his back, making the bed creak and his horn catch worryingly on the pillowcase. He stared at the ceiling, but she thought he was looking beyond it.

“You hate time?” Jester asked, picking the cloth from the point of his horn before it tore. She considered what he said, frowning at the side of his scarred face. She hadn’t even thought of that concept before. Time just happened. It was inevitable And time made things happen, made things grow, made things change. Without time they would be, what? Stuck? That would be awful. How could somebody hate time when time was all that was?

“Don’t worry about me, darling,” Molly said, glancing at her to give her a weary smile. “I’m fine.”

Jester propped herself up on her elbow, looking at him, “you don’t need to be fine, you know, Molly.”

“Yes, I do,” he answered immediately.

“No, you don’t!”

“I do!”

“You don’t!”

“But I want to be fine!” he said with heavy desperation. Then more quietly added, “I want to go back.”

“Go back? To what?” Jester asked.

“To before! Before—” he put his hand to his chest, palm over the now enormous scar where Lorenzo had stabbed Molly and Jester had stabbed Lucien. There was a very long moment of quiet while Jester scrambled to think of what to say. He smiled mirthlessly again, “don’t worry. Really. I’m alright.”

“Stop it! I’m going to worry!” Jester snapped.

“But I don’t want you to,” Molly said.

“Too bad! I love you, and that means worrying, just like you worry about me!”

“Yes, but worrying’s no fun! And you already were sad because of me for a whole year!”

He was so much younger than her in some ways.

“We weren’t sad because of you, Molly. We were sad because we lost you!”

For a long time Molly didn’t say anything, seemingly overwhelmed into silence. She worried he wouldn’t be able to talk again. He rolled over so he was facing away from her, curling in on himself a little.

“But we got you back, so we don’t need to be sad anymore!” she said.

“I’m…I’m afraid, Jester,” he muttered.

“Why? Of what?”

“What if I’m not the same anymore? I don’t…I don’t think I am the same.” He tightened his hold on himself, curled tighter.

“Oh, Molly!” Jester said gently. Then she added, “look, lots of really, really bad shit just happened and nobody expects you to be exactly the same. We all love you anyway!”

“It’s not you lot I’m worried about,” Molly muttered.

“Then who are you worried about?” Jester asked.

“Me.”

“You?”

“Yeah, me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t remember everything from before, but I remember that I liked me. ‘Me’ was fine, happy, maybe even good. But if I’m not that me…what if I don’t like this me?”

Jester’s heart wrenched painfully. “Can I hug you?” she asked.

Molly nodded. He uncurled and eased himself upright. She practically jumped on him. He grunted from the impact then chuckle-sobbed and hugged her back. Molly always felt so warm, practically red hot. Jester knew her blood ran cold and it made the more typical tiefling heat pouring off Molly even more intense than it must have been for the others. Jester liked the cold, she had never done well in the fierce Menagerie Coast summers, but Molly’s was a good heat, a fun heat, like sitting too close to a fireplace or lying in hot sand.

“I don’t think I’m used to being the one having a crisis,” said Molly leadingly.

“That seems right,” said Jester. “You always were the one to help us when we felt bad.”

“That’s what Yasha said too,” Molly said quietly.

“If you don’t like the ‘you’ you are now then you’ll find a ‘you’ you like!” said Jester. “Nobody has to be anybody, you were the one who taught me that! And it’s okay that you’re all fucked up! Anybody would be. Give yourself some ti—” she stopped herself realizing what word she was about to say.

“‘Some time,’” Molly said, not quite bitter, but not far from it. “Of course…”

“You know what might help?” asked Jester.

“Not in the slightest,” said Molly.

“A haircut,” Jester answered. “Maybe some change will be good and not bad.”

For a long moment Molly just looked at her before saying, “yeah, alright.”

He seemed much happier today after his haircut and his excursion with Yasha last night. He had met some other people and while Jester couldn’t help the sting of jealousy that that brought, she was glad he was feeling a little better. Especially after all the consecution talk in the Happy Room. Molly may have hated time, but Jester knew that that was exactly what he needed to reconcile…well, everything.

“Do you like your haircut?” Jester asked as they walked through Rosohna’s noonday twilight to the art store.

Molly ran his fingers along the edge of the fade the way Yasha had been doing it yesterday. “I adore it, darling. I think I needed the change.”

“I saw you’re making a new coat too,” Jester said leaning toward him, hands behind her back.

“I am, I don’t think I'm going to put sleeves on it. Show off a bit more ink that way,” he said. “Or, what about detachable sleeves?”

“Oh my gosh! You have to make detachable sleeves! That would be so cool!”

“I just came up with it!”

“No way! It’s a great idea!”

“Yes way. It would give me more room for embroidery, too,” said Molly.

“Is it going to be all black?” Jester asked.

“I don’t think so, I think I’m going to embroider some color into it. Or at least something glittery, something opal-y, maybe. I’ll show you the thread when we get back.”

“I would like that,” she said.

“Me too,” said Molly fondly.

“What kind of stuff are you going to embroider?”

“I’m not sure yet. The moons, obviously, maybe some bones, the sun, some peacock feathers, whatever else strikes my fancy. A lollipop,” he smiled at her.

“An egg,” she smiled back.

“An egg!” said Molly excitedly. “Ooh! I could make one of those decorated eggs they make in the spring in Tal’Dorei!”

“Why don’t they just eat them?” Jester asked, confused. “That’s what most people do with eggs, Molly!”

He seemed to miss the joke. Maybe he didn’t remember his hospital adventure. “Who knows! I’ve never seen real ones. I just heard about them from somebody. Somebody told me how to make them…somebody with fire…”

“Caleb?” Jester tried.

“No, no, older…a fire person, not a person who likes fire. Their hair was burning. They were from Tal'Dorei I think…” He frowned, thinking hard, then his eyes lit up, “Orna! At the circus! Does that make sense?!”

He looked so happy that Jester couldn’t tell him she had no idea where Orna was from and she couldn’t remember if she’d ever even spoken to her. What Jester did remember, however, was that Orna was a fire genasi. “Yeah!” she said, “see, I told you you would remember!”

“There are a fair few things I remember now…” he looked at her with a seriousness that had once been unusual for Molly, “and I need to thank you for so much, Jester.”

“It’s no problem, Molly!” Jester said. She had told him the same thing when he said his first full sentence back in the Blooming Grove: “I’m sorry.” Together the Nein had had to convince him he was not responsible for what Lucien did. Jester didn’t know he fully believed them.

“I wouldn’t even be here without you,” Molly said.

“It was Caduceus who—”

“That’s not what I meant. The first thing I remember was your Tarot reading.”

Jester stopped short, letting out a loud gasp, her hands coming up to cup her cheeks. “I knew it! I knew it! You can ask Fjord! I told him! I saw Lucien’s hand twitch! After I did his reading! His hand twitched and his eyes got all narrow and his tail twitched and then he stopped talking for a while!”

“Because he was talking to me, or not talking, not really…something like talking,” said Molly, standing beside her. “Anyway, you’re better with those cards than I ever was. I never saved a life with them.”

“But you made them, it’s your magic!” Jester reminded him.

“Ah, while I may have called the deck from the aether, it chose you. And who are we to deny the cards?” Molly smiled broadly, tucked her chin, and then wrapped his arm around her shoulder, turning her back on their path. She leaned into him and mimicked his gesture, reaching up as high as she comfortably could. “We are but their Exandrian avatars, their translators!” Molly set them off again.

Jester didn’t know if she or Beau was right, if Molly knew things from some magical source or his own cold reading (as Beau called it). Either way, Molly had a gift that made good readings happen. Whatever the truth, the way Molly used the cards it was easy to believe there was magic involved. Even if it wasn’t true – although Jester was sure it was – it was easy to believe, and in Jester’s experience that was practically the same thing. Belief had made an archfey a god, belief brought Molly back from the dead, belief also made Molly a prophet. Literal reality was way overrated, in Jester’s opinion.

“Well, if the cards say so, it must be true,” said Jester. “Is it hard for you to make them?”

Molly shrugged. “I don’t really remember. But I do have an idea for my first card!”

“What is it?!” Jester asked excitedly.

“I can’t tell you yet,” said Molly with his circus smile.

“Why not?!” Jester complained.

“If I do the magic won’t hold,” he said.

Jester gasped even more loudly this time, putting her free hand over her mouth in a pantomime of shock, “then you need to keep it a secret!”

“My lips are sealed,” said Molly, “but I can give you a hint!”

“Okay! What’s the hint?”

“You inspired it, darling,” he reached over with his free hand to boop her nose as he said it. Jester laughed. She noted that his claws were unpainted, their natural translucent gray-purple. They would need to change that soon. Jester thought he would enjoy a good manicure.

He had been talking more today. The quiet that followed him from the grave was disappearing. But Jester was concerned it would never go away entirely. But that was okay, he had had bouts of silence the first time too.

What hurt more was seeing something haunted behind his eyes that hadn’t ever been there before. For Molly’s sake Jester hoped one day it would go away again. Molly came back with many new scars, only time would tell which, if any, would fade. Jester was also of the opinion that scars told stories and added character, just as firmly as she believed that life would always be worth living. She hoped Molly still felt the same way.

The owner of the art store already knew Jester. He was warming up to her, or pretending he was warming up to her. Jester was positive she was already secretly his favorite customer, he just didn’t want to show it because it would ruin his lonely artist image. He was a bugbear, roughly middle-aged, with chestnut colored fur streaked with gray and ink black eyes behind silver pince-nez glasses. His shiny eyes and fanged smile widened as he saw Molly enter, then both narrowed as Jester came in, replaced by a shakier version.

“Oh, Ms. Lavorre, good morning,” he said.

“Good morning, Hruk!” said Jester, “I have to introduce you to my very good best friend, Mollymauk Tealeaf!”

“Molly to my friends,” said Molly, holding out his hand. Hruk shook it, Molly’s hand completely disappearing in his big fist.

“Molly is an amazing artist!” Jester said.

“Oh? What medium?”

“Er…medium? Drawing?” Molly said.

They spoke briefly, Molly mostly bluffed his way through a conversation about art to greater or lesser success. He was entirely self-taught and he didn’t know a lot of normal artist lingo.

He had told Jester about sketching in his circus days with their fire’s charcoal and chunks of chalk, experimenting with circus paints and dyes. It had helped him, he said, when he couldn’t talk. Even his embroidery was mostly self-taught, evolving from a combination of lessons from the circus seamstress and his own repair duties as a roustabout.

Before Jester he hadn’t known what a medium was, besides what he called a fraud who pretended to talk to ghosts so as to take money from grieving people. He still didn’t know the names of any famous artists. He didn’t understand why “rainbow” couldn’t count as a color. But he did well enough with Jester’s help to satisfy Hruk.

After Hruk released the tieflings into the wilds of his shop Jester quickly grabbed the new sketchbook she needed. She then began a friendly interrogation of Hruk, asking whether he’d found whoever kept drawing dicks all over his store. Molly came back with some card stock and colored pencils. Jester, upon seeing this, gasped, “no, no, no! Mollyyy! You can get more than that!”

“Can I? Shall I? Should I?” Molly asked in rapid succession, looking down at his basket. Jester hooked her arm around his and led him back into the aisles.

“You don’t have to just get colored pencils! You can buy whatever you want! You can get wooden stamps! You can get ink! You can get paints and brushes!” she said. “This store has everything you need, Molly!”

“I don’t have that much money,” he muttered to her so Hruk could not hear.

“My treat!” Jester said.

“I can’t ask you to do that,” Molly said.

“You don’t have to! I’m doing it!"

“Absolutely not!”

“I’m going to do it whether you like it or not!” Jester pointed out as she dragged him back down the paint aisle.

Molly tisked, allowing himself to be dragged along, “we’ll call it an IOU, then.”

“That’s fine,” said Jester, practically throwing gouache into the basket. She began picking out brushes: two sable hair, four hog.

Molly gaped, wide-eyed at her selections then muttered, “I keep forgetting you lot all got rich while I was gone.”

“Tch, as if! I keep running out of money!” Jester said in frustration.

“Then don’t buy me things I don’t need!” said Molly incredulously.

“I want to! And you can’t stop me!” Jester said, adding a pallet for mixing paints. “IOU, remember?”

“Fine, but that means you take the money when I give it to you, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, sure,” said Jester, hoping neither of them would remember this exchange later.

“Have you been buying horse clothes again?” Molly asked.

“No, just for me and Sprinkle,” she said pointing to the weasel in her hood. Sprinkle took this time to wheeze from the depths of her hood. Molly’s eyes flicked to him and he nodded slowly. “But custom clothing costs a lot, you know? Also I may have overpaid?” Jester shrugged. Money was too hard to keep track of, so she didn’t try that often. “And I think Caleb spends all of his gold on that fancy wizard paper.”

“So not so much has changed on that front then,” Molly said with a tired smile. Jester paused, about to throw ink into his basket, and looked over at her friend.

She couldn’t imagine how Molly must have felt. For him they’d all changed drastically, swinging from who they were to who they had become. She hoped he understood that they were still them, even if each and every one of them had grown. Molly was holding himself and wrapped his tail around his own midsection.

“Change isn’t always bad,” Jester gently reminded him as she drew a quick dick on the nearest shelf. She shifted the paint pallets there to cover it.

“Yes, right,” said Molly.

Jester hugged him again. “I’m glad you’re home.”

“Me too,” said Molly with less confidence.

They changed the subject, finished their shopping, bought his new supplies and stepped out into the street. It wasn’t long before another shop, this one an apothecary carrying skin creams and makeup, caught their attention. Then another shop selling clothes. Molly didn’t buy anything, but Jester weighed herself down with parcels (and gave Molly a few gifts that she refused to let him give back).

“I should take you to this little shop Yasha and I found last night!” Molly said delightedly. “It sells beautiful jewelry and the owner is darling! She took us out for drinks afterward!”

“Sure!” said Jester. “I would love to!” She very much liked the idea of making Molly’s friend her friend as well.

They hadn’t reached the shop before somebody shouted, “there they are! Harmonia’s friend!” And when Jester turned toward the source of the voice she saw strangers, two tieflings and a goblin.

“They know the Shadowhand, they’ll know if it’s true!” said the goblin as they approached, crowding around Molly.

At first Jester thought the “they” was plural:
she and Mollymauk, but it rapidly became clear it was directed at Molly. Jester was not surprised by the pronoun (Molly had long made it clear that any and all pronouns worked for him, but most people had called him “him” anyway), but by being excluded herself.

“And you said you had an ear for gossip!” said one of the tieflings to Molly.

Jester shoved her way back in. “Um, hello! I’m a Hero of the Dynasty and ‘the Shadowhand’ is my best friend!” she said the title with air quotes and the mock seriousness it deserved. What a stupid title.

The group’s attention shifted to her. “Well then you’ll know too!” said the other tiefling.

“Of course I will,” said Jester. Realizing she left Molly out while he was already feeling left out, she grabbed him into a one-armed side-hug, “we both will!”

“Right!” Molly agreed and then said, “er…we’ll know what exactly?”

“Why the Shadowhand’s been arrested, of course!” said the goblin.

“He’s been what?!” Jester asked in horror, “what the fuck are you talking about?! Who said so?!”

“My brother, Bulwark, is a guard at the Lucid Bastion. He said he saw the Shadowhand being led by the Gloomblade!” said one of the tieflings.

“Yes, of course,” said Molly, nodding along.

“Who’s that?” Jester asked.

“Of the Shade Fist!” said the other tiefling as if that cleared things up. “He has to be under arrest, right?! What did he do?!”

“Maybe Essek was just tired! Or maybe they were working together and your brother is wrong! I would know if he got arrested!” said Jester defensively, trying not to feel worried.

It took some more persuading but eventually the group dissipated, more disappointed than relieved. As soon as they were gone Jester turned to Molly, “I need you to count 25 words on your fingers, okay?”

“I’ve only got the 10,” said Molly, holding up his hands.

“Double up!” snapped Jester, “this is important!”

“I’ve got it,” he said, then added, “Why?”

“Because this spell only has 25 words and if I mess up Essek won’t get my message!”

“We’re getting to the bottom of this, are we?” asked Molly.

“Yes, we fucking are!” she said.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“Of course I do! He might need our help!”

“That’s fair,” said Molly, holding up his hands to count her words.

She cast Sending, reaching out to Essek with her mind. “Hi, Essek! We were shopping and heard this rumor that you got arrested. What a stupid joke, am I right?” Shit, still five words left. “Hope you…eat…something...good.”

“Didn’t want to tell him who it was?” Molly asked.

“He knows who it is, don’t worry. I am very good at Sending.”

“I can see that!” said Molly. “Do you think he’s al—?”

“Shh!” Jester reached up and put her hand over Molly’s mouth as Essek’s reply came. She knew from the first word the response wasn’t a good one.

“For once the gossip-mill is correct. I am to die. Don’t follow me. Don’t panic. Don’t do anything stupid. I love you all.”

Jester screamed.

Chapter Text

Essek left the Xhorhaus feeling light-hearted and made it back to his towers without incident. His good mood flagged as he got ready for work and set off for his office. As he left his towers nothing seemed out of the ordinary, not even the heavy dread in his guts.

As he began his short commute to the Lucid Bastion he considered his escape and how to best fake his death. He had settled on staging a lab accident; very few people understood what he did well enough for an inquest to unravel in his shroud. Essek just needed to figure out how best to stage an accident large and catastrophic enough that it could conceivably disintegrate his body and the evidence of his experiments and it also needed to raise few or no questions, no loose ends. An answer certainly existed within his field, meddling with the physics of Exandria and the universe beyond was dangerous, no one would doubt his cause of death. What he needed was an experiment that would consume him but not also cause repercussions beyond his towers. Until he came up with the perfect answer he needed to keep up the pretension of normalcy. That meant going to work and all that that entailed, both terrible and tedious.

The Bright Queen was not holding court today, instead she was spending the day in prayer and contemplation, meaning, most likely, one of the other Umavi caught her doing something unsavory. It didn’t mean much, catching each other in some illegal or contentious activity was just a petty little game between the Umavi, a scoreboard showing who could catch whom in the most corrupt acts.

To those outside the Lucid Bastion the Bright Queen and the other two Umavi were perfect, spotless, above any hint of reproach. Even in the Lucid Bastion most people only saw the shiny surface. The Noble Dens without an Umavi at their helm played politics, blackmailed, backstabbed – sometimes literally – but believed their queen and her ilk were above such things. There was nothing wrong with a little corruption on their parts, so long as they were never caught (or could pay up if they were), but the Umavi’s souls had evolved beyond the need for such baseness. The Umavi could commit no sin.

But if one was smart enough and close enough to the Umavi one could figure out it was only technically true, and defined very differently. The Umavi could commit no sin, because nothing they did could be considered sinful.

Light Above! He could not wait to be free of this place for good! As little as he wanted to betray and lie to Verin he wanted to stay here even less. It meant giving up on freeing Xhorhas from the corrupt religious elite, but at this point the thought of remaining Shadowhand made him feel ill. He would find a way to topple the Umavi from a distance. Xhorhas would have its age of Reason, Essek knew it was possible and knew he could bring its dawn, he just couldn’t stay here anymore. He could not be part of the status quo even to take it down.

There was a reason he hadn’t told his friends what the Shadowhand did. At first it had been because he was trying to keep them out of his business. The less his new and obnoxious wards knew, the better. Then it had simply been the standard of practice. Now it was because he was ashamed of what he had done and afraid of what they might think if they knew the truth. He didn’t want the Mighty Nein to look at him with pain, sorrow, and horror on their faces. He didn’t want them to distrust him more than they already did. He didn’t want to be responsible for bringing tears to Jester’s eyes. He didn’t want to see Caleb looking down at him with such severe disappointment. Not again. Not ever again.

The role of Shadowhand was both extremely simple in concept and complicated in actualizing. The Bright Queen was the eternal leader of Xhorhas, radiant and true as the Luxon. The Luxon was Good, so its envoy, its Bright Queen, had to be Good as well. As an Umavi, Leylas Kryn was perfect and as the Bright Queen she was even more so; but as Xhorhas’s ruler — its absolute head of state and government — there were many aspects of her role that would ruin the Brightness of the Queen. There were imprisonments, executions, shady deals, interrogations, assassinations, and espionage; there were the many times she broke the laws she herself penned. That was what the Shadowhand was for.

The Bright Queen needed someone trusted to operate as her shadow and be responsible for the things she could not be seen doing herself, even if she granted her approval, even if she sent him to do them, even if they came from her mind. His role was to carry out those ugly activities and should the public be aware of what was happening he was to bear the brunt of the Bright Queen’s crimes; he was her scapegoat, her sin-eater, her Shadowhand.

He didn’t think he would be able to bring himself to do the job he had for the last decade and a half. Lives meant more now, deaths meant more now. He was suddenly unprepared to carry out tasks he had done almost mindlessly. No. Not mindlessly, worse than that. He did them because they gave him access to the Beacons and thousands more documents on the Luxon and because there had been a time where he was convinced he wanted power when what he wanted was some control over his own life. Truly, he never considered the gravity of his actions on other people until it was far too late,.

It would all be over soon. He would be weighed down by his guilt so long as he existed, but he need not add more. He would spent centuries dodging the Dynasty’s eyes, but he would no longer be the focus of their gaze.

He was two blocks from his towers when he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye; an elfoid form who was doing their best not to be seen. There were a lot of eyes in and beyond the Dynasty, not so literal as Lucien’s but just as dangerous. Fear spiked in his chest. Essek knew the figure was after him, but just to be sure he changed direction and instead of bisecting the small shopping district in the Firmaments he walked along it.

Of course the figure followed. Essek immediately realized his mistake when they disappeared into the crowd of midmorning shoppers. It took him a few valuable moments to find them again, their face lowered, moving like quicksilver through the city as unintrusive and mundane as a shadow cast by a passerby.

Essek tried not to indicate that he knew he was being followed, which was difficult while actually keeping track of whoever it was. He didn’t change his floating speed. He didn’t obviously look over his shoulder as much as he wanted to, as jumpy as he was. The problem was that that meant he could barely keep a read on them in his periphery.

This chasing game at least bought him time to try to figure out what was going on. He reminded himself this was not necessarily the worst case scenario, even if that was where his mind went. This was a spy or a killer, but not necessarily a member of the Lens. There were a lot of powerful families out there and families that wanted to be powerful families. This could have been an assassin trying to carry out some inter-den nonsense, they could have been hired by a low den in retaliation for some crime or sleight he had committed and long since forgotten, it could have been someone who wanted his job, or maybe he was being paranoid and they simply needed him for his expertise as Shadowhand. Any and all were possible. Only time would tell. Because eventually he would have to confront them, as much as he wanted to avoid them, he knew how the game ended.

He stopped in front of the only somewhat decent bookshop in the Firmaments. He wanted to see if he recognized them. He made a show of running his finger along the spines of the books on display out front. It was not a good selection, largely books of complex charts mapping den lineages or ruminations on Luxon, but the ruse of reading the titles let them get close enough for Essek to recognize them while keep enough distance (and objects) between them to hopefully avoid violence.

He felt clammy with sweat as he struggled to find them in the crowd. Even standing still Essek had trouble keeping his eye on his pursuer. It could have been his own anxious mind sabotaging him and stopping him from properly focusing, but he thought it was the far worse alternative: they had done this before, and done it a lot. Probably both.

Then for a single moment Essek got a good look at the figure before they vanished in a crowd of novices from the Marble Tomes Conservatory chatting on the corner. Essek knew exactly who the figure was and his heart plummeted.

Yes, they had done this often.

In his role as Shadowhand one of Essek’s functions was to act as the synapse between the Queen and her intelligence community. He was the supervisor of the director of the Lens, so he knew — to a greater or lesser extent — the faces of the faceless agents in the intelligence agency. The person following him was a member of the Lens and not just any member, but about as special as a special operative could get. Reality shredded that vain hope that this was just some assassin from another den, easily dispatched, easily forgotten, and not the promise and proof that he had been found out.

Essek’s throat knotted and he felt something like dizziness at the realization.

His stalker was Zokol Omrifar, the Gloomblade. They were easily the best of the Lens’ taskforce of elite mage hunter-assassins, the Kryn answer to the Dwendalian Scourgers, or, more accurately, Scourgers were the answer to them. The Dynasty did not have operatives as blunt and thoughtless as Scourgers, they were sharper, more surgical, the agents less traumatized and lobotomized, although just as stupidly loyal. Zokol Omrifar had been training and leading them, both in the field and in the Bastion for nearly three and a half centuries.

They also held a personal dislike for and grudge against Essek. Essek had always brushed the threat of Zokol off, safe behind his den, his royal title, and his abilities. Zokol’s presence here and now indicated he may have lost two of those three.

Essek’s teeth were chattering, his hands were shaking, and his vision started to swim. His terror was not even bound to any particular outcome, just the presence of the Gloomblade was enough to set him off on a number of horrific scenarios. He realized he was panicking in front of maybe a dozen people, which did not help him calm down in the slightest but only made it worse.

What did he do?

What could he do?

What would Jester do?

What would Caleb do?

‘Breathe,’ Essek thought, remembering Caleb’s voice. For a moment that was all his conscious thoughts would allow. ‘Breathe.’ He did, counting the seconds, feeling his body in space, and collected himself as best he could, enough that he wasn’t out of his mind with fear and panic. ‘Now, think, be reasonable and rational about this. Panic helps no one, least of all you, Thelyss. How do you survive this? What do you do? Think!’

Essek again took note of the small crowd. It was a thing in motion, waves of people rather than a stagnent pool, but there would always be shoppers at this time of day. Whatever happened Essek and Zokol were both powerful wizards, high level practitioners of Dunamancy on a busy public street. Essek had to get them somewhere where the fallout would be less bloody if this turned ugly.

That was as good a step one as any, especially with Zokol gaining.

He quickly left the bookshop, turning on his metaphorical heel without trying to find Zokol in the crowd. He knew they were following him, there was no need to further confirm it. Essek took the first turn that moved them out of the shops and into emptier residential streets. It also meant bringing them closer to the Lucid Bastion. He could almost hear his mother protest. There were fewer potential victims of collateral damage near the Bastion, but the people there were far more invested in Essek’s activities; if it happened in front of or inside the Lucid Bastion, whatever this was or was about to become would gain more attention even if it came from fewer viewers. If it meant harming fewer people the world could watch for all Essek cared. Once out of the crowd and on more deserted streets he very clearly telegraphed his next turn with a gesture that indicated to the Gloomblade that Essek knew he was being tracked. He wanted to be sure they knew that the cat-and-mouse game was over before it started, robbing them of the pleasure of hunting the Shadowhand.

The kindness, companionship, and openness of the Mighty Nein had drained Essek of the cold charisma and mask of constant calm he had maintained throughout his political career and he jumped embarrassingly when Zokol’s Message spell found his ear. Essek winced, maybe he hadn’t succeeded in taking all the pleasure of the chase from Zokol.

“How long are we going to keep walking, Shadowhand?” Zokol asked with a slow drawl and affect forced flat enough to betray no emotion.

“Not all of us need to bother with walking,” said Essek.

Zokol was a Chronurgist, the inferior of the two branches of Dunamancy, though not even other Graviturgists had Essek’s control over and comfort with one of the fundamental forces of nature. Essek was aware that this low-speed chase was ridiculous, but he also feared what would happen once the two wizards were face-to-face. There were few things more dangerous than a wizard with a grudge.

“I have gotten very tired of your parlor-games over the years, Shadowhand,” Zokol said. There was a lot about him Zokol was tired of, Essek was sure.

Zokol was on their fourth lifetime, their second in a Noble Den, and their first as a drow. While in theory there was no difference between the races of Xhorhas, there was a good deal of favoritism shown toward being a long-lived aetherial drow, the people who founded the Dynasty and were first chosen by the Luxon. Essek didn’t know or care much about Zokol’s den-life, but this was a chip the size of one of the Barbed Field’s namesakes on their already prickly shoulders.

“Only because you have given up trying to figure it out,” Essek said with an arrogance he absolutely did not feel.

“Or maybe I never bothered in the first p-place, I don’t feel the urge to show off all the time,” they said with the hint of the stutter that came out in times of high emotion. Essek was very good at making them stumble into it.

“That sounds suspiciously like an excuse,” replied Essek.

“I am so very glad I will not need to tolerate this much longer,” they growled. There was nothing unclear or vague about that. There was only one person who could send out the Gloomblade and only one reason they would have that response.

Essek mentally shook himself before his frantic fear took control. ‘Breathe.’

“This is foolish,” said Essek.

“For once we agree,” said Zokol.

“Then let’s get to the point,” said Essek.

“I would love to.”

“What business do we have?” Essek asked.

“Cease moving and we will speak.”

“We are speaking now, are we not?” Essek replied. The walls of the Lucid Bastion rose up in front of him, growing taller and wider as they approached. The neighborhood had become exclusive enough that the surrounding properties were all gated, large, scattered, and set far back from the street. This was going to end here even by Essek’s own excuses.

Just as that thought crossed his mind, Essek felt a jolt of crackling energy brush his cheek, close enough that he could feel the heat and shock of the spell. The brightness overwhelmed him almost like daylight and left spots in his vision. He was blinking them away as he watched three yellow bolts of magic strike the walls of the citadel, sending stone debris in all directions, showy, but the wall’s integrity was not harmed. Magic missile, level 1. The spell never missed; since it hadn’t struck him, Essek hadn’t been the target. Given the low level and nature of the spell that had been a warning shot. Essek was wanted alive. He didn’t know if that was better or worse, but it was time to stop running from his fate.

“There is no need to throw a tantrum like a child,” said Essek. Enough time had passed that the Message cantrip had worn off without Essek’s response, so he replied without the spell, turning to face Zokol.

Zokol walked confidently toward Essek. In appearances and in this life Zokol Omrifar was almost four centuries older than Essek himself, their youth just beginning to flicker slightly, evidenced by the scattering of gray hairs in their braid and the small creases forming on their forehead and the corners of their mouth. They were on the taller side for a drow, not as tall as Quana Kryn or even Verin, but far taller than Essek. Their strikingly scarlet hair was braided tightly, starting along the top of the skull and ending below their shoulder blades. There were several smaller braids forming patterns along their scalp leading to the main one. They had bright green eyes with a glare as keen as that of a bird of prey.

And as always the most notable thing about their appearance was the jewelry they wore, which shattered the conservative conventionality of the rest of their wardrobe. Their many earrings, two bracelets on the left wrist, three on the right, and a necklace were all made of the same bluish-green crystal. The stones varied minutely from crystal to crystal but all were approximately the same size and rough marquise shape.

These were all residuum crystals that Zokol had ripped from the arms of the Scourgers they had killed. They had rings, necklaces, and bracelets of teeth, knee caps, and finger bones, claimed from non-Scourger targets or Scourgers before the use of residuum implants. The least horrific of their trophies were the many pieces of armor they collected from their targets. As now on one shoulder they wore the pauldron in a style worn by the Zemnian armies centuries ago.

As Zokol approached, Essek adjusted his levitation slightly, elevating himself to reach the other drow’s eye level. “Why are you here, Gloomblade?”

Essek was Zokol’s higher up, both in occupation and in the rank of their dens. Den Thelyss had an Umavi, Omrifar did not and, indeed, theoretically served Den Thelyss in exchange for Deirta’s good guidence. However this was Zokol’s fourth life and Essek’s first, which was why they had been so aghast and scandalized when Essek took their desired position over a decade ago. That was Zokol’s personal ax to grind and bury deep in Essek’s head: they very much wanted to wear the Shadowhand’s mantle. Once upon a time they thought they would, indeed they had been on the short list of logical options when the previous Shadowhand had disappeared. Then Essek Thelyss, a glorified page, barely out of his first life’s childhood was given this highest honor and the privilege to be the Queen’s confidant and bathe in the Luxon’s light even if it had to be done from the shadows. Zokol had tried to prevent Essek’s promotion. They had failed miserably but still managed to leave a few marks behind, both literal and otherwise.

Zokol could not even rest easy knowing it was only den nepotism that got an incompetent child a position he would never be able to maintain, that the boy Shadowhand was doomed to fail catestrophically. When Essek had taken up the post there had been a lot of that kind of talk, snickers at how the mantle fit on his small shoulders, declarations he would not last the year. But it was all quickly silenced by Essek’s skill. Another speciality. After Essek’s years of service Zokol must have known that Essek was better at the role than they could ever hoped to be. They only did a mediocre job of hiding their contempt for Essek throughout the last 16 years, but now the look of disdain on their face was disconcertingly overt.

“I have no need of you,” said Essek as they stood point-blank and face-to-face.

“You rarely do,” said Zokol in a low frustrated rumble.

“That is less a criticism of me than it is of you,” Essek pointed out. “It goes to show you have not made yourself useful. So I must ask you again, why are you here, Zokol?”

“I have come to collect you,” the Gloomblade answered, “one way or another.” Their eyes, dominant hand, and the residuum jewelry flashed dangerously.

“Collect me?” asked Essek calmly, he kept his expression unimpressed, even as his heart plummeted through his stomach, “I’ve heard nothing about this.”

“Maybe this has gone above your head, Shadowhand.”

“Impossible, if it was above my head it would be so high over yours you would not have heard even a whispered syllable as it flew by,” Essek replied.

Zokol smiled tightly, “believe what you will, but I have been sent by the Bright Queen herself to bring you to her, and I will do it, even if I have to shatter your bones and carry you.”

“Indeed, I am sure you would prefer it. Fortunately for you, I will not force you to try and fail to assassinate me again,” Essek examined his cuticles and spoke with a smugness he did not feel.

“I don’t know w-what you’re talking about,” they said with a calm and cold expression, but Essek noticed the stammer and how they ever so slightly twitched and bristled.

“I’m sure not,” said Essek. “Well then, I have no reason to flee my underling nor do I fear speaking to our queen. I will come with you to the Lucid Bastion.”

“Then come and stop this incessant mugging!”

“Are you not enjoying our repartee, Zokol?” asked Essek, looking up from his hand. “A shame, since we have a long walk ahead of us to the throne room.”

“Let’s move, Świetlisty Essek,” Zokol replied. They said one of Essek’s official den titles — one marking his status as the child of an Umavi — with particular loathing, particular venom.

“Impatience doesn’t suit someone of your station, especially among your higher-ups, but that can only be expect —”

Essek felt his body and mind lurch as a less than momentary wave of nauseous weakness passed through him. Zokol had cast something or used some learned arcane feature on Essek. And he immediately knew just what it was. He couldn’t move or take action against what was happening to him. This was a Momentary Stasis field, a Chronurgist’s trick. Essek remained floating, but that was about the limit of his power of movement. Zokol grabbed him by the cloak and tugged, pulling Essek along like a leashed dog behind him. He was helpless but to obey.

Essek was not brought into the throne room, probably because his arrest was not only embarrassing for Den Thelyss but Den Kryn as well. After all, Essek had been a favorite of the Queen, her pet project, in her mind she had shaped him to her liking and in her image and he had now proven her wrong; he’d sat at the Bright Queen’s left side even as he stole the Beacons, he lied to her with a smile. He headed the initiative to capture himself and put another in his place. And she believed it, she believed it for so long. So instead of the throne room in the rightmost of the Lucid Bastion’s three quartz spires, he was brought to the centeral one, also called the Hall of the Luxon.

Even after the Stasis Field faded Zokol continued to pull Essek along by the arm. Essek allowed it; he considered dropping his levitation cantrip just to be difficult, but Zokol was large enough that someone as thin and small as Essek would hardly be more of a hindrance at his full weight. He also was trying not to make too much of a display of this, which was deeply ironic and darkly hilarious when he thought about it: he was under arrest and probably about to be executed for treason, but he was still putting propriety first, keeping up the façade of Shadowhand even as the foundation crumbled to dust. He still wanted to be perceived as a respectable official; affectation ran to the marrow of his bones. Zokol had not said anything since Essek’s insult, but their anger was palpable, practically visible, like black smoke drifting from them.

One of the drawbacks of Essek’s levitation cantrip was that he was very easily manhandled. When his station didn’t keep people from touching him he was vulnerable. Verin did it when he was feeling particularly obnoxious, knowing how much Essek hated it. It had happened with Da’leth and Ikithon, who delighted in dragging him around like a disobedient kitten. Jester had done it at that accursed party. And now Zokol Omrifar as they dragged Essek to the glowing halls of the Lucid Bastion.

“Glowing” was the right word. The majority of the spire was purple-gray quartz on the inside as well as out, which provided a little light for those beings who, unlike drow, could not see in pitch blackness.

In the middle of the tower was a central pillar which contained a twisting staircase and new (by elf standards) pulley-operated lifts. They had to be enchanted every 24 hours, but during that time they remained in constant motion for visitors and employees to use, hopping in on one floor and hopping out on another. Zokol pushed Essek into one of the small cars with unnecessary force before carefully following him inside themself. The cars had no doors and were only large enough for a few people, but the lift was far faster and less exhausting than taking the winding stairs to the higher levels of the spire. When Essek collided with the back of the shallow car he let out an unconscious and undignified grunt. It was the first sound he had made in the last 10 minutes. Essek had been very careful not to speak through the proceedings. Under ordinary circumstances one wrong word in the Lucid Bastion could get you killed, in Essek’s present and precarious position he was almost afraid to breathe.

Zokol had tried to put Essek in two more Stases, one had taken. Now they used a fourth and Essek found himself incapacitated once again. It had already proven to be entirely unnecessary, but Essek knew that that wasn’t the point of Zokol’s power trip. He gritted his teeth and kept his dignity as best he could being pulled along like a hot air balloon.

He almost expected himself to become harder to manhandle because the closer they got to the Bright Queen’s private offices the heavier Essek’s insides felt, as if he’d been hollowed out then filled with stone. Whatever was about to happen, the Bright Queen didn’t want anyone else to see it. He wasn’t even being brought to one of the ordinary secondary meeting chambers, for an insane moment he thought he might be brought to Hall Kryn, the Bright Queen’s private home, perhaps even her private rooms. But there was no level of secrecy Essek could think of that would cause the Queen to engage in that taboo, to allow the feet of a damaged soul to even hover above the ground of such a sacred place. No, instead they went to an unblessed hearing chamber for secretive but lay interactions. Essek had been here before, but never as a criminal. The Dusk Captain, Quana Kryn, was waiting to receive them outside the door.

Quana was the tallest drow Essek had ever met; she had an aura of power and authority regardless of where she was and what she wore, in her ceremonial armor her presence overpowered Zokol’s even in their ill-gotten residuum. She did not smile as she turned toward them. She glanced down at Essek briefly, then back to Zokol. It was disturbing to see her coldest gaze directed at him and made Essek’s lead-heavy stomach lurch again. While the Captain and Essek did not have a particular bond, her wife’s obvious favoritism toward Essek always made the Captain at least warm and kind to him. Now she didn’t even say a word as she removed her hand from where it rested on the hilt of her sword and reached for Essek’s arm. Essek, still caught in the Stasis Field, thought Zokol would hand him over, but instead they shifted in front of him. Essek had no idea what Zokol’s plan was, probably because of his own fear blurring his higher brain functions. Zokol’s weird reaction had brought this would-be prisoner exchange to a halt.

Quana blinked. “Our beloved Bright Queen shines the light of her gratitude upon you, Gloomblade,” she said. “I will take the Shadowhand to Her Radiant Majesty.”

Zokol did not move so neither did Essek. He was perfectly willing to let Zokol Omrifar throw himself into Essek’s funeral pyre. Besides, he was still incapacitated.

“I can as well, if only you will allow it—” Zokol said.

“Nothing else has been asked of you,” said Quana.

“But I can do much more!”

Essek tisked. Oh, this would go very well!

“Your behavior, which I will at this point still charitably call ‘enthusiasm’, has been noted,” said Quana coldly.

That was enough to crack through Zokol’s thick skull. They took the incapacitated Essek and pushed him in front of them. Essek let out an indignant huff at being passed around like this, as if he was an object. Zokol knew their minute of stasis was almost up and if Essek truly wanted to he could teleport away at any moment and could have for this entire demeaning journey. He said nothing, however, keeping his head low. There were spies in the walls for all 12 Noble Dens, including the three Ruling, in addition to those who worked for the country’s interest and presumably a fair few on Low Dens’ retainers. His eyes found one of the guardian moorbounder faces carved into the crystal and detailed in metal on the walls; some were just decorations, but many contained peep and listening holes. Not even Essek knew where all of them were. By this point Essek was sure even the Bright Queen herself had forgotten.

Zokol froze, with their hand still on Essek’s arm, “Dusk Ca–most noble Highness, with all due respect, I was hoping I might be able to meet with her Eternal Radiant Majesty again in all her glory.”

Quana had her hand on Essek’s other arm, and he felt a bit like he was being used in a game of tug-of-war. He let out a bark of laughter at the sheer absurdity of it all. The Captain glanced at Essek for the outburst, but spoke to Zokol. “Wouldn’t we all like to be in her presence always? Unfortunately, that cannot always be the case. She is very busy.”

“With all due respect—” Zokol repeated, but Quana cut them off.

“If you are paying me that respect, Omrifar, you would listen to me and not be trying to break into my wife, her most Radiant Majesty’s, private office uninvited!” snapped Quana.

That made Zokol tense up and immediately release Essek’s arm. Essek felt his shoulder fall and muscles relax even if he did not realize they had been stiffened. Zokol bowed low, although the biting cold had not quite left their voice when they said, “I apologize. I forgot my role at your feet.” It took them a moment to get through the next word, the stutter revealing itself again, “P-please tell Her Most Royal Majesty that I can give her a full report whenever she wishes.”

“I am sure she will want to hear it,” said the Dusk Captain, her tone slightly softer, ironically despite being the leader of the military she had always been the more forgiving and less vengeful of the royal couple.

Zokol nodded shortly, mechanically.

“You don’t need to worry, Gloomblade. Despite your behavior here today you have been successful in your hunt.” Finally she glanced down at where Essek hovered in her grip. “You are excused,” said Quana, looking back at and gesturing to Zokol.

They nodded again, still jerkily and slowly made their way down the hall again, first backing away before turning on their heel. Without looking at him Quana spoke to him. “You are very quiet, Essek.”

“I am, Captain,” said Essek shortly.

The Dusk Captain watched until Zokol was in the lift. Once the car ducked below sight Quana pulled the office door open and thrust Essek inside to meet his fate.

Chapter Text

Essek found himself unceremoniously thrust into a familiar room. It was one of several of the Umavi’s offices in this spire. It could serve any purpose, no matter how innocuous or sinister. Thus the room was not designed to terrify, nor was it so casual that it would allow an outsider any sort of comfort. It was not personal to any of the women who might sit behind the desk…or, as it was now, all three.

It was a windowless chamber, the raw quartz walls sanded smooth with intricate repeating patterns carved in a high frieze. The far wall had three enormous scroll paintings hanging from it, each depicted a scene from the approved narrative of the events of the Kryn Dynasty’s founding. The scrolls were painted centuries ago, but still centuries after what they depicted: the battle against and escape from Lolth’s hoard, the time spent in the Wastes, and the occupation of what was then Ghor Dranas, idealized by time and generations of veneration.

Like all of their shared offices the furniture in here was designed so the Umavi loomed over any visitors, with the Bright Queen elevated even over the other two. The focal point of this office was a desk with three seats; high and tiered, two slightly lower desktops on either side of the Queen’s highest one. Behind and above the Bright Queen’s head, carved straight into the quartz and accented with metal and dark marble was the dynastic crest, giving her a halo. This was still a lay office, and Essek had worked on that desk in the past. This time his mother occupied his usual seat on the Queen’s left with Abrianna Mirimm still on her right as she had been for over 10 centuries.

Due to demands of Den and Dynasty, it was extremely rare for all three Umavi to be in the same place at the same time. It became even less common since Deirta Thelyss’s little stunt 16 years ago. Given the weight and grotesqueness of Essek’s crimes it was unsurprising that all three of the Umavi were glaring down at him now. Essek found himself stalled in the doorway.

“Zokol Omrifar sends their regards,” said the Dusk Captain, pushing Essek deeper into the room, “and the traitor.”

The word ‘traitor’ rang in his ears. Essek knew it was coming, he knew what he had done and what he was. Still somehow hearing Quana Kryn pronounce him as a traitor made his blood freeze in his veins. He thought he was ready, but he realized now there would be no way he could have prepared himself to hear that word. He had long known he was a traitor, he had called himself as much, but hearing it here, aloud, somehow cut deep to his blackened core, guilt weighed down on him, crushing him like an expertly cast Dark Star.

He was suddenly aware of how very tired he was and had been for years now. Despite that he wasn’t ready to give in. He didn’t know how to lose, certainly not with grace, and he didn’t plan on starting today.

“What traitor would that be?” Essek asked, making a show of checking his surroundings. He hoped his voice didn’t sound as weak and shaky to the room as it did to his own ears.

“Your attempts at manipulation have been noted,” said Abrianna evenly. She had never liked him, never trusted him; she was a good judge of character like that and Essek hated that fact about her.

“‘Manipulation’ seems a very harsh word,” said Essek.

“Enough,” said the Bright Queen. “I wish not to hear your voice any longer than I must.”

Essek raised his eyebrows and offered no comment, although he had several.

“Shadowhand Essek of Den Thelyss step forward,” said the Bright Queen firmly.

Essek hoped his anxiety didn’t show on his face because if it did he was, as his friends might artfully put it, fucked.

‘You can do this,’ he thought, ‘you can do this. You have to do this.

‘Breathe.’

Essek floated forward. The tension in the room was unmistakable, thick as fog and heavy as gravity itself. It had his fraying nerves pulled to what must have been their breaking point, moments from snapping. His blood pounded persistently in his ears. He felt very small and very vulnerable despite being taller than two of the three women behind the desk and a better mage than any of them.

The Bright Queen spoke, “Let’s not drag this out.”

“I would be amiable to that,” said Essek with a confidence he didn’t feel.

“Good,” said the queen. “How do you plead?”

Essek’s insides clenched painfully, but somehow he managed to get his answer out of his uncooperative throat. “I do not plead at all until I have heard the charge, your Eternal Majesty,” Essek said. He did not look at his mother, but he knew she was staring at him all the same. He swore he could feel her gaze on the side of his face. She probably suspected his inner panic. She had seen him in his younger days when he hadn’t had the same intense degree of control over his feelings, she had taught him how to disguise and suppress his anxiety.

“I should think you would want to keep it quiet, but if you would rather your shame said aloud before the Light and its Umavi then it shall be,” said the Bright Queen.

“Essek has never shown enough deference to the Light,” said Abrianna.

Essek bristled. “That is hardly yours to adjudicate, Skysybil, and even if that accusation was so, it is irrelevant. I am afraid I must insist on hearing the charges that have so gifted me the title of ‘traitor’ in a country I have only ever served. I should hope you understand why that is of vital importance.”

“Very well,” said the Skysybil.

“Due to my disgust at your lies and the damage your crimes have done to the reputation of Den Thelyss, I will allow the Umavi of your den to present the charges,” the Queen said. He could hear rage in her voice. The Queen’s true anger was…frightening, to say the least. It was hard for an individual to earn, usually her opinion settled in dislike or annoyance, but once the storm came it was even harder to assuage, her temper was infamously violent and unforgiving as any creation of nature or gods.

Essek also didn’t know quite what to make of this request. Deirta Thelyss had earned her loathing and then some. Forcing Deirta to read the charges against Essek was surely a punishment; ‘remember that this is what your son did.’ It must have been a way to force some of the ownership on her. But the fact that she was there at all and given a position of power at the bench was more than she’d been granted in years. She was still reading an official decree, so was this truly a punishment for Essek’s betrayal or was it an olive branch being offered after hers? Had the severity of Essek’s sin forced a reconciliation so his mother could represent their den?

Before Essek could ponder this further his mother cleared her throat. Deirta Thelyss’s voice betrayed none of the Bright Queen’s cresting emotion. But he knew the rage burning behind her calm. “Shadowhand Essek, the first child and born to My Holiness, Deirta, Umavi of Den Thelyss, in this my present lifetime, you are hereby charged by her Radiance, Holiest of Holies, her Majesty of Majesties, the Eternal Bright Queen, Leylas Kryn of the Dynasty that bears her name, chosen by the Almighty Luxon as mother of this Dynasty and its people, of…"

Essek’s heart caught, wrenched up high into his throat as the accusations began to fall like an avalanche upon him.

“Murder. Treason. And the worst blasphemy against the Luxon imaginable with the theft of our most holy relics. You stole the Luxon Beacons from the Lucid Bastion and gave them to the Dynasty’s greatest enemy and competitor, in doing so you also caused countless of Xhorhas’s souls to be removed from the Luxon’s cycle, damning them to darkness and death, casting them to the unfeeling gods beyond this plane. You have robbed these souls of their immortality and their journeys toward perfection. You started a war between our glorious nation and the savage Dwendalian Empire, killing thousands more, civilians and soldiers alike. Most heinous of all you gave the Empire the Luxon Beacons, the only true source of goodness and Light in this mortal coil. You cast these precious vessels of the Divine to the dire wolves of the Cerberus Assembly to be observed, experimented on, dissected, treated like common magical artifacts.” There was a very slight pause before her voice got lower, a hint of emotion there, “you got your wish, Essek, you robbed the Beacons from their sacred place, you saw them stripped and defiled, desecrated and profaned. Isn’t that what you have always wanted?” Before he could even think to answer, his mother’s voice became stronger and steadier again as she said, “How do you plead?”

The emotions that overwhelmed him, pummeled him like physical blows, were impossible to articulate. There were no words in any language for the guilt and sorrow he felt. Although they had been ever-present for a long time now, hearing his crimes said aloud stoked the flames that burned away his resolve.

But there was also an increasing anger hyper-focused on the women behind the desk that kept him strong. The Bright Queen had long seemed to think of the war fought and lives lost as a personal sleight rather than monumental tragedy. His mother believed the unfeeling, unliving Luxon was more important than the souls he had taken from this world. The Skysybil expressed no feelings at all at any point in the crisis. They were all more concerned with hoarding Beacons than preserving lives. None of them understood.

The Mighty Nein had dragged Essek down to Earth, forced his eyes open, and held a mirror to him and the crimes he committed. They made him realize, perhaps for the first time, the importance of the elfoid spirit and life, how wrong he was to forget this personhood all these beings shared, a sacredness beyond consecution. Working in Eiselcross on the ground level he was without a buffer between himself and the common man. Many of them had fought in his war and brought him close to the ghosts of the battlefields. The experience in that cold, bright place only affixed the lessons the Nein gave him more firmly in his mind. He owed it to the memory of those people never to forget.

Sitting before him now were the ‘perfect’ souls he’d been taught to admire from the day of his birth. These were the Umavi, lead by the Bright Queen, holiest of holy, wisest of wise, and yet they didn’t comprehend this simple lesson he had learned in his first life: people were important. Each and every being was unique and significant. There was a belief that life under Lolth, the escape, the years of wandering the wastes of Xhorhas, had hardened Rosohna’s first generations, but they seemed to have no issue extending sympathy to a simple object! An object they didn’t even understand! As powerful and incredible as the Luxon was, it was not a living thing, it was not a person, and it never would be. The Umavi could sit no prouder than the likes of King Dwendel, the Archmages of the Cerberus Assembly, or even the Martinet himself, regardless of what they themselves believed.

His anger combined with his remorse were why he nearly answered immediately, foolishly, and without qualification. He nearly told them he was guilty, but thankfully his brain caught up with his heart and he stopped short, instead saying, “I don’t.”

“We could not hear you,” the Skysybil said, perhaps with no malice intended, perhaps with all malice intended. She was well past the expected lifespan of her current race and her senses were all failing her. Or she could have been challenging Essek as she so often did.

He would not rise to take the bait. “I do not plead either way,” Essek said more loudly, holding his chin high.

He was guilty, his soul was forfeit, but he was afraid to die, and not just because there was so much more he had to do. He did not deserve to live, but he did not want to die. And he could hear the voices of the Nein assuring him that he was not some damned creature of darkness, or he did not have to be. He could feel the ghost of Caleb’s lips on his forehead.

Essek was not fundamentally broken, he could be fixed. Just as Caleb had been.

He had no excuse for his cruelty, but the Umavi had even less of one for their callousness. His motives were not good but they were important. He still believed that. He had been seeking possibly the most important thing in the planar system: knowledge. That was why the Umavi had long stopped his efforts, because knowledge was the enemy of faith.

The Umavi did not want to see the reality of the Luxon, nor did they want it to be seen. All the Luxon’s elfoid traits were what the Umavi imbued it with. They had sold that story for so long it seemed even they had come to believe it as truth. They built the Lucid Bastion on the foundation of their lies, kept the people yoked to them with tales. That was all it was, all any of it was, all this entire religion was, this society was their story.

No, it was their game. They wrote the rules. They moved the pieces. They had poisoned the structure of the ruling class and were in turn polluted by it. They played the rest of them like pawns.

Essek had long dreamed of fixing this place, dreamed of a smarter, better Xhorhas, one free from the shackles of tradition and blindfold of religion. He realized now that could never happen. The Umavi would have always stopped him. Like the Luxon itself any influence he imagined he had had had been given to him by his mother and the Bright Queen. They could have easily snatched it away at any moment in his career. He never had a chance.

He never could have won. Essek had been so blinded by his own brilliance he didn’t realize that it was not enough. This was not a place of logic and reason so logic and reason were pointless. It was always going to end like this, not with him stealing the Beacons but with him dragged before the Umavi about to have everything taken from him for his dangerous heresy, heresy not truly against the Luxon, but against the Umavi. Everything he had ever learned would have always been purged like the fall of the Age of Arcanum.

“Essek!” snapped the Bright Queen, “Answer! Admit your guilt! Defend yourself! Say something!”

Essek was overwhelmed by feeling, he felt hot tears stinging his eyes, he was furious, terrified, but he had to get through this. Deep breath, fake smile. They knew too much, but they didn’t need to know they knew too much. He didn’t have to just give in. “Your Radiant Majesty, you know better than I do that if I make no formal plea whatever I say cannot be used as one. What I say now doesn’t matter in the least in the eyes of the Luxon.”

They wrote the rules, he could turn them against them. Were the four of them alone, perhaps they would have simply rewritten them, but with Quana there they had no choice but to follow them. Besides, the Umavi had believed their lie themselves and did not want to displease their papier-mâché god, nor could they reveal that they had made a mistake the first time they listened to it and set down its laws.

His mother made a noise behind the bench. Essek had no idea what it meant, but he didn’t let that insecurity show. “Yes, I know, Umavi, I see you,” Essek said, tossing that Shadowhand smile in her direction.

His mother’s face was twitched for a half moment before it returned to its usual expressionless mask. After his little speech the Bright Queen’s became colder, darker, the Skysybil looked sidelong at the other two women, her face remaining utterly impassive.

“You can look at me however you want, you can press me however you want, I assure you I won’t change my response. Perhaps I am deceitful but you should know I am not a fool,” said Essek.

“Then the inquest will move forward,” said the Bright Queen. “I will break the truth free from your body.”

“My Queen, no one must know about this investigation,” said the Skysybil. “The Shadowhand is too powerful and too close to the throne to be even suspected as a traitor.”

“Especially after Adeen Tasithar was so swiftly traded to the Dwendalian Empire and executed,” said Deirta. “Not only was it a mistake, it cost an innocent man his soul.” Essek objected hugely to the term innocent, but he was more focused on figuring out what his mother was doing, what she was planning. Why would she want him to be revealed as the traitor? It would hurt Den Thelyss immensely. “But without a plea the people will have to know that the Bright Queen was fooled by this child…”

Ah-ha. Essek saw her game now. Because even if Essek was guilty she still had some leverage. There was still a hearty meal to feed to the growing rumors that the Bright Queen was losing her functions to Typhros. The Umavi Thelyss could easily snatch the crown if it were ever to fall from Leylas Kryn’s head.

The Bright Queen did not take well to Deirta’s comment. She responded immediately, “The same could be said of you, Deirta! You housed a traitor in your den, in your very womb, without knowing it!”

She scoffed. “Do you hear yourself? He was not a traitor when he lived in my hall nor in my belly. It is no secret that he despises me.”

Essek let out a huff. His relationship with his mother had been cold, he hadn’t cared enough to despise her actively when she wasn’t directly in his way. It had been more disdain, although it had certainly boiled into hatred now.

“Besides,” she continued, “I do not wear the crown. I did not make him Shadowhand and grant him power. I showed him no favor at the time when his sins were committed.”

That was too much. “It may be true that you have not shown me much favor since I snapped your leash, but I would not be Shadowhand without you and everyone in this room knows it.” If she heard him over the argument occurring behind the desk she did not respond. Although he thought he saw her eyes flick to him for a moment.

“You still created a monster,” said the Queen.

“But I didn’t let it loose. And I say again even if I am an Umavi I am not the Bright Queen. You cannot deny your role.”

“I cannot and I am not,” said the Bright Queen.

“We will see what the people think, we will see who they blame more, the naïve child or the wise monarch.”

“No one will know about any of this,” said the Skysybil. She held a position of honor at the Queen’s side. She was not as resentful as Deirta. She would gain nothing in the social upheaval caused by the first change of regime in the nation’s history. She would perhaps benefit less in the Thelyss Dynasty than in the Kryn.

‘How will they keep this secret?’ Essek thought. ‘I need not cooperate.’

And Essek realized something else. As Shadowhand and researcher he may have never been able to shake the foundations of the theocracy, but as a criminal under investigation there was a slim chance he could do some good. It was stupid, it would cost him everything, but he would accomplish something. For once his secrets and lies would benefit the right side. He could say anything. He would say everything.

Before he could stop himself, before doubt could catch up, Essek loudly cleared his throat and drew the attention of the Umavi again.

“How do you plan on keeping an investigation of this scale a secret?” asked Essek with a mirthless smile, fangs bared. “Regardless of what you believe, you have no plea, I must be tried. If you try to make me disappear without one, you know I am more than capable of making my exit a dramatic one. I will not fade away, I will explode like a supernova. If you wish to bring justice upon me then I am to be shamed in the Luxon’s Light. I have spent some time in the sun now, I know the light reveals so very much. There will be witnesses. It will be held in the throne room with its doors thrown open to the commons. What could you possibly do to keep my crime from all of the Dynasty and beyond?”

There was a long silence in which Essek felt he had accomplished something in this damned citadel. For once his deeds had meaning. For once he was behind the game board and not on it.

Then the Bright Queen answered, “you will waive your right to a trial.”

Essek laughed bitterly. “Will I? Are you so certain? No, I do not believe I shall,” he said. “No matter if I am guilty or innocent, let the verdict be shouted so loudly that the gods can hear it.”

Let his crime be known and the failures of the government with it. Show the Umavi, dens, and their lineage to be imperfect, ugly as his crime, hiding in the Luxon’s shadow. He would darken the damned Luxon itself with his bloody handprints if he could. If he was going to die he was going to take the whole Lucid Bastion down with him. If this was to be his end let it also be the end of the Kryn Dynasty.

“Then your accomplices will also be tried and also be executed with your guilty verdict,” said the Bright Queen.

Essek’s confidence was snuffed out as quickly as it had come, like a candle’s flame between two fingers. His throat tightened and he swallowed trying to work it loose. He hoped desperately that the Umavi could not see the change from their lofty perch. “My accomplices?” he asked as if he didn’t immediately know who she meant.

“Yes, the sell-swords, the ones you coerced into bringing the Beacon home, the ones who you made seem to be heroes. What did you give them? Besides defiling your body with that of a Zemnian human or even teaching him Dunamancy. The rumors are not kind to you, Essek Thelyss.”

Essek’s heart caught. What did he say? What did they know? What did they believe?

The Bright Queen spoke again, or was still speaking, Essek wasn’t sure. “You need not tell us, the Gloomblade will pull it out of them. One way or another. To that effect, I wonder, does Caleb Widogast have anything to add—?”

“Enough!” Essek shouted, his voice ringing off the walls of the chamber. The image she created had burned itself inescapably in his head. “The Heroes of the Dynasty have nothing to do with this! I did not know them!”

“Do you think me an idiot?! Why should I believe any word you say after all you have wrought?!” asked the Bright Queen.

“Even if it were true,” said Abrianna more evenly, “how can you expect us to believe it? They returned the Beacon and since that day you have become more their shadow than our Queen’s.”

“That was my job!” Essek shouted, “I was following the orders given to me by her Most Radiant Majesty!”

“And then,” Abrianna said over him, her voice remaining infuriatingly calm, “you all fled together. Was that an order from the Bright Queen?”

Essek didn’t answer, his jaw clamped shut.

“It would be irresponsible not to investigate them—” she said almost gently.

“And I will be taking every pain I can to ensure it is a thorough investigation, and you will watch,” said the Bright Queen. The Skysybil gently touched her arm.

“Leylas, be calm. I know the boy’s betrayal has wounded you, but this is all done in the name of the Luxon and by the Luxon’s laws. They will be questioned in secret.” Then she turned to Essek. “If we open an inquest at all. But if you confess fully, then there will not be any further investigation. There will be no need of one.”

He had to choose now between his friends and the possibility of upending the theocracy. He froze, undecided and horrified by both options. If he saved his friends nothing changed in this rotting carcass of an aristocracy, the country remained shrouded in superstition and lies, ignorant and proud of its ignorance, sitting atop magical artifacts that could change the flow of Exandria’s progress forever. But if he didn’t, if he allowed the Mighty Nein to be thrown back into a fight that wasn’t theirs, they would die. They would die because of him, after all the kindness and good they had shown him at his lowest point. After all the good they did for this very world. When he looked at it like that there was no contest, no question…

“I’ll do it.”

“You said it yourself, we need a formal plea,” said Abrianna pragmatically. Essek was reminded of Verin’s silly little insistence that Essek repeat lies back in the hope of finding the truth underneath. As if the word of a liar meant anything in this room full of liars.

Essek couldn’t look at them. Instead he tipped his chin down and squeezed his eyes closed. “I confess fully to all of the crimes presented. I plead guilty on all charges,” Essek said, his voice steady as he spoke with the confidence of the condemned. There was a silence and he pried his eyes open.

Essek’s eyes found his mother’s high above him. Her expression made the blood drain from his face and tightened his chest. Her face was impassive but her eyes…her eyes betrayed a fury beyond elfoid. She had a façade and reputation to maintain, so she said nothing, but her eyes spoke for her. Her anger only made sense, a trial she could work with, there was a narrative there for her to use, a guilty plea gave her nothing.

Deirta Thelyss’s strongest piece had thrown itself from the board.

He almost didn’t hear the Bright Queen’s icy sentencing over his mother’s silent rage. “You will be held in Hall Thelyss for three days while arrangements are made for your transportation and execution.”

Well…if this was going to be his confession, then let it be full. If this was the last time he could use his voice, then he would scream.

“You needn’t make arrangements for my transportation at least,” he said before the Bright Queen tapped her scepter and ended the hearing.

The gambit paid off. She paused, scepter raised and then lowered gently without the final tap of sentencing. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“I mean, I am in no danger of the Luxon claiming my soul.”

Almost as soon as the last word left his mouth his mother actually shouted, “be quiet!”

He spoke louder, “years ago I decided not to live in the service of a force no one understood.”

The Bright Queen’s eyes narrowed in thought then went wide with surprise, Essek didn’t know if she was shocked that she hadn’t realized Essek wasn’t consecuted, shocked the lie had lasted as long as it had, shocked she couldn’t tell the difference between saved and unsaved, or shocked that his mother had hidden it in the first place. “Deirta?!”

She did not answer, but then Essek did not give her much time to do so. “Some forty years ago Den Thelyss lied. Unexpected, I know,” Essek laid this last sentence heavy with sarcasm. “But this particular lie has not been admitted to, atoned for, or cleansed from its record. A dark spot that it hoped to hide.”

“You are that dark spot,” said his mother. “I said be quiet!”

“No!” Essek spat back, “No, I won’t be any longer! Let it be known that the new eldest of Den Thelyss, the first New Soul born of its Umavi in centuries, is not consecuted! I refused consecution repeatedly! To the Hells with your idiotic traditions!” Essek said.

“What sort of murderous lunatic are you?” asked Abrianna.

“What sort indeed?” asked Essek, grinning. “I am the heir of Den Thelyss! I am Deirta Thelyss’s first new son in blood and bone in five lifetimes! I am the first New Soul born of my father! I am the most accomplished graviturgist of this age! I am the youngest Shadowhand to serve the Bright Queen! I am unsaved, unsavable, I am the worst criminal the Dynasty has ever known and none of you knew even as I sat beside you, even as I lied to your faces!”

The Bright Queen was furious beyond words and his mother had her lips pressed into a tight line to keep from shouting out. Essek felt darkly, manically proud. Then Abrianna, eyes narrowed in distrust, said, “Is this some trick to ensure your survival? It seems like a foolish gambit.”

“It would be, and it isn’t one. Think of it, why else would my father lose his life under Bazzoxan?” asked Essek, he was confident here, powerful. He had kept secrets all his life, he was only beginning to learn how good it felt to share them. “What else could make a veteran of three lifetimes die like a foolish New Soul?”

“Silence!” his mother shouted. The mask was gone. There were no tears, but her eyes were shining and over-bright. “You will not speak ill of the man your impertinence and blasphemy killed!” That final word was when the tears broke, sliding down her face.

The Bright Queen slammed her hand on the desktop for attention. His Umavi started and quickly wiped away the tears, once again above and beyond elfoid. “So be it, we won’t move beyond the city. Essek Thelyss will die in the Dungeon of Penance. There will be three days to make arrangements. Three days to meditate on your betrayal to the Luxon and the three Umavi. Three days to beg the gods beyond the Gate to have mercy on your miserable soul. What have you to say, Essek of Den Thelyss?”

“What is there left to say?” Essek asked, “Your system is corrupt! Fuck you!”

“Captain,” the Queen snapped in response, “strip the former Shadowhand of his mantle. It deserves worthier shoulders than his.” Now she tapped her staff hard against the platform behind the desk, the sentencing completed, “By the Light of the Luxon it is said, by the Light of the Luxon it is done.”

The Dusk Captain’s large hands spun Essek around as easily as if he was a child. It made him tense up unconsciously. Quana Kryn was notoriously furious in battle, but Essek had never been to a battlefield (he had just sent people to die on them while he hid); thus he had never seen the Dusk Captain as anything but the queen’s consort, calm, refined, now she wore a look of rage that made Essek’s skin prickle. She glared at him with cold and efficient anger like he was some kind of feral dog or venomous snake that had attacked and she was going to remove the threat. She said nothing to him, as if he truly was something bestial and beyond reason.

She unclasped his mantle, the heavy mark of his station, and pulled it off of his shoulders easily, far too easily. He felt the absence of weight immediately. He had worn that mantle nearly every day of his life for 16 years now. He had felt his body adapt and shape to it in that time. It had become as much a part of him as his skin or his painted smile. He would never wear it again. Keeping one hand tightly on Essek’s arm she stepped forward and dropped the heavy metal thing onto the lowest part of the desk where it clanged noisily, echoing off the stone walls, the sound cut Essek like a knife.

The Queen spoke again, “Please escort the prisoner to Hall Thelyss, secure him in his chambers, and make sure he is guarded at all times. Now the Umavi must speak.”

“As you wish,” she said, bowing. Then she took Essek by both arms. He went limp, he didn’t have any strength left for the pretense of fighting.

He still had the strength to goad them, however. “Goodbye your Radiant Majesty, pick your Shadowhands more carefully! Goodbye Umavi, I hope you are properly punished for all of our lies! Goodbye Skysybil, I have never liked you!”

No more lies. No more games. No more stories. It all came tumbling down. Essek was dizzy from it, intoxicated by the truth. He had already been killed, there were no more consequences. Everything was in the open now.

Chapter Text

At first Verin convinced himself it was just Rosohna being Rosohna. There were 12 noble dens, which meant lots of mouths dispensing lots of gossip, lots of false rumors, and lots of bad opinions. Something was always being said about someone, indeed that someone would be lucky if it was only the one something being said. If he felt like there were more eyes on him than there usually were, that was probably just paranoia. Verin thought heard Essek’s name on the wind of anonymous gossip — a fact which he hated — but, he told himself, was to be expected given his brother’s role and status. Of course, that reality didn’t stop Verin from pitying and worrying about him.

‘What kind of bullshit are you involved in now, Essek?’ Verin thought as he wandered through the vast Lucid Bastion. Thankfully today he was not wearing ridiculous ceremonial armor and stiff court attire, but was back in his own clothes. One less thing to worry about, while the gossip gave him one more.

His anxiety spiked after stalking the citadel and finding neither hide nor hair of his brother. Verin’s immediate impulse was that something was very wrong. He tried to dissuade himself of that thought. Essek was probably with his friends, but that ominous, niggling doubt was persistent. He wouldn’t call himself a good judge of this kind of thing; if he hadn’t already been anxious as a child he could have blamed Bazzoxan for his overactive nerves, although it was not as if living above a door into the Abyss had helped calm him.

He had resolved to go to Essek’s towers and was enroute to doing so, crossing one of the outer courtyards of the Bastion when he heard Essek’s rank whispered yet again. Glancing around he saw a small group of people huddled together. As he listened in and tried to parse out more than just a low mumble speckled with clipped phrases Verin also probed through his memories of complex den genealogy to put names to the five faces.

One of them, Kalla Icozrin, an orc and former Watch officer adopted by the Icozrin matriarch, caught sight of Verin and elbowed the person next to her. She gestured toward Verin with her head. That person, who Verin finally remembered as Kyzymier Mirimm, the very boring half-druegar great-great-grandson-in-law of the Skysybil — and according to Essek, something of a failed wizard — shushed the group a little too loudly and Kalla elbowed him harder. It wasn’t his fault, Verin had already stopped. There was a beat of quiet that would have been funny if Verin wasn’t suddenly so worried. Some indistinct muttering followed, then the pod of nobles shoved the youngest and lowest ranking of their number — Yharek Biylan — toward Verin.

Yharek was a young man and a New Soul and thus, like Verin, not of much innate worth in his den. Yharek’s mother was not the matriarch of Den Biylan, and even if she was, the matriarch was not an Umavi, so he didn’t even have Verin’s prestigious pedigree to wave around. Yharek was about Verin’s age, a little more than a century old, he hadn’t accomplished much thus far, serving in a redundant court role that didn’t even have its own seat, and hadn’t been married into another den yet. Yharek was superfluous and temporary to Den Biylan. All of these factors were working against him and meant he was easily bullied into doing the family’s grunt work. It was a terrible predicament for the poor kid, but there were many people in the Lucid Bastion who abused those socially below them. Verin could not fix it, as much as he wanted to and Yharek wouldn’t think there was anything to fix, so Verin just watched the pageant play out.

Verin looked from Yharek to the rest of the assembled group, standing some ways across the courtyard and staring at the two of them. Yharek stood as tall as he could — which meant he came up to Verin’s shoulder — straightened his bright blue and gold changshan, and puffed himself up to look important. There was a long pause in which the group waited for Yharek to speak, Yharek tried to gather his nerve, and Verin fought the impulse to just walk away.

“Okay, fine, I’ll take the bait. What game are you playing?” Verin asked when he got tired of waiting.

“There’s no game, Verin!” said Yharek, deflating a little when Verin clearly wasn’t impressed.

“Ask him!” hissed one of the others, Eldona Biylan, from across the courtyard. Verin hadn’t forgotten her because she’d never allow anyone to forget her. In this life she was a pale blue tiefling. The jewelry on her twisting vertical horns glittered like swords.

“If you want to know something you could ask me yourself!” Verin called over to her. “I don’t bite. Generally.”

Den Biylan was aligned with Den Thelyss and thus the Umavi they served, who consecuted and presided over for their den was Deirta Thelyss; it made sense to push forward a Biylan, but there was no reason why it couldn’t be one of the other Biylans present; unless they all took personal complaint with Verin, which was entirely possible. Verin couldn’t keep up with the social graces of this place.

“Of course, I know that, but I wouldn’t want to bother you, I know a Taskhand of the Aurora Watch has a lot to do,” Eldona said, then she flicked her wrist to deploy a fan to hide her face behind with only the top half of her head revealed. Over the edge of the fan her pale purple eyes glared at him, glowing in the perpetual gloom. Verin genuinely wasn’t sure if she was trying to insult him or not.

“Have you seen your brother today?” Yharek asked very quickly. His little crowd seemed to lean in like one creature, hungry for whatever Verin would give out.

“Have I seen my brother today?” Verin repeated, making sure he had the question right.

“The Shadowhand,” Yharek said, then grimaced as he realized that was not something Verin needed clarified.

“I haven’t seen Essek since last night,” Verin said. He would have teased Yharek further but the poor kid didn’t need to cringe any harder, it already looked like it hurt. Verin glanced at the group to see looks of disappointment.

“But you have to know what happened!” demanded Eldona, “I mean…” she tried to look coy while maintaining her hard gaze, bringing her fan back into place over her face. Her spaded tail was unnaturally stiff as if she was trying to keep it from broadcasting any hint of her thoughts.

“She’s right though, you truly must know what’s going on,” said…fuck. She was Eldona’s twin sister, although in this lifetime Eldona was a tiefling in the later half of her life and the twin was a drow of less than 100 years, straight from the anamnesis. She had a name, obviously, but it was escaping Verin at the moment. He had never actually spoken to her, only saw her once before the anamnesis (she had been born the grandniece of the Umavi), and only knew she had undergone it from a letter from home a few years ago.

Verin shrugged, “a lot of things are always going on. Which specific event are you talking about?”

“Why, what happened this morning!” said Eldona’s twin.

Verin shrugged harder, even more exaggeratedly, lips pressed into a tight line. “A lot happened this morning.”

“Oh for the Holy Luxon’s sake! I’m sick of this! Why was the Gloomblade pushing the Shadowhand around?! He didn’t look happy about it!” said Eldona.

“And then the Heroes of the Dynasty showed up,” said Yharek. “Kalla saw them!”

“Not all of them but some of them.” Kalla began reciting the list and counting on her fingers, “the half-orc with the small tusks,” like most of the orcs and half-orcs who had talked about this member of the Mighty Nein, Kalla found it important to mention the size of his tusks, “the little blue tiefling, the sad pale human, and the pink…whatever he is. They were trying to get an audience with the Bright Queen.”

The group watched Verin again for some kind of response. Unfortunately for them Verin kept his expression blank, even if he hadn’t been carefully schooled in this art there wasn’t much he would give them. After all, he hadn’t heard anything about this. He wasn’t even sure how much of it was true; there was always the distinct possibility that the whole story was made up to try to hurt Essek’s reputation or trick Verin into telling them something they didn’t already know.

He was very concerned it might have happened, though. The assembled crowd were not from one den and seemed genuinely curious about what Verin had to say, which was almost unheard of given the post he had assumed and his refusal to get involved in the games of the Lucid Bastion. He couldn’t find Essek in his office, which was locked. While Verin didn’t personally know the Gloomblade he obviously knew about the bad blood between Essek and them. There was bad blood between Verin and Zokol Omrifar as well. After all, if his brother was correct then Omrifar had tried to kill Essek.

Yharek broke him from his thoughts by asking, “what happened?”

“I don’t know about the Mighty Nein, but I believe the other exchange was work related. Coworkers sometimes disagree,” said Verin calmly. Still he very quickly changed direction, turning so fast he further scuffed his boot on the stone. If what he just heard was true then Essek might be in time-out for some kind of stupid wizard fight. Essek could have gotten hurt or at least have a bruised ego that needed some ice.

“That’s all you’re going to say?!” snapped Eldona’s twin to his retreating back.

“Yes,” said Verin as his parting word over his shoulder as he began his quick pace back toward the spires.

As he retreated he heard Eldona say, “he’s lying,” and her twin reply, “of course he is! For the den’s sake, Yharek, can’t you do anything right?!”

Verin didn’t find anyone of use until he stumbled upon his mother, of all people. She was gliding gracefully across a hall of the central spire toward Den Thelyss’s tower. Hall Thelyss cleaved to the spire’s side, mirrored by the other halls of the other Ruling Dens, equidistant from one another and the center of the spire. Essek may have mastered his elegant ethereal float, but their Umavi could do it with both feet on the ground, her hanfu concealed her legs and feet and she looked every bit as mysterious and mystical as Essek. When Verin came off the stairwell she was walking alone toward the entrance of their Hall’s second level, which coincided with the fifth of the spire’s.

It was unusual for the Umavi to be alone, rather than surrounded by some number of bodyguards, well-wishers, retainers, staff, government officials, family members and allies. Both the wider Lucid Bastion and the smaller tower containing Hall Thelyss were things in constant motion; social machines with dozens of pieces, she was a key cog in keeping all of it running, but now she was alone. She would have had to consciously shake off her gaggle of associates and hangers-on, not unheard of, but it gave Verin a bad feeling deep in his gut when combined with the Den Biylan rumor.

“Umavi,” he called out as he started to walk toward her, she ignored him. “Umavi!” he repeated, more loudly and without slowing in his approach. No response beyond her ear twitching toward him. So she heard him, she was either intentionally ignoring him or was lost in thought. Either was possible, he had formally turned down Adeen Tashithar’s seat that morning, much to her chagrin. He had politely refused it, but refused it nonetheless. He would have to try another method to shake her out of her reverie, be it deliberate or accidental. “Mother!” he said as he approached her.

That worked. He knew it would.

She gasped at his brazen audacity. She was an Umavi. She was mother of the Den first and her children a distant second (as she had to be, Verin reminded himself). It was only in their private home and alone that Essek, Verin, and her children from previous lifetimes could call her “mother.” She rounded on him, Verin was far taller than she was, but her presence was infinitely more commanding. Her glare alone shook Verin’s nerves. She reached up and grabbed him by the collar and yanked him closer.

“Watch your manners, Taskhand. I’ve taught you better than this,” she said coldly, then she released him.

Outside of all but those most private quarters propriety was essential. Customs were respected. Rules were followed. When Verin went wrong he could usually mend it with another triumphant victory below Bazzoxan, bringing home a few abomination body parts, like the tooth on his necklace, to hold high as the youngest Taskhand in the Kryn Dynasty. But it was safer and better for his health to simply obey the pointless rules of the Lucid Bastion while he was here. This time it hadn’t been a mistake and instead a deliberate ploy, but the Umavi didn’t need to know that.

“I beg your forgiveness, Umavi,” said Verin, dropping to his knees and averting his eyes. He knew the routine. “May I have a moment of your time?”

“What do you need, Verin?” she asked, putting a hand to her face as if already exhausted.

“Where is Essek?” he asked.

Quicker than he had ever seen her move she grabbed him again. This wasn’t in their complicated script, at least so far as Verin knew and Verin thought he knew very far. He may not have lived in the Lucid Bastion for over a decade but that didn’t negate the nearly 10 he had. He remembered how to behave under constant scrutiny as the other dens waited for the Thelyss boys to make a foolish New Soul’s mistake so they could pick their bones clean. Verin was not bad at this, but his mother had thrown him for a loop.

“Stand,” she said, trying to pull him to his feet. She was nowhere near as strong as he was and in surprise his muscles had locked.

“U—?”

She cut him off, leaning into him so she could speak quietly and directly into his ear, “try not to be an idiot, Verin. We cannot talk. Not here. Not now. If you want to know anything you must come with me.”

Verin — made all the more uneasy by the darkness of her tone — obeyed, getting swiftly to his feet. “Yes, Umavi,” he said. As he stood she released him and gestured for him to follow her through the door to their home. There was a short breezy walkway that led from the spire to the den’s tower. The wings that opened to the Lucid Bastion proper were for public interactions and the door at the end of the hall was unlocked as they entered into Hall Thelyss. They quickly left the entry hall as she led him past an ornate door into a corridor deeper in their home, more personal and private. She locked the door behind him before traversing the library, up another spiral staircase, out a door, and down another hall; and here Verin was met with the next surprise. The Umavi did not head toward the suite that Essek and Verin had shared as children, where he had tranced the night before. They had passed many meeting chambers and had now moved beyond all formal and informal places the Umavi would meet with family, allies, visiting disciples, clergy, anyone. Verin had been becoming increasingly uneasy over the course of the journey, but his heart jolted when she opened the sliding door to the secret iron staircase leading to the Umavi’s floor. He stopped short, dead in his tracks.

The majority of the top floor was off limits to all but the most holy of clerics, the Umavi, and an extremely strictly moderated laity who had to be specially invited. In theory Verin could follow her onto her personal floor, he fit the criteria: consecuted, bound to the Umavi by law, blood, bone, and/or soul, and invited by the Umavi. Verin knew so little about the Umavi’s floor that he wasn’t sure if she’d ever invited somebody else up there in his lifetime, even his father. He could only ever remember seeing her appear from or disappear into her secret spaces and concealed stairs.

After his pause and a glare from his mother Verin managed to unstick himself and follow her. He didn’t have time to take in his surroundings before she unlocked a door to his right. His heart beat harder, this was neither her hallway or her parlor. This was one of the Umavi’s most private rooms. Hers and hers alone. Even more shocking, it proved to be not her study, but her trancing chamber.

Verin felt magnetically repulsed from the shining white room beyond. He had never been in there before. Never in his life. Children of an Umavi were not born here, there was a room for that behind one of the doors in this hall, specially created for the occasion, before the infant was spirited away to a wet nurse. The trancing chamber of an Umavi was not meant to be soiled by imperfect hands, not even her spouse or other partners entered this room. This was a place of sacred privacy. It was for her and her alone. This was a place of quiet respite, a place for her to think, trance, and in dire situations even sleep. Verin and Essek were New Souls, the very idea she would allow him over this threshold was unthinkable. Unthinkable to the point that Verin stopped at the door, thinking it must be some kind of a test. He straightened and caught the doorframe. When she tried to tug him he didn’t budge.

“Inside,” she hissed.

“Umavi, this is your trancing chamber,” said Verin dumbly.

“I know,” she said in exasperation. “If there was any other place that would be safe enough to have this conversation I would have it there! Now go inside!”

This time Verin obeyed. His heart was jackhammering against his sternum, harder than it did when he was going to fight the fiends below Bazzoxan. He was on high alert, overeager, vulnerable and raw as an exposed nerve.

“Sit,” she gestured to the armchair warmed by the Continual Flame in the hearth. It was made of light purple wood with cushion threaded with cloth-of-silver, like everything in here it bore the Thelyss patterns and was highly decorated. Verin lowered himself into the seat, sitting on its edge. His brain was continually screaming at him to leave. He shouldn’t be here. Essek must be in trouble. None of this was right and the wrongness of it was increasing exponentially.

Verin swallowed to wet his throat, his tongue felt like sandpaper in the desert of his mouth. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply and grounded himself in the panic. Panic only resulted in getting you killed. Fear was healthy, panic was not. He allowed himself fear, he did not allow panic. He took stock of his body and of his breath, he willed his heartbeat to slow. When he opened his eyes he was still afraid, but had calmed substantially.

Somehow his mother’s room was more terrifying than the Abyss. Unconsciously he scanned his surroundings, it was less curiosity than instinct. He lived and worked in the baddest of lands, vigilance was key. His mother must have known what he was doing. His scarred eye could not even perceive light, it was more decorative than functional at this point, so when scoping out his surroundings he turned his entire head.

His mother had discouraged him from doing so in the early days after his injury, when he still lived in or often visited the Lucid Bastion. She didn’t want anyone to know what had happened to his vision. She had many reasons why he should keep it a secret: he shouldn’t let anyone know he had a literal blindspot for them to exploit, the attacker mustn’t know that they had been successful in any way (Verin’s scar was already more ego-stroking than they deserved), and he shouldn’t let people think that the Umavi had failed to heal him entirely, even if she had. But then Verin was posted in Bazzoxan and suddenly, thankfully, staying alive was more important than deceit or decorum and Verin very openly scoped out potentially dangerous surroundings. In his nervous state he couldn’t turn it off if he tried.

The Umavi didn’t sit or even move the stool from her table to possibly sit on later. She stood in front of him, still in court clothing. The Umavi Thelyss always dressed formally and in several layers but her court clothing had at least a half dozen. The white dress covered her feet. Just on top of it was a gauzy light amethyst layer that formed a long train behind her. She wore a dark purple robe that fell just below her hips with long, luxurious sleeves; they were tight toward the top but from the elbows down they were flowing and long as wings, the billowing wrists easily covered her hands entirely. The outermost layer’s collar had a pattern of dodecahedrons and suns bound by the Thelyss pattern. There were frills at the elbows and at the belt around her waist. Her earrings, nose ring, and twin necklaces were all silver, amethyst, rubies, and diamonds.

As he watched she shakily removed her silver tiara. Each of the Umavi had something similar; it was a coronet with three curved horns, far shorter than those on the Bright Queen’s crown, small enough that they stopped behind the crown of her head. The horns were made of polished and hollowed crystals and twinkled in the firelight. There were three rows of gems, amethyst, rubies, and pearls that lay over her forehead. She put the crown on the table, then carefully unclasped the silvery cloth that protected her head from the gemstone horns and rested it under the tiara. She brushed a hand across her head, as if to fix hair that was not out of place. She wore her hair in twin braids acting as a halo that her coronet sat on, then the hair became one braid that flowed down her back like a bright white cascade, a beautiful moonlight-on-water effect was created by the white diamonds threaded in it. In her flowing hanfu, immaculate pale makeup, shining jewelry, and demeanor she looked like the envoy of the Luxon that she was, light made into an elfoid form, perfect.

But her expression was…hard to place. Maybe afraid, which was a frightening prospect. Afraid, tired, angry, and all of these were new to Verin. Essek may have seen their mother angry and perhaps even proud, but the looks Verin was usually treated to were minor disappointment, cool undaunted serenity, and, just once, he saw tears in her eyes. That was the day his father died.

“Were circumstances not so dire I would not have made you come here,” she said quietly, looking at him with those violet eyes. “I know you are uncomfortable and with good reason. You follow the Light. This is unorthodox and it pains me to go against the Luxon, but your brother has driven me to it.”

“I understand,” said Verin, who didn’t.

The silence stretched as the Umavi regained her calm, piece by piece her usual emotionless expression settled on her face. Uncharacteristically, however, she kept one hand, glittering with rings, thoughtfully on her face, thumb on her chin, pointer, middle, and ring fingers on her lips.

Finally Verin could no longer wait, “Umavi, may I ask you a question?”

“Yes,” she answered, moving the fingers she had against her mouth for the moment it took to say the word.

“Where is my brother?”

She sighed and dropped her hand to the side where it vanished below her sleeve. The Umavi spoke calmly but her eyes had a distant look, “Essek Thelyss, this generation’s new eldest has been taken into custody. He is locked in his childhood room.”

“Custody?! Why?!” Verin asked dumbstruck. Was Essek in danger or was it the other kind of custody? What, if anything, did this have to do with Zokol Omrifar or Essek’s friends? Why in the Luxon’s Light was he locked up?!

His mother’s face tightened for a moment, then the moment passed and she regained her composure. Most of it, at least. “He is under arrest.”

Verin gasped in horror, nearly jumped to his feet, but he stopped himself from interrupting her further. He knew there was persistent tension between Essek and the Gloomblade and now he wondered if Essek had finally killed them. “What has he done? What is he accused of?”

The Umavi gritted her teeth. “Essek has been revealed to be the traitor who stole the Luxon Beacons.”

Verin felt his jaw fall open. “What?!” was all he could manage to say. There was too much in that one sentence to process. The meaning of his mother’s words broke over him in icy waves. “Essek stole the…that can’t—that doesn’t even make sense!”

“He admitted to it,” the Umavi said, darkly. She kept her gaze averted, anger and shame on her delicate features, which added horrible credence to her words.

“But Adeen Tasithar! He admitted to it too! He admitted to it first!” Verin pointed out. He had no doubt that Adeen was guilty, he had always been vindictive, abusive, over ambitious, cruel, and calculating. Traitorous seemed a bit far but…

“Who proved he was guilty, Verin? Who got him to confess?” the Umavi asked as if he was an idiot.

“Ess—” Verin stopped short.

Adeen Tasithar had always been pious and loyal to the Dynasty. He had never complained to Verin about religious services, he had never — in the safety of solitude and brotherly affection — told Verin he doubted the Luxon existed, he had never wanted to experiment on the Beacons, he had never skipped childhood prayers, at least insofar as Verin knew. Essek had done all these things.

“So…” Verin said slowly, “So the theory is that Essek stole the Beacons, traded them to the Dwendalian Empire for what? Motives unknown?! And then framed another man for it?!”

His mother violently shushed and glared at him, Verin became aware of how loud his voice had become. “That is what I am saying because that is what is true,” said the Umavi in a voice barely louder than a whisper.

“No,” Verin said immediately, shaking his head. He refused to believe this, no matter how sickeningly plausible it was. “That’s impossible!”

She pulled herself to her full height, unimpressive by the standards of any beyond goblins but her grace, her demeanor, her wisdom was enough to bring any elfoid being to their knees. “Is it really?!” she demanded, “don’t delude yourself, Verin, Essek has already done that for you for years!”

Verin’s hands were shaking where they clutched the arms of the chair. He was horrified by how easy it was to believe.

The Umavi looked at Verin with that hard gaze. Then she visibly softened, melted into the favorite of the Luxon who kindly shared her perfection with the people. With him sitting and her standing they were roughly the same height and she gently turned his chin to look at her straight on. “I understand your pain, my son, I feel it too. This betrayal cuts deeply into the beating heart of our den. But we cannot allow it to destroy us. We are a good and true people, we are lovers of the Light. We must rise higher from the ashes Essek is leaving behind.”

That was another weird sting. Verin hadn’t even considered what this meant for the family yet. His agony was for his brother and himself. And that felt unforgivably selfish.

“When is his trial?” Verin asked in a cracked voice.

The Umavi looked sour again for a single moment, “there will not be one. He has pled guilty already. Another of his calculated attacks on the family that birthed, raised, and nurtured him, I am without a doubt. Had he allowed it to be brought to trial, we would have been able to blame those damn mercenaries Essek has become so attached to and show the people of this great nation that our Queen may be coming upon her retirement. But between the machinations of the Bright Queen and Umavi Mirimm and Essek’s own innate treacherous tendencies we have lost that opportunity.”

Another blow, like his mother was repeatedly punching him in the gut. “You are completely certain Essek is guilty then?” he asked.

“Completely,” the Umavi said.

“‘Completely’?” he repeated miserably.

She tisked then came back softer again. “Think logically, Verin. Don’t blind yourself further with your personal feelings. It has always been a matter of time before it came to something like this. He has no love for us. He has no respect for the true, Luxon-loving people who came before him and saved him from being born a slave to the Spider Queen. He has no regard for the legacy of those Thelysses not yet born, the children you will have to rear in his dark shadow. He does not care about this family, he killed your father without a thought, he would do the same to you. He was always going to betray us. I admit this was far more terrible than I ever imagined, his evil was greater than I could dare think, but he has always been a black mark in the Light.”

There was a long pause in which his mother’s words rang in his ears. He knew that she was wise beyond his understanding, he knew she had had ten-fold the years that he did and was said to be a perfect soul, in essence incapable of mistakes. But she was still only drow and lived reality taught Verin that all elfoid beings were fallible, even those who had walked barefoot through the Wastes before the Calamity, even those the Luxon was said to have chosen.

This place was the problem. He firmly believed it was hard to keep truth from fiction in the Lucid Bastion; it wasn’t just the nature of politics but the emphasis put on the spiritual, the aetherial, the ineffable. The fog only got thicker the longer you stayed in this place until it became impossible to unbraid what was said to be and what actually was. His mother hadn’t left Rosohna since before his father died. She could only see the worst in Essek, the legends and rumors and superstitions that followed him, but Verin was holding out desperate hope that this was not true.

“But he’s gone willingly into house arrest,” Verin pointed out to his mother.

“He has. Perhaps he has some scrap of dignity and respect in his shadowed soul,” she said offhandedly, seemingly without seeing Verin’s intent to exonerate his brother. She continued, “Now you see why I am so insistent that you stay in Rosohna, Verin. The children of Den Thelyss must be represented and you are the only one left on this new branch of our tree. When Essek is dead—”

Luxon’s Light, Verin’s heart twinged painfully in his chest. He always knew he would outlive his brother. Not only outlive him but lose him, potentially forever. Verin was consecuted, his soul belonged to the Luxon, whatever it was. Essek was not and his soul would be cast into the Astral Sea and find harbor as the absent gods chose, wherever that may be. Verin would live. Essek would die. Essek’s ultimate “fuck you” to their family and its faith: suicide.

But now even if he had been consecuted he would be removed from the cycle. Traitors did not die near a Beacon. They died in the Wastes and were left for the udaak to eat. There would be no mourning, no celebration of his life, no ceremonial pyre, no icon painted with his likeness, their mother would do all she could to scrub Essek from the record. And Verin knew she would be successful. Essek was 122 years old and in his first life. He was a fly to the mighty souls of the Kryn Dynasty’s Noble Dens, just as Verin was. Young and miniscule and easily forgotten.

New tears swelled in Verin’s eyes. He loved Essek dearly, he always knew one day he would lose him, but he had long hoped that that day would be some 600 years off. Longer if Essek played his cards right. But he’d shown his hand too soon.

…And, if all of this was true, did he even deserve to play?

Of course he did! He was Essek!

Would Verin have granted any other traitor that kind of leeway? It was not fair to give Essek special treatment…but that meant he was accepting Essek had done this! Which couldn’t be true! It had to be a lie!

He needed to talk to Essek! He scrubbed a wrist over his eyes.

“Weeping over a traitor is not suitable for someone of your esteemed status,” said the Umavi.

“What about weeping for a brother?!” Verin said, perhaps too harshly. He couldn’t keep his anger out of his voice.

She grabbed him hard by the chin. Catching him off guard she succeeded in yanking him forward. “He is not your brother from this point forward! We are trying to keep this as discreet as possible, but if it gets out…I shudder to think what will happen to the reputation of Den Thelyss if it does! The quieter we are, the less damage will be done. If even a whisper makes it beyond these walls, we distance ourselves from the former Shadowhand entirely. Sever the limb, save the body from its atrophy and decay.”

The idea was stunning. Outlawing Essek, removing him from his den, leaving him without family or ally, was among the worst punishments a Kryn drow could face. Verin had never seen it happen in real life, but in stories — both ancient and modern, true and fictitious — it was the punishment of vicious monsters, the injustice for wronged heroes to right, and the woeful fate for morally gray anti-heroes to live out the rest of their dangerous and lonely days. In some ways the prospect of being disowned was scarier than that of execution. In the early days of the Kryn, long before the huddled refugees could be called a dynasty, to be outlawed was a death sentence, but a longer and slower one. Even if and when the soul was reborn that rejection would follow them, they had no place in the den that had once been their home. To be outlawed was absolute and eternal.

“You can’t mean that!”

“In later lives you will understand, my child.”

Anger sent blood rushing to Verin’s face. He all but jumped to his feet, fists clenched. He refused to believe what his mother told him. He refused to believe that time would soften the loss of Essek from his life. He refused to believe Essek deserved to be outlawed from Den Thelyss. He refused to believe his brother was capable of a crime this horrific and unspeakable. He refused to believe any of this!

He had to talk to Essek!

Verin said something he shouldn’t have. “I am not abandoning my brother!”

He went to take a step toward the door, but before he could do so the Umavi flicked her arm, exposing her delicate wrist and the rosary she kept wound around it. It was wrapped several times around her arm and was made of shining purple beads, the icon at the apex being a large Luxon symbol the size of her fist set with a piece of golden andalusite in its center. The emblem was usually hidden and held in place by her elaborate clothing, but now with that one motion she slid it deftly into her palm, the glass beads of the rosary forming a line like a vein from her wrist to her hand. He only just had time to remind himself that it was her spell focus before it let out a bright white glow that pulsed and swelled. He felt an uncomfortable lurch deep in his chest and stomach.

And then there was only light, a burning white so bright that it robbed him entirely of his vision. It sent a powerful throbbing pain through his head, like someone was stabbing him through the eye to the back of his skull. In his left eye he saw the familiar blackness, and in his right was only this glowing white agony.

He let out a groan of pain and his body convulsively jerked hard, trying to get his good eye away from his mother and her light, his body unconsciously working to save his vision. The Umavi pushed him gently into the chair again and he fell back without a fight. Still entirely blinded, he felt her hand and shockingly cool pendant on his cheek. The Umavi gently turned his face toward her voice as she quietly chanted somewhere in front of him. Healing warmth swelled through him and his vision returned to what it was; the blackness remained but the world returned to the other eye.

As her face swam into focus his mother’s expression was soft and kind. She smiled sadly, fondly, holding his face in both hands, her holy symbol still under her palm, cool against his skin. “I apologize for having to do that to you,” she said, using her thumb to wipe away the tears she had startled into stopping. “You were hysterical.”

Verin didn’t answer, confused and overwhelmed. She let him go and stood back, tucking her bracelet away again, back into her voluminous sleeve with the opposite hand. Verin closed his eyes and for a few moments he allowed himself to breathe before looking back at the Umavi.

She waited patiently. “How do you feel, Verin?” she asked when he opened them.

“...I am still processing all of this…” said Verin.

“I understand, my dear heart. I was a New Soul once as well many, many centuries and countless lifetimes ago. What is personal feels so important to you, pain hurts so much more when it’s new.”

Verin stared at her, still feeling hazy, “why are you being so nice to me?”

She recoiled. “I am capable of sympathy!”

She was, but rarely, it seemed, for her children. Not unless she wanted something.

“And you, too, must find sympathy. Your obligation is to your den,” she said.

Ah. There it was.

But, as she so often was, she was right. Verin was the son of Den Thelyss, he owed the den everything. If Essek was…gone…then Verin was the only child of the Umavi of this lifetime. Her children from other lives had their roles and filled them, just as Verin and Essek had been making theirs. Verin could never be Essek. He was born to be the younger brother, Essek the elder. He was not as smart as Essek was. He was not as shrewd as his mother. He was not as physically strong as his father. He was not good enough to be a Thelyss, but he was one. And now he had to reassure his Umavi of that fact. “I understand. I will assume Adeen’s seat.”

Deirta looked relieved. “Perhaps I have underestimated you. You have always been such a loyal son. I am so happy to keep you.”

That was certainly the first time she had said that. She was talking about marriage. Marriage in the dens — or at least in the Ruling and Noble Dens — came down to trades and politics. Marriage tied two dens together for as long as the marriage lasted, the more unions, the harder it was to break the bond. It meant that a Noble Den got access to an Umavi and a Ruling Den obtained more souls and all their accomplishments. Marriage created an alliance: both dens fought for each other, helped each other, exchanged intelligence. For the most part feuds ended between them or at least became quieter and more civil. Outright violence between the two was forbidden. There was unity but the dens remained two separate entities, Dens Biylan and Omrifar, for example, were still not Den Thelyss even if they were its under-dens.

There was an exchange of members that occured in marriage. In unions involving a woman the non-woman spouse was said to lose any connection to their birth den in marriage. They were now part of their wife’s den, even in their next lives they were part of their married den until they married into a different one. But in cases like Verin, with romantic interest strictly in men, the couple belonged to whichever den was of higher social standing (the same went for marriages between two women, hence Quana Kryn was Quana Kryn, Verin had no idea which of Kryn’s under-dens she had been born into. The same went for his father). Den Thelyss was a Ruling Den, led by an Umavi, so unless Verin was married into Den Kryn, Deirta Thelyss was stuck with Verin. His mother had never said that exactly either, but he certainly had never been considered a prize before this moment, just a near inevitability.

“Thank you, Umavi,” he said, feeling wretched. If only staying in Rosohna could save Essek’s life.

His conscience reminded him that he had executed men for less dire allegations. If this bloody accusation was even true. If Essek had actually confessed to killing thousands, starting a war that could have been avoided, and framing someone else for his crimes. But somehow Verin still wasn’t absorbing it, even as he played it over in his head. The only thing he absolutely knew was that he needed to talk to Essek. “May I take my leave to think on your wisdom, Umavi?” he asked.

His mother was constantly doling out wisdom to Den Thelyss and those aligned with it. People came from all over Xhorhas and waited weeks to see her. The Hall had several rooms for her to take these meetings as well as smaller meditation chambers so the receivers of her advice could consider what she said and perhaps speak to a priest or cleric about it. It was not an unusual request after being gifted with her insight.

“You may,” she said.

Verin rose and bowed to her, “thank you.” He began to exit the chamber but she called out to him as he reached the door.

“Where exactly are you going, my child?” she asked.

He paused, hand on the doorframe. “My chapel,” he said, honestly. “I don’t wish to be disturbed.” He should have known that the chapel the brothers shared as children was too close to where Essek was being held.

“Verin, you may not speak to the traitor,” she said sharply to Verin’s back. He winced.

“I hadn’t planned to,” he said without a shred of honesty.

“You were never a good liar,” the Umavi said.

“I know,” he lied. He was a good liar, but his mother and brother were far better. They had taught themselves to detect each other’s lies, with that skill they easily peeled back Verin’s to find the tender truth beneath. Like so many things he only learned he had this talent after he was separated from his truly exceptional and outstanding family.

“Face me,” she said.

He let out a breath and did. The Umavi was again wearing her tiara, glinting in the firelight. She sat in the chair he had occupied, but as she sat in it it became a throne. She was in profile but slowly turned her gaze to him, cutting him down with her eyes.

“Please, Umavi,” Verin whispered.

“If I deny you will you go behind my back? Stab me there like your brother did?” she asked.

Verin swallowed and looked down. “It isn’t illegal to speak to prisoners.” Essek was outside the Dungeon of Penance, Verin didn’t even need permission to speak to him so long as he didn’t enter his makeshift cell.

His mother sighed, long and disappointed and familiar. “Then you’ve taken the blade.”

“No, Umavi, it isn’t like that!”

“Then please enlighten me, what ‘is it like’?”

“I only want closure,” Verin said, it wasn’t entirely a lie, it just wasn’t the truth. What he wanted answers, whether or not that brought closure would only be told in time.

“Despite the evidence to the contrary, you are an adult. I cannot force you to follow my good guidance. All I can do is regret that neither of this lifetime’s sons have the loyalty and piety to do right by our den.”

“I will do whatever I must for our den!” Verin said fiercely. He understood his purpose and role and he did all he could to fulfill it. “I have served our den! I will serve our den! I will always serve my den! But I just…”

“Just what? You just want to defy me at my lowest point?”

Verin’s amber eyes fell again to his boots, dark on the white rug. All he could think about was getting to Essek. There was a long pause, he could feel his mother’s eyes on him, tearing him apart, causing his skill to prickle.

“Do not speak to him, but I do not have the time to watch you. Your actions are at your own discretion. Whatever you do, I expect to see you again in the dining room for supper,” she said, giving him an inexact timer. She never ate with her children under normal circumstances. She often ate in this very room, safe from prying eyes and potential poisoners. But now she had some control over Verin’s schedule.

“I will be there, Umavi,” he said.

“Then go. See him if you must and if you can.”

“Thank you, Umavi,” he bowed again and exited into the hall. Her voice stopped him as he stood in the pitch dark hallway.

“Oh, Verin.”

He paused, turning to face her again, “Yes, Umavi?”

She didn’t do the same, her violet eyes stayed on the fire as she spoke. “Do not step blindly into the spider’s web.”

“I won’t,” Verin answered. He truly wasn’t sure which of his family members was the spider in this situation. And that thought felt sacreligious on an unfathomable scale, let alone having it mere feet from the Umavi’s chamber door.

But it was there, niggling and persistent. She granted him leave with a wave of her hand. Verin descended the staircase from one web into the other.

Chapter Text

After the Umavi let him leave, Verin immediately went to the suite of rooms he and Essek had shared as children. He didn’t attract much attention on the way, but as he reached for the doorknob somebody let out a two-note whistle from nearby. Verin froze and slowly looked over to see Zokol Omrifar, appearing as if from nowhere out of his blindspot.

Verin realized they’d been keeping guard over Essek’s makeshift prison from somewhere nearby, perhaps hiding from would-be rubberneckers. Verin would like to flatter himself and say that it was the Gloomblade’s skill from many centuries of work and not his own incompetence that kept him from noticing them, but it was almost definitely both. Verin was a soldier not a spy. His usual opponents didn’t sneak around they attacked and attacked with vigor. He was half-blind and hadn’t been compensating for it. Besides, present circumstances had him, to understate it, distracted.

‘Fuck,’ Verin thought, bitterly. Of course this break-in wouldn’t be as easy as he’d hoped. He couldn’t just walk into his old room while Essek was imprisoned inside the suite.

A tense moment seemed to Verin to last an eternity as the two drow watched one another. Neither moved. Verin believed the Gloomblade was sizing him up, figuring out if Verin was a viable threat. He didn’t bother doing the same, he already knew they were. He felt the ghost of the wound that had left the scar across his eye. ‘Wound’ felt like an understatement, the sensation of skin and muscle torn from bone, his jaw cracking apart like an insect’s carapice underfoot, the cold of shock, his vision suddenly collapsing into blackness…

“Hello, Gloomblade,” Verin said calmly, pushing passed the memory. He could feel his mother’s eyes on him as keenly as Omrifar’s. She might as well have been standing there. This would all go back to her. He let his hand fall from the doorknob. He would play by the rules.

Verin didn’t want to give Omrifar any more ammunition to aim at Essek. Knowing what they had tried to do in the past meant Verin was inclined to believe Omrifar would sink to incredible depths to drag Essek down further. If there was any further Essek could sink, given what he was being accused of, Verin was fairly certain the Abyss and all the hells were above his brother now.

“Taskhand, we meet at last,” said Omrifar in a tone neither kind nor malicious, but inescapably self-satisfied. Verin hadn’t thought much about what Zokol Omrifar would sound like, but somehow this voice was not quite right. Verin thought he had been expecting something not quite so high and with less emotion.

“So we do,” he replied, hand dropping to his side.

“How can I help you?” they asked before Verin could make another move.

“I don’t think you can.”

“That is a shame. Unfortunately, your brother is unavailable at the moment so you will have to make do with yours truly,” they did a very poor job if hiding a sharp smirk.

Verin didn’t like something about how Omrifar spoke. He wouldn’t like them anyway, but given the weight of Essek’s crimes and the importance of the job they had been given, they should not have been so pleased, so smug. It struck Verin as inexcusably selfish and small-minded. He had had innumerable disagreements and actual clashes with the likes of Adeen Tasithar but he hadn’t considered celebrating his arrest with anything more than quiet relief because of the immense weight of his crimes. It was downright wrong for Omrifar to be so darkly, vindictively joyous even in private, especially when as far as Verin knew, their largest disagreement with Essek was over a promotion. Maybe it was Verin who was being unfair and this was how Zokol Omrifar processed heavy feelings. But for once in his adult life Verin was not concerned with being fair.

“I want nothing to do with Essek,” Verin lied.

“Then what do you want?” asked the Gloomblade.

‘Answers,’ Verin thought. “Some time to reflect,” Verin said.

“You’ll need to do that elsewhere.”

“Understood.” With that Verin moved to a second door, further down the hallway, feeling Omrifar’s eyes on him the whole time. He opened the door and stepped inside without another word. He should have done this in the first place. It would make it seem as if Verin was following the Umavi’s direction. There would be nothing deviant for Omrifar to report. Perhaps his seeming obedience would even win him some points with his mother, or at least un-lose them.

Swiftly Verin locked the door behind him. It wouldn’t keep out a determined mage but if he needed time it bought him an extra few seconds. He stood now, alone, in the private Luxon chapel he and Essek had shared as children.

Verin let out a long breath, back against the door, allowing his head to thunk against it. Staring up at a ceiling painted to look like a daylit sky, he gave his heart a moment to calm down. Omrifar should not have gotten to him as quickly as they did, even in the light of their shared history. He shouldn’t allow his anxieties about Essek to get to him, not yet, not when there were still unknowns. He cursed himself and let the moment pass.

The chapel was small by the standards of Hall Thelyss, connected to their suite. Both of the brothers’ private bedrooms had doors linking them to the chapel, so that they could start and end their days in the presence of the Holy Luxon. In their childhood those doors were always unlocked in a symbolic gesture representing that nothing could keep them away from the Luxon’s Light. Of course, now they were locked; Verin was sure of this because he had tried them both.

After that he sighed dejectedly and crossed to the altar, fully decorated despite its disuse. All Luxon altars and house shrines in Hall Thelyss were always kept clean and prepared. In this case, this chapel was ready for a visit from any of the Umavi’s small army of offspring who’d worshiped here in the centuries since it was built. Or maybe it was just his mother’s personal dedication to the Luxon that kept her home’s many altars ready at all times. This was her home more than it was or ever had been any of theirs. Verin took a long match from where the pack was tucked below one of the ceremonial candelabras. His shaking hands struggled to strike it. Once lit he used it to start the familiar prayer rituals, which led to the next step, and the next, his body able to complete the actions without a single conscious thought, even after twenty years the practice of waking the altar and calling to the Luxon was etched into his bones.

Once upon a time he and Essek knelt in front of this altar side-by-side on twin cushions, bowing so low their heads were only kept off the ground by their arms, hands clutched, praying to the Luxon. First it was for health and vitality. Then for the good of the family and den. And then that they would be Returned Souls, blessed by the Light and welcomed back into the world.

None of those particular prayers came true. Essek had nearly died of illness as a child and suffered the effects now, nearly a century later. Their father was dead. Verin and Essek were Verin and Essek.

After the disappointment of never having gone through the anamnesis faded Verin realized he was glad he was who he was, without the weight of a past he had not truly lived superimposed on his own. He was glad to be a start, glad to be himself. He would not have it any other way, even if others would.

But then, Verin hadn’t ever been designated shoes to fill. It was a different story for Essek. Almost as soon as he came into the world there had been so much speculation about who Essek could or would be. He was brilliant, hit every milestone early, and was a magic prodigy. It made people think he might be their mother’s first born ever, her daughter Nadzieja, who had been a Dunamis genius, one of the first Chronurgists, and already dead for 16 years when Essek was born.

When Essek turned out to be a Podróżująca Dusza, one of those whose soul had traveled to a body of a different sex, causing sex of body and gender of soul to be mismatched, people were even more certain he was a soul Returned.

Nearly every single Returned Soul had traveled at one point or another. Some Returned Souls embraced the sex of the body they’d been given, the Thelyss brothers’ father had apparently always done this; in his first life he had been a woman in all ways, just as he had been a man when he fathered Verin and Essek. Some kept their bodies but assumed their former gender. Others went through chemical and surgical interventions proudly invented and honed by the Kryn. When a soul took on their old gender the body’s sex was quickly disregarded, like much of their lives before the anamnesis including name and family.

The mismatch wasn’t always proof someone was a Returned Soul, but it so often was that, when coupled with Essek’s genius, it seemed impossible he should be some lowly New Soul. The most likely candidate became the Umavi’s grandson, Nadzieja’s first child, another skilled wizard who had died most recently two years before Essek’s birth. The Umavi had been positive Essek was Nadzieja and then just as confident he was her son. Either way the den was eager to welcome a lost member back into the world of the living.

But Essek never experienced the anamnesis, much to the dismay of the den and especially the Umavi and their father. Their parents paid for any and all of the gender confirming procedures and treatments Essek desired in the hopes of jumpstarting the anamnesis. They helped him not to make Essek happy and comfortable, but to make him become somebody else. It didn’t work, obviously, because his prior life did not exist. So Essek became Essek, made only more Essek for their attempts to transform him.

There had never been anything special about Verin. He wasn’t especially smart, magically gifted, or quick to learn. He had no particular skill that he immediately excelled in. He wasn’t even exceptionally strong or athletic back then. He hadn’t led so much as a squad. So there wasn’t any heated and excited speculation around Verin. He simply drifted from childhood to adulthood, from his buried boyhood name to Verin. Not regarded enough to be much of a disappointment. He was infinitely glad he didn’t have to disappoint anyone. The dismay Essek was greeted with for being himself was almost certainly when and why Verin’s last droplet of lingering envy of his older brother had evaporated.

By the time Essek and Verin were born their mother had had a very long run of giving birth to Returning Souls. New Souls were not highly sought after so it was considered good luck on her part, especially when she brought back nieces, granddaughters, sisters, or her previous children; members of Den Thelyss, in other words, and often important ones. She had adopted children when her biological ones turned out to be from other dens, young adults who already had some accomplishments to speak of that she could hone and utilize.

Deirta Thelyss’s body was only around 100 when her elder son of this lifetime was born, while that was only the very cusp of adulthood it had still been hundreds of years since she’d even had a young child in her home and even longer since one had been a New Soul. She had fallen out of practice raising children, especially ones that never showed even the hint of prior knowledge, Essek’s precociousness aside.

She rarely spent much time with her children. As Umavi her religious and political duties came before her home life. But that was the sacrifice an Umavi had to make. When she was home she was…distant. More an observer than a nurturer. She checked in and regarded Verin’s progress with an unfeeling eye and occasional tight smile. He often suspected the Umavi was never able to love or attend to her children much. She couldn’t show them special favor just because they were hers directly, just because of connection of bone or soul. She had to love so many different people, she had a whole den to care for, a whole dynasty to serve. Verin told himself it was admirable that she was able to stay so neutral. Although the darkest, most selfish part of his mind sometimes whispered to him that it wasn’t.

Not being an Umavi, their father had been a little more attentive on the rare occasions he was not in Bazzoxan. Obviously he, too, had obligations, an entire city to serve, but that was nothing like the responsibility of Umavi. He was on his fifth lifetime rather than their mother’s ninth, he had fewer children, Verin and Essek were the first biological children their father had had with their mother, which was probably why he paid any attention to Verin at all, the novelty of him, although Verin appreciated the effort. When their father was in Rosohna he usually spent more time with his wife than their children. But when his focus shifted he had opinions about how they should have been raised and what they should have been learning. That had caused friction between their father and Essek from the very beginning. He liked Verin’s physical potential, sparring with him, training him. Still like many children in Noble Dens the Thelyss brothers were raised largely by a retinue of servants and priests.

Verin finished lighting the candles, muttering the customary prayers aloud. The last step was igniting the incense in the dodecahedron censers that hung from high twisting holders on either side of the altar. The smell was immediate and intense. It made Verin suspect that servants had replaced the incense just before his arrival in the Umavi’s optimistic hope that he still prayed. He didn’t. This was the first time he’d come close to actual prayer since moving out of the Lucid Bastion. The only times he had even been to a service since arriving in Bazzoxan was during holidays when he was needed to perform in his role as ruler of the city. “Perform” was the keyword; it was all a show.

Unlike Essek, Verin believed in the Luxon’s sentience and the potential of its divinity (although that he was far less confident in). However, regardless of its godly status and unlike his mother, Verin did not think the Luxon ever got involved in the lives of mortals. So he didn’t feel particularly obligated to get involved in its.

The heady smoke filled the room with its distinct and unmistakable smell, it overtook Verin, and he was overwhelmed by a wave of nostalgia so powerful it nearly knocked him flat on his overly sentimental ass. There was nothing on earth that smelled like Hall Thelyss’s incense; every Umavi had her preferred herbal cocktail and try as he might, Verin still could not dissect what went into his mother’s. Light, he had spent much of his first century in this room, breathing this smoke.

Essek stopped praying far earlier than Verin did. When they carried out their obligatory daily prayers young Essek had smuggled his books in with him so he could continue to work while looking like he was following the Umavi’s dictated routine to those outside. He’d done it for decades and never had it seemed sinister until now.

Verin found his old prayer cushion where it was stored among those of the Umavi’s other children, each and every one embroidered with the child’s name (as it was then, the names they were given rather than the ones they chose or had chosen in lifetimes before) and a different animal, made by the master tailor of Den Thelyss. He moved it close to the wall that the chapel shared with Essek’s room, just to give himself more space. He got comfortable on the old worn thing, closed his eyes, and breathed in the familiar smell for a half moment more.

Then he cast Manifest Echo.

He was not especially magically inclined. Of course he could innately cast the spells all drow could. When they were children Essek had taken great pains to teach him how to float, which must have been a laborious process for his brother. Verin long thought magic that relied on more than his natural abilities was beyond him and didn’t interest him much anyway. He didn’t understand Dunamancy like Essek did, nor did he care to, it seemed to be somehow complicated and boring while also being existentially horrifying.

However, he was still a Thelyss, he should have realized something — Dunamis, the Luxon, whatever — flowed through his veins. Verin proved to be one of the finest Echo Knights in the Dynasty despite being only 112. Essek was always hailed as a prodigy, but this was another thing Verin learned he was above-average at only after joining the Aurora Watch and separating from his exceptional family.

If one combined magic and physicality it became far easier to understand and actualize. He still didn’t think he felt the same pull of Dunamis as some others in his family did, the same zing in his blood, he couldn’t smell magic on the air, he didn’t hear the Luxon calling out to him. But he had become good at utilizing timelines. As good at it and as tricksy as the Thelyss name promised. That was how he taught himself to cast his Echos into places he couldn’t see. That was one of his greatest additions to the craft, although he wasn’t sure he could teach it if he tried. He didn’t think anyone else knew he could do it, certainly no one in the capital. It started as a way to overcome his sizable blind spot, but recently he had managed to cast it through walls.

Verin carefully pictured exactly where in Essek’s room he would drop his Echo. Then he cast. Casting Resonant Echo felt a little like something was pulled from him in the direction he envisioned, a sharp tug then the loss of tension, like a rope snapping. He could feel his Echo touch ground, something like the sensation of Water Walk or walking on quicksand, but also distant and dull; the reflection of feeling. As soon as he felt the Echo settle Verin switched places with it, an act too quick for sensation once one got used to the rather jarringly abrupt change in scenery.

Essek was in motion as his vision cleared, and Verin realized his brother was moving somewhere Verin could see him without turning his head. He was sitting on his couch, but the state of his hair made Verin think he must have been lying down before his Echo appeared. The fact that Essek wasn’t furiously trying to put every curl back in place made Verin’s heart wrench.

“Hello, Verin. That is a very impressive trick,” Essek said, voice solemn. He sat now on the edge of the lounge, one leg dangling in front of him, the other folded so that his bare foot rested on the side of his thigh. Most striking was Essek’s missing mantle and cloak. His whole form had changed and demystified; pulled from the shadows and once again made flesh and blood. Verin had forgotten how small his brother was, how thin and scrawny and fragile he appeared.

He didn’t know what he wanted to say, or what he planned on saying, but what came out of his mouth was: “What the fuck, Essek?” Verin kept his voice as quiet as possible, or rather as quiet as he could manage. Essek winced like Verin had struck him, ears low. “Tell me it isn’t true! It can’t be true!”

Essek didn’t look at him. His hands knotted on his daybed. “I am a cruel and selfish creature,” he said in a soft, choked voice.

Verin’s heart broke. His worst fears were materializing. “I need you to say it,” he said.

“It’s true. I stole the Beacons,” Essek said, but the words were barely audible. He looked up at Verin for only a moment, violet eyes flitting to his face and then away again, much like their mother’s had at the same admission of Essek’s guilt but with regret and sorrow rather than disgust and rage. He wasn’t lying, Verin was sure of it.

Verin’s whole world shook; that stubborn hope that this was a mistake was snatched from him. His stomach collapsed through the floor. There was a long pause in which Essek buried his face in his hands and Verin struggled to think of what to say. ‘Why?’ was on the tip of his tongue but he wouldn’t ask that out loud. He couldn’t. There wasn’t an answer he wanted to hear. He didn’t think there was an answer he could stand to hear.

“They’re going to kill you, brother,” Verin said, flatly. ‘And you may well deserve it,’ he thought and did not say.

Both Thelyss brothers knew all about executions. And now Verin couldn’t help but picture Essek’s neck giving way to a sword. It was a soul-crushing thought, more so even than his own death, and it was so very real.

Essek was crying almost silently. Essek was crying. Essek hadn’t cried in years, not since they were young children. It was a habit the Umavi’s children had to be broken of early on. It was a weakness enemies could use, those who sought their approval could manipulate, and a distraction that one could not afford in either the wilds of the Xhorhasian Wastes or the Kryn court. A Thelyss was to be a calm reflection of the unwavering Light. While Verin had since learned that crying was sometimes good or even necessary, Essek had taken a role in politics where that sort of sensitivity would never be allowed. Seeing him like this felt raw and real and almost shameful.

Essek had done terrible things, such was the nature of his position, both professionally and socially. But Verin had never thought of Essek as being capable of something like this. Be the horrific truth as it may have been, Verin still could not see this man as anyone but Essek — a twisted little bastard, but still his brother and one of his dearest friends. Seeing Essek cry he thought that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t entirely wrong. Or maybe Verin was just a stubborn optimist.

“I know,” Essek said, his voice hoarse and choked. “I deserve it.”

“You can’t die,” Verin said, knowing it was true. It was selfish, it was wrong, it was not how he should have acted. Essek should not be special just because he was Verin’s brother and friend. But he was. He was and how couldn’t he be? “You owe me another 600 years,” Verin tried to joke but his broken voice betrayed his true terror. “I will not let you die,” he said, allowing the crumbling façade of lightheartedness to collapse and fall away entirely.

Essek stared at Verin in disbelief. “You—no!”

“‘No’?!” Verin repeated.

“No! I am not worth it. Don’t you realize what I said?! I killed thousands of innocent people! I broke the cycle! I started the war! You should be furious, you should hate me! I sent men you trained and loved to their early graves! If the Nein hadn’t stepped in…” Essek looked at the floor again, shivered in self-disgust, and held himself, hands over elbows.

Verin could not let the visions Essek called upon cross his mind. He could not consider the gravity of what Essek did nor the lives lost because of his heartlessness. Verin couldn’t afford those doubts. He couldn’t let the weight of Essek’s actions cause him to break down yet. He could lose faith in Essek’s compassion and common empathy once he was safe from retribution. He could break down and crumble to dust once Essek was out of the country. He could hate Essek for the rest of his life and every life to come once he was sure his brother would live the rest of his natural one.

“Why don’t you hate me?” Essek asked in a pathetic voice.

“I don’t know, I only know that I do not,” Verin answered.

Verin was a person. He had feelings and they ran deep as anyone’s. But Verin was also a soldier and a damn good one. He was the youngest Taskhand to control Bazzoxan in centuries and he kept it safer than the last two leaders ever had, including his own father. He had been made a commander at 102. A Taskhand at 109. But Verin had not heard a word about nepotism since the week after he assumed command in Bazzoxan. He upheld the law in the most lawless city in the Dynasty. He was an Echo Knight of the Kryn Dynasty, a Taskhand, protector against the Abyss, defender at the Umbra Gates. He could not have done any of it if he had not been able to shut off and compartmentalize his thoughts and feelings. He could put away anything from a bleeding wound to treason, if need be.

And need be.

Once he made the decision that he would not think about the truth of Essek’s crime or guilt until his brother was saved he took a practiced breath. Let his mind go blank. Calmed his heart. Okay. Time to get to work.

“What are you doing for your defense?” Verin asked, looking back at his brother.

“My what?” Essek asked.

“Defense, Essek! Mother said you pled guilty, but there must be something we can do.”

“There isn’t.”

“You’re a prodigy! We can think of something together!”

“No,” Essek said firmly.

“Why not?!” Verin demanded, becoming increasingly angry. “Why the fuck are you so eager to die?!”

“I am not eager to die!” Essek shot back. “I am eager for others to live!”

“What are you talking about?” Verin frowned, confused.

“I will not bring those who would try to redeem me under scrutiny,” Essek said, “they do not deserve the Dynasty coming down against them.”

“You’re doing this for your friends…” Verin said, eyes going wide.

“Yes,” said Essek.

“They didn’t have anything to do with this, did they?” Verin asked cautiously. He hadn’t considered it before, but he was now.

“No!” Essek looked offended on their behalf. “They would never!”

“People are saying your paramour was a protegé of the Cerberus Assembly. You see how bad this looks.”

“Then you see why I will not allow them to get involved,” said Essek. Verin did. No one would believe that they hadn’t assisted Essek in some way.

“They’ve already tried to get involved,” Verin pointed out. “They were attempting to get an audience with the Bright Queen, I hope on your behalf.”

“They did, I know. I received a Sending telling me as much,” Essek said.

“And?”

“And I called them idiots and told them to go home,” said Essek. “They did not listen, but the Queen would not honor their request regardless.”

“Then they didn’t try hard enough!” Verin said frustratedly.

Essek glared at him. “I was the Queen’s advisor for years and she only listened to me occasionally. I know they did their best.”

Verin sighed in annoyance. “I’ll find them, we’ll get you out of here, just promise to disappear.”

Essek shook his head. “No, you will not. Instead I’ll do my penance and they’ll be able to stay on the right side of the Bright Queen and the Dynasty.”

“Do your—! You aren’t ‘doing penance’! You’re dying, Essek! You are being put to death!”

“The position of the Mighty Nein is tenuous, but they are innocent. If I accept my fate the Nein will never even know anyone even suspected them. If we were to run away they, too, would have the Kryn Dynasty hunting for them. I will not allow that.”

“That is incredibly selfless,” said Verin. He could hardly believe this was Essek saying these things.

Essek let out a sound that was almost a bitter laugh. “They have taught me well.” His whole body was knotted up where he sat on the lounge. After a pause he spoke without looking at Verin. “I am truly and desperately trying to be a better person. I do not deserve to be forgiven, but I am trying to be better. The Mighty Nein have made me realize…they have made me realize so many things and the least I can do is ensure they do not suffer for my heartless actions,” his voice cracked as he spoke, unlocking an arm from the deathgrip on his elbows to wipe the tears from his eyes. “I do not want you to suffer either, Verin. I mean this. Do not do anything foolish. Not for my sake.”

“I won’t,” Verin said.

“Swear to me,” Essek said firmly.

Verin paused for a half a second before saying, “I swear on my very life.”

He may not have been smart or savvy enough to be a Thelyss, but damn he could still lie like one.

As far as the Umavi knew there had been no contact between Verin and Essek. She had congratulated him on his restraint at dinner. It made sense, the version of events Omrifar and the servants handed down was that Verin went into his chapel and then left it later with the altar used. She was proud of him or at least as proud as she could be for such a minor thing and Verin wasn’t going to waste those good graces. She hadn’t objected to him going for a walk and visiting some friends in the Firmaments after dinner when he proposed it.

He hadn’t specified they were Essek’s friends. But that was semantics really.

Verin adjusted the hood of his expensive wool cloak, which fit in when walking the Firmaments better than any Aurora Watch uniform, even that of an officer. He tried to keep the left side of his face and its distinct scar hidden. He was dressed clandestinely and under his cloak he had ridded himself of any but the most basic armor. While the cloak marked him as a member of the elite, he’d removed any distinct markings and jewelry, any identifiers of Den Thelyss or the Aurora Watch. He wore his hair differently. But symbology or none, scar or no, regardless of the style of his hair, there was a chance he would be recognized. Best thing to do was to get off the street as quickly as possible.

He stood across from the home, taking it in, scoping it out. The property had been in the Thelyss family for centuries. Verin had seen and been in the residence dozens of times, but now it was nearly unrecognizable.

According to the Watchmen Verin had interviewed, the Mighty Nein called it the “Xhorhaus” and they had torn it apart. They installed a hot tub. They grew a tree through the roof of the turret. They hung lights and sometimes had loud discordant concerts. They appeared and disappeared at all times of day or night. The house often leaked smoke or echoed with explosions. Needless to say the Mighty Nein were not ideal neighbors and the Aurora Watch had been called in on a noise complaint or two, much to the chagrin of nearly everyone involved. The Mighty Nein had never been terribly intimidated. Once the officers were actually given cookies, although the watchmen in question told Verin it was unclear to them if the pink-punk-cow-man meant it as a bribe, a power-play, or if he was just being nice.

What was now, apparently, the Xhorhaus had been standing unoccupied since before Verin was born. This was the first time it didn’t look haunted, or more accurately the opposite of that: it didn’t look empty and hollow, a lonely monument to a soul yet to return. Whenever he had visited it it felt like a museum. It looked warm now, lived in, comfortable…if unhinged. Verin thought he would have more feelings about it later, when he could properly appreciate the difference. Right now he was hellsbent and single-minded in his dedication to saving Essek; there wasn’t room for much else, certainly not waxing poetic on architecture.

Verin looked both ways down the street for what must have been the dozenth time, scanned the rooftops for the tenth, making sure it was still deserted and no inquiring eyes had found him. It was as quiet and unassuming as the street tended to be, mostly empty of life, completely empty of interested parties. Some of the windows of the gated homes shimmered with lamplight in the perpetual twilight. The residents were probably enjoying their evenings, and for a moment Verin felt the stab of jealousy, sharp and painful as any dagger, at the normalcy they could enjoy. None of them had traitorous brothers waiting for the sword. He chastised himself for his emotions, he could not allow them to get in the way. He had to be a Thelyss.

There was no point in standing around and feeling sorry for himself; self-pity never solved anything, only action did. It certainly would not help his anxiety. With that reminder to himself he crossed to the Xhorhaus and easily slipped past the gate.

He was about to meet Essek’s Mighty Nein. It was funny, he had been so eager to meet Essek’s friends less than 24 hours ago, but he could not think of worse circumstances to do so. Well, one: Essek’s funeral. He tried to force that thought from his head, knocked on the door, and waited. There wasn’t an immediate response. Verin anxiously shifted his weight. In the back of his head Verin knew that delay could easily be due to the size of the house, but he was already knocking again by the time the thought fully formed. On Verin’s sixth knock the door was finally opened to the gentle sound of chimes.

He was greeted by a column of strange faces. The first was very near the top of the door, well over Verin’s head, and belonged to the cookie-baker. This was the pink-and-gray cow-man anomaly Verin had heard so much about from the Watch. He now understood why no one quite knew what to call this person, Verin had never even heard of a race that looked like this person did and seeing him in flesh and bone did nothing to untangle the knotted mystery of his identity. If anything Verin was more confused.

Below…Verin would just call him “Pink” since he hadn’t gotten a name from anyone…but still far taller than Verin, was Kalla’s half-orc with the small tusks. Although Verin didn’t know much about half-orc physiology they were notably short. His skin was the sort of mottled blueish and pale green that some orcs had in warmer climes rather than the browner solid green more common in Xhorhas. His hair was dark and streaked with gray and white, his beard (unusual among Dynastic orcs) was full and likewise salt-and-pepper. Verin knew his name, or may have, Fort or Ford or Fourth, a Common word starting with an ‘F-O.’

Finally, around the same height as Verin’s waist, was the brown-skinned and brown-haired halfling — or the “not-goblin” as she was sometimes called. The halfling was the first of her kind Verin could remember encountering, but at least Verin had a word in his vocabulary to describe her, unlike Pink.

Pink looked down at Verin with a benign expression, long-pupiled eyes radiating a sort of simple calm. The halfling looked up at Verin with exactly the opposite expression: intelligent, sharp, and skeptical to a threatening degree.

“Good evening,” Verin said with a fake smile. His was never as unassuming nor as phony as Essek’s. It was less efficient in masking his true feelings, but also less threatening. He hoped it would do the job, because he certainly couldn’t muster a real one at the moment. “May I come in?” he added when nobody moved.

“No,” said the halfling (Knot? Was that right? Surname with a ‘B’), “go away!”

Seeing her expression Verin carefully slid his foot in the door’s frame so she could not slam it on him. She immediately tried to kick his boot out of the way but Verin was far stronger; he did not even flinch at either her first attempt or the second that shortly followed. She glared harder at him.

“What she means to say, friend, is that we’re a little busy at the moment,” said the half-orc in a casual if terse tone. Meanwhile the halfling was loading a crossbow.

“I believe we are working on the same project,” said Verin, trying to be as subtle as the half-orc. They were playing the same game here and on the same team. Best not to give anyone possibly listening in any ideas while making them understand.

The halfling stopped. She had been about to fire her crossbow into Verin’s boot, but paused, looking up at Verin, even more disbelieving. The half-orc’s big scarred hand flexed on the door like he was considering slamming it shut. There was a tense moment.

“Guys,” said Pink almost scoldingly, “I think we can let his brother help.”

“Wait, what? Fuck, what? Are you?” asked the half-orc, looking from Pink to Verin.

Verin bowed his head to show respect without giving up his literal footing. “Taskhand Verin of Den Thelyss, martial leader of Bazzoxan, Dynastic defender against the Abyss, and guardian of the Umbra Gates.”

“Oh shit!” said the halfling, jumping back.

The half-orc stepped back and Pink held the door open for Verin. “Come in,” Pink said and smiled even if his affect remained unchanged; calm, steady.

Verin did come in. The halfling stood just beyond the mudroom, Pink closed and locked the door, actions which were normal enough. Less normal was that without a word the half-orc summoned a glowing sword, his eyes shining blue for a moment. Verin stared. He felt the cold, blood-draining fear that came when witnessing unknown power, but he quickly tried to squash it; if Essek trusted these people, so did Verin.

At the same time Pink said, “he’s just figuring out if you were followed.” The sword disappeared as quickly as it had come and blue eyes returned to yellow. Seemingly nothing to worry about.

Verin glanced up at Pink, continuing to marvel. He must have been over seven feet tall…taller than Verin first thought because, he realized, Pink had some truly horrific posture. Even bugbears were not this tall and they certainly weren’t so bony. His ears were a little longer than Verin’s, but stuck out to the sides more and had rounded tips. One was pierced and the single hole was stretched wide open. He had choppy pink hair on his head, cut to about the length of his chin. His skin itself was gray but had a dusting of white fur on top almost like that on a peach, besides his nose which was pink, bare, and blunt against his skull. There were thatches of longer, thicker pink fur or hair on the back of his hands leading up his arms and on the tops of his huge bare feet and exposed ankles. Verin realized he had a tail, which was longer than Verin’s arm. It also had a trail of thicker fur that ended in a pink tuft. His eyes were pink as well, and he was the only one of the three gathered who didn’t have an extra eyelid crease, making his eyes hooded more like Verin’s, Essek’s, and the Dynasty’s native drow population. There were other places in the world, obviously, that also didn’t have an extra fold and not knowing them all this trait did little to help Verin pin down where this man came from or what he was. Verin wondered if this person was some kind of giant-kin. He’d met giants, and he knew there were medium-sized elfoid species of large proportions who were descendents of them.

Pink was certainly more striking and more interesting than the halfling, who was watching Verin with a very different expression now that she knew his identity. Verin wasn’t sure what this expression meant, but it was different. It was calculating with something hungry that made Verin a little concerned. Her ears were far shorter than an elf’s, but came to points, though the points were not as severe as his kind’s. She could not have been more than three feet tall, smaller than most goblins Verin had met. She had a pierced septum, aquamarine tattoos swirling around her razor keen brown eyes, and her hair was in braided twin tails. Soft, was a good word for her, Verin thought. Besides her demeanor, which was sharper than a blade.

Verin went to step out of the entry hall after the halfling, but Pink put his blunt-nailed hand on Verin’s shoulder. Verin tensed, his hand flicked toward the hilt of the short sword at his hip but he stopped himself before it got there. The less explanation this took the better. The maybe-giant-kin did raise his eyebrows at him; even if he did nothing about it, he obviously noticed.

“Sorry. Reflex,” Verin explained with a weak smile.

“It’s okay, some people are jumpy,” said Pink, “but we’re all friends here, I promise.”

“If Essek hasn’t already told you, Deuces’s promises are worth a great deal,” said the half-orc.

He hadn’t, but there hadn’t been much time between reconnecting and Essek getting arrested. And unless they were between close members of the same den, promises were not something taken very seriously in the Noble Dens, perhaps even less so in the three Ruling ones. It had surprised and bemused Verin when he first interacted with soldiers of lower dens or without dens at all who kept their promises to friends and strangers rather than breaking them and maybe seeking indulgences if need be. Some people didn’t need the structure of their den and fear of the Luxon holding them to morality. He had loved that fact immediately, that there were people in this world who wanted to be trustworthy and honest rather than sneaky and secretive. He was glad that Essek had learned it as well.

“Aw, hey, thanks!” said Deuces(?) Then he looked back to Verin, “I just wanted to ask if you’d take off your boots.” Verin looked from the giant to his shoes and back. “We just washed the floors,” Pink explained. “Twice actually. There was a lot of hair we needed to clean up, gets everywhere, you understand.”

“...Yes,” said Verin, who did only in the vaguest sense. “Yes, of course, my sincerest apologies.” He wondered if they knew how rare it was for a member of a Noble Den, much less a Ruling Den, to be even that undressed in most circumstances. In the Low Dens and the commons it was the norm to remove your shoes on entry, but the aristocrats set themselves apart. The idea was that the Kryn came from slaves, barefoot and dressed in rags and they would never return to it.

Deuces shrugged, “no big deal.”

Verin found himself surprised by the casualness of this meeting. His mind had clicked entirely into battle mode. He had one mission and would not rest until it was done and that was to rescue Essek. He had entered this specific mindset and could not escape it even when he was entering a civilian home. He jerkily knelt and untied his shoes. The halfling and half-orc disappeared, and if he remembered the floorplan correctly they were going upstairs.

“Do you want me to hang up your cloak?” Deuces asked, making no movement to leave Verin.

“Uh, yes, fine,” said Verin, unclasping it. “Thank you.”

“Still not a problem,” he said, taking the cloak from him.

“Where are the rest of you?” Verin asked as the giant-kin hung the cloak on a high hook.

“The war room,” said Deuces, turning back to Verin.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Verin muttered, “Essek has caused enough wars.”

“Fair enough. Let’s just say it’s where we plan our plans that never really go to plan,” said Deuces, “but ‘War Room’ is much catchier.”

“True.” Verin gestured for the giant-kin to walk ahead of him, “lead the way, Deuces, was it…?”

“Sure. You can call me that if you want.”

“I want to call you by your name,” said Verin.

“It’s Clay. Caduceus Clay. Caduceus of clan Clay,” he said mimicking the form of Verin’s introduction without hint of irony or taunt.

“Caduceus, then,” Verin clarified.

Caduceus gave him a huge and fuzzy okay sign as Verin followed him up the stairs. They came to a doorway and Caduceus stopped short. He reached for the knob, stopped, and glanced over at Verin, “I’m sorry in advance about everybody’s manners.”

“I’m certain I have encountered worse,” Verin assured Caduceus Clay.

“I’m certain you haven’t,” said Caduceus as he opened the door wide.

When the door swung open seven sets of eyes immediately flicked to Verin and seven voices went silent. Verin was a soldier, he was a Taskhand, he was the martial leader of a wild city, but he had never been under a more intense scrutiny besides that which he met in the Bright Queen’s throne room. But Verin was a Thelyss, Thelysses were unstoppable, and he would prove it.

Chapter Text

The Mighty Nein were mostly gathered in the War Room, the exception being, of course, Essek Thelyss, imprisoned and awaiting execution. Thus far the remainder’s attempts to come up with a rescue plan had been mostly fruitless. The majority of what they had gathered could not be actualized and was tossed aside. Tension was growing with each rejection, but thus far they had all remained relatively calm and the arguments had yet to draw even metaphoric blood. But it was getting closer with each pass.

It wasn’t really their fault that the idea harvest was as bad as it was. There wasn’t much to work with. A handful of them had gone into the Lucid Bastion and come back with bupkis. They were deflected from the Bright Queen and her nobles of any significant rank, instead being diverted and tossed between bureaucrats. They hadn’t even managed to get a good lay of the greater Lucid Bastion’s land. They had only ever been in a tiny fraction of the immense citadel and this outing hadn’t given them much more. Caleb had hoped at the very least that they could sneak off, eavesdrop, or lie their way into finding out where Essek was being held, but they were still mostly in the dark. The only clues they had were what Essek had given them in the Sendings. They knew he was going to die and that he was presently comfortable and safe, the latter ruling out the Dungeon of Penance. The only other stronghold in the city was the Lucid Bastion and Caleb had hoped to work out where a prisoner might be held there. But he hadn’t. Or rather he hadn’t narrowed it down at all, there was still an entire citadel. There were few feelings Caleb hated more than being thwarted, but the danger it posed to Essek made it so much worse.

Essek’s stubborn refusal to aid in his own escape was annoying and unhelpful. It was also very in character. In the past, in Aeor and the Cognoza, Essek had gone to great lengths to keep them safe, this was a logical escalation. He didn’t want them getting in trouble for freeing him. Caleb wondered if he would have had the courage to do the same, protect his friends even if it meant his life. He also wasn’t sure it was courage. He was calling it courage to be charitable. The world needed Essek Thelyss’s brilliance more than it needed the Mighty Nein to remain in the Dynasty’s good books. He respected Essek too much to call him an idiot. Out loud, at least.

They had been hard at work when the increasingly urgent knocking came. Fjord, Veth, and Caduceus went to deal with the door and Caleb stared at the mostly empty chalkboard, hoping that whoever it was could be dealt with quickly. Jester said that maybe the visitor had good news about Essek, but Caleb had very little hope of that. He was too badly burned by reality for baseless optimism.

Jester reminded them they had a good track record for miracles lately. Caleb’s eyes flitted over to Mollymauk where he was draped over Yasha’s lap. Caleb desperately hoped that there was a miracle left in the universe, but when it was proven that there wasn’t, only the Nein’s own ability, care, and intellect could save Essek. Which meant he was indispensable to the process.

Both Beauregard and Caleb were standing in front of the chalkboard, both holding chalk. Jester was at the table, sketchbook open in front of her, the page filled with both relevant and irrelevant pencil illustrations. Then there was Yasha criss-cross-apple-sauce on the floor with Molly draped perpendicularly across her lap both looking up at the chalkboard like schoolchildren with varying degrees of attentiveness.

Veth was the first one to return from downstairs, throwing open the door hard enough for it to bounce off the wall. “It’s him and he’s hot as fuck!”

“Who?” Yasha asked, turning as best she could to look at Veth over the tabletop. Veth could probably only be able to see Yasha’s mane of white hair, contrasting eyes, and the narrow bridge of her nose.

“Verin?!” Caleb and Jester asked at the same time. They were in on the Thelyss bet and thus were, unsurprisingly, quickest to decode who she was talking about.

“Yes!” Veth said as Fjord came in and closed the door behind him.

“Did you tell them?” he asked.

“Yeah, she told us! Where is he?!” Jester asked, reaching out for Fjord.

“I think Caduceus is bracing Verin for us,” said Fjord as he crossed over to her. He took her hand, kissed it, and sat beside her.

“Why? We’re fucking delightful!” said Veth, offended.

“I can’t imagine,” said Fjord dryly.

“Did he just walk up and introduce himself?” asked Beauregard. “‘Hi, I want to break Essek out of prison, by the way I’m Verin?’”

“Not exactly. We were all being very subtle and sneaky but Cad figured it out pretty fast,” said Veth.

“He’s good at that,” said Fjord.

“At what? Finding lost relatives?” asked Veth.

Fjord gestured vaguely at her, “you know what I mean, he’s good at knowing things!” He blustered forward to stop any further commentary from Veth, “I’ve given Verin a once over with the Star Razor already. He’s clean.”

“Literally or metaphorically?” asked Yasha.

“Seems like both,” Fjord replied.

“Do you think he’s hot too, Fjord?!” Jester asked.

“Uh, he’s definitely some people’s type,” said Fjord, “but not really mine.”

“Handsome and ripped isn’t your type?” Veth asked. Fjord shrugged. “Anyway,” Veth added to the room, “I almost shot him.”

“Molly wants to know if you almost shot Verin or Fjord,” said Yasha, translating the tiefling’s intricate hand gestures. He hadn’t been talking much since this afternoon after Essek’s dire fate had been revealed. “Oh and he wants to say buff and handsome is his type.”

“Verin,” Veth said, then she cast a look over at Fjord, “but the night is still young.”

“Molly, everyone is your type!” Jester added, gently teasing. Caleb had been watching this conversation with growing annoyance. He didn’t know what was taking Caduceus and Verin so long, but they were wasting time that they didn’t necessarily have.

“This is all irrelevant!" said Caleb irritably, finally unable to stay mum. He now ran an eraser over the chalkboard, smearing the few useless bullet points Beauregard had written there. His stomach was churning thinking about Essek alone and in danger while they debated the relative attractiveness of drow.

“Joke’s on you, you ginger bastard, I have it all written in my notebook already,” said Beau.

“I don’t know why you would waste the page,” said Caleb under his breath.

“I’m sorry in advance for everybody’s manners,” said Caduceus on the other side of the door. Finally! Caleb knew it had been less than three minutes but it felt like hours.

“I’m certain I have encountered worse,” an unfamiliar Undercommon-accented voice replied.

“I’m certain you haven’t,” said Caduceus as he opened the door.

The drow who stepped through the portal was indeed very handsome, but Essek was far moreso. Under ordinary circumstances Caleb would be taking no chances — friend or foe. He would be working out the reach of the sword at Verin’s hip and making note of the lack of component’s pouch or visible spell focus. Instead Caleb found himself cataloging the similarities and differences in the Thelyss brothers.

Essek was short and slight, though not terribly so by the standards of the rest of his race. Verin was tall for his kind. Both Thelyss brothers seemed to favor well-tailored clothing and possessed unfairly perfect physiques if in different directions. In build Verin was more Fjord or Eadwulf than Essek. He was nowhere near Wulf’s full adult height or Herculean build, but Caleb thought he may have been just short of the drow equivalent. Essek was slim, angular, poised. If Verin was built like a knight, Essek was built like a prince.

Verin’s hair was like Essek’s in texture and color, thick and the pristine bright white of virgin snow. Essek’s hair was cut short and razor precise while Verin’s was long, worn in a braid down his back and his bangs were in need of a trim. He had fewer earrings than Essek and Caleb had yet to see if Verin’s ears were as wonderfully expressive as Essek’s were. Although still more angular than a human’s he had a squarer jaw than Essek’s, more masculine and less regal. They had similar cheekbones, but Essek’s were more delicate and elegant. Like his face Verin’s nose was wider than Essek’s, but they had similar shapes. The brothers’ skin was the same shade of dusk purple but Verin did not have Essek’s cute dusting of star-white freckles. Caleb had a photographic memory, but he didn’t allow himself to consider why he had dedicated so much of it to Essek’s appearance. And his voice. And Essek in general.

Verin’s eyes were perhaps his most striking feature. They were monolidded like Essek’s, but so were Beau’s, Caduceus’s, and most of the Kryn drow, not terribly unique besides being different from Caleb’s own anatomy. Verin’s were an almost orange-yellow rather than Essek’s blue-violet. His gaze did not have the same haughty intensity as Essek’s as they swept over the room’s population. But he had the same keen glint that made it clear he was not just looking at them, but analyzing them. Caleb couldn’t blame him; after all, he was returning that particular favor.

What made Verin’s eyes striking was the sizable scar slashing diagonally across the left one, much larger than Beauregard’s scar of similar placement. Caleb had the sneaking suspicion Beau was probably already weirdly jealous of the semi-disfiguring mark. It looked old…or at least it was no longer healing and appeared faded at the edges. It was hard to say what ‘old’ meant with elves. Caleb wondered what monster below Bazzoxan had ripped Verin’s face open and marveled at the ability of the cleric who managed to save his eye. And it must have been a cleric, no mortal hands without magic aid could have fixed something that left a scar like that and leave him handsome and two eyed.

It was only a moment that Caleb and Verin Thelyss assessed one another, calculating, sizing each other up. Then Verin smiled charmingly to the room at large and went into a deep bow in the style of the Kryn royal court. “Thank you for allowing me into your home, dear friends of Essek. I am Taskhand Verin of Den Thelyss, martial leader of Bazzoxan, defender against the Abyss, guardian of the Umbra Gates, and brother in bone, blood, law, and soul to Essek Thelyss. It is an honor to meet the Heroes of the Dynasty and my brother’s personal friends.”

“He gave us almost the same introduction at the door,” said Veth, “but we didn’t get a bow.”

“That’s because I had to keep my foot in the door to stop you from slamming it on me,” said Verin, seemingly without malice.

“In her defense, we didn’t know who you were,” said Fjord, while Veth shrugged. Fjord was trying to look casual but he had stood up too quickly and knocked over his chair. Caduceus sighed, crossed to Fjord, and now righted it. “Thanks,” Fjord muttered.

“Anytime,” said Caduceus, straightening and dusting off his hands, then added, “and I knew who he was.”

“Yes, well, two-thirds of us didn’t know,” Fjord clarified.

“I swear on my den’s good name there are no hard feelings to be had,” Verin said. Then he clapped his hands together, “now, shall we go save my stupid prodigy brother?”

There was a new energy that went through the room with that, sounds of excitement, renewed hope. Caleb felt the corner of his lip twitch upward. Nine had always been their lucky number, after all.

Verin knew exactly where Essek was held, which was an immense relief, especially when he drew a map to the suite acting as Essek’s jury-rigged prison on the chalkboard. He was not the great artist compared to the tieflings though not as bad as the likes of Fjord or Yasha. It was clear the younger Thelyss drew battleplans, not portraits, and the floorplan for the first three floors of Hall Thelyss were easily readable. Verin spoke with the ease of a seasoned soldier, dire as the situation was he remained precise and articulate.

Verin also dropped the tidbit that Essek’s execution would be in three days as was the Will of the Bright Queen and the Luxon.

“Unless they do something to him between now and then,” said Caleb, his stomach roiling like a stormy sea, “or already have.”

“That is impossible,” said Verin confidently, hardly sparing a glance at him and away from the chalkboard

“And why is that?” asked Caleb. Seeing as Essek was sentenced to be executed without a trial he didn’t think anything could be given the benefit of the doubt here.

“Essek is destined to die on the date assigned and no earlier or later, it takes a lot of work to change a decree from the Queen. Her word is that of the Luxon and the Luxon is ineffable,” Verin explained.

That was perhaps the first reassuring thing Caleb had heard all day. It matched up to what Essek had said about the execution of Caleb’s Vollstrecker little sister weeks ago, when Essek warned him that his requests to the Queen would only go so far. The only reason the Vollstrecker hadn’t faced state execution was because she became an imminent physical threat.

“Three days at least gives us some wiggle room,” said Beau, visibly relaxing. “Why the Hell didn’t Essek just bamf away?”

“Yeah, he could’ve hid here!” said Jester. “Why wouldn’t he?”

It was an excellent question and one Caleb thought they all must have had even if they didn’t say it aloud. Sure, Essek didn’t want them to break the law to save him, but why not do it himself? It was certainly one that the bleakest corners of Caleb’s mind continually answered. With news of Essek’s capture Caleb had feared the worst: a silencing collar, a Feeblemind spell (although his ability to communicate with Jester slightly dissuaded Caleb of that fear), chaining him to a wall, destroying his spellbook, breaking his fingers, cutting out his tongue. Caleb did not expect the reality to be more heartbreaking than his darkest thoughts.

Verin gave them a mirthless smile, “Ah, there inlies the problem. He’s trying to protect all of you.”

“From what?!” demanded Fjord. He sounded almost offended, probably because of what they had just achieved on the Astral Plane. Some of the party were still riding that wave of having saved the world and their friend last week.

“The Bright Queen. If he vanished she would strike at you immediately with the strength of her crown.”

“That selfless piece of shit!” Beauregard growled. “If he gets himself killed for us I’ll never forgive him!”

“Shut up, Beau!” said Jester, her voice was choked and there was an Infernal growl in it, sharper than Caleb had ever heard it outside of her speaking the actual language. Jester cared about Essek deeply, perhaps nearly as deeply as Caleb did.

“He’s trying to keep you on the right side of the law and he cannot be talked out of it,” said Verin. “I tried.”

“Fuck the law!” said Beauregard. “It’s fucking barbaric here! No offense, hon,” she added, quickly glancing over at Yasha.

Yasha shrugged, “it’s okay.”

Verin’s expression hardened, “I hope you are prepared to defend what you say.”

“Yeah, gladly!” snapped Beau, “Essek isn’t even getting a fucking trial!”

That had been something the Mighty Nein discussed at length, that Essek already had a punishment lined up only hours after capture. It was disgraceful. Essek was one of the greatest minds in the world and was not able to speak in his own defense.

“Do you realize how messed up that is?! Even the Cerberus Assembly tries people!”

Verin’s expression softened. “So does the Kryn Dynasty. Surely you think more highly of us than that, Beau.”

“But Essek—”

“Essek waived his right to a trial,” Verin said.

There was a chorus of shocked responses that Caleb barely heard over his own “Was?! Warum?!” He was startled enough that he failed to translate the words in his head before they were out of his mouth.

Verin didn’t join the noise, instead he waited for the shock to die down. “I wasn’t present so some of the details are unknown to me, but from what I can gather, at the time of his arrest you were also indited in the robbery of the Luxon Beacons. Essek says you were not involved…” Verin scanned their faces again. Caleb forced himself to maintain eye contact as long as Verin held it.

“Of course we weren’t involved! All we knew when we brought your stupid Beacon back was that you needed it to make babies!” Jester crossed her arms and scowled, sounding irate.

Verin blinked, his expression tightening in confusion, then the scarred eyebrow arched upward. “Do you know what the Beacons do?”

“Kind of!” said Jester. “You need it to make babies again, whatever!”

“...That is a truly mad way of putting it…” said Verin, still taken aback and stunned into near silence.

“Allow me to reveal exactly how we came into possession of the Beacon,” said Caleb. “One evening a little over a year ago, a Kryn operative was sent into Zadash to retrieve the stolen Beacons. They did not get far. At the time we had no idea what the Luxon was, let alone its Beacons. We were dirty vagabonds with barely a copper to our names, trying to get by, and we simply took a strange object belonging to a corpse. We are guilty of robbery, but only of the dead. Essek Thelyss was utterly unknown to us. We met Essek the same day we met the Bright Queen and the rest of her court, the same day we stumbled in looking for my good friend’s husband and ended up being proclaimed heroes.”

Verin said nothing, whatever he was thinking was hidden behind his eyes.

“Consider this,” Caleb added, “if we were involved in the taking of the Beacons why would our entrance into the Lucid Bastion be so uncoordinated and stupid? We were nearly arrested before I presented the Beacon. Does that seem like something Essek would arrange?”

“We’re very lucky idiots,” said Fjord with a nod.

“You may be,” said Verin, a hand rubbing his chin contemplatively.

Beauregard cut in. “Wait a second, hang on, ‘may’? Before we keep going we need to know if you think we were in on Essek’s plan,” she spoke firmly and stared at Verin with the same intensity he’d given them.

“We do?” asked Fjord.

“We do,” replied Beauregard.

“Fair enough,” said Verin with a tired sigh. “I will not lie to you, at this point it wouldn’t matter to me either way. My brother is in danger and I would work with the fiends of the Abyss to save him.”

“We’re better than them, at least,” said Caduceus.

“Yes or no,” Beau said before Verin could reply to Caduceus. “Do you think we helped Essek steal the Beacons or not?”

There was a pause, a single second, then Verin answered. “No, I am confident in saying you did not. I wasn’t certain until Jester said that baby thing,” Verin nodded his head in her direction. “Essek professed your innocence and an arrogant part of me thinks I can tell when my brother lies...however, that clearly is untrue and I had heard certain rumors that concerned me greatly…” Caleb didn’t think he was imagining that Verin glanced at him. “But now having met you, you seem like good people and completely clueless about how the Beacons work. Essek has been obsessed with them for decades. He would have jabbered all about them at you if you were in on it.”

“Good, glad that’s settled,” said Beauregard. “‘Cause, you know, he lied to us too.”

“He only hid some stuff from us!” said Jester. “It’s different!”

“Dishonesty is dishonesty,” said Beauregard. At this point Caleb absolutely disagreed. He huffed noisily but Veth was louder.

“Oh shut up!” she said, “Essek’s exactly like all of us: a dishonest, selfish fuck-up with a screwed up past whose trying to be a better person. Not a single one of us was telling the truth when we first met! We all lied to each other for weeks and months!”

“Ahem,” said Caduceus from the couch.

“Fine, Caduceus never lied.”

“Me too!” said Jester.

“Right, yes, but it’s not like Caduceus and Jester even left their homes much before they met us!”

“I don’t think that means I would’ve lied,” muttered Caduceus.

Veth was right of course. Essek was like them, very much like Caleb. He meant it when he said the difference between them was thinner than a razor. When the truth came out so much of Essek’s story reminded him of his own past. They were both young, brilliantly intelligent, naïve, confident as cats, and above all things insatiably hungry for more. And that was why Caleb still hadn’t trusted Essek, because he wouldn’t have trusted Bren. (That and his commiting treason, Caleb was nothing if not loyal to his home.) During the exploration in Aeor and the fight that followed Essek had proven he was a better man than Bren, or even Caleb, for that matter. He would give everything for the Mighty Nein. And that was why now Caleb trusted Essek with his life and wanted Essek to be able to say the same about him.

“I don’t know anything about all of that,” said Verin, gesturing around at them, “However whatever Essek did to you pales in comparison to what he did to us, to Xhorhas, his home and motherland.”

“That’s…totally fair,” said Beauregard, her voice lowering in volume and pitch, she became the first one to look away, clearly feeling guilty.

“If anyone gets to second guess him it’s me. And I am not and will not,” said Verin. Which was his own strange choice, certainly. Caleb would have suspected Verin of leading them into a trap if he hadn’t been the first person Essek said he could trust and the closest thing he had to a friend before the Mighty Nein. He would trust Verin, but only because he trusted Essek.

“Besides, he is literally willing to die for us! Twice now!” Jester pointed out.

“Ja! You cannot discount that!” Caleb said over Verin’s confused “twice?” Caleb was glad for that; they didn’t have time to explain anything to Verin right now, let alone Lucien, the Somnovum, and the Cognoza. It could wait.

“Okay, okay! Gods, sorry! Forget it, move on,” said Beauregard, chewing the length of her pencil. “Verin, you were talking about Essek’s waiving his trial.” She still had her pencil in her mouth and was checking her notes, which allowed her not to look away from her accusers. Caleb thought that this was the only sort of situation when Aggressive Eye Contact Lionett would look away.

“From what Essek tells me, and no evidence points to the contrary, he is going to the sword so that no further questions will be asked about the Beacons’ theft. If he didn’t, all of you would have been brought in for interrogation to determine your roles. Which can get…aggressive,” said Verin.

“Oh we’re very aware of that,” said Veth, darkly.

“Fuck,” Beau muttered. And before Caleb could ask what the problem was she said, “timeline’s gonna have to shift, probably. How are they getting around the consecution thing?”

“What do you mean?” Verin asked, scowling again. Caleb was as confused as Verin seemed to be, because Verin should know exactly what Beauregard meant. The state religion revolved around consecution. The state religion the Ruling Dens upheld.

“We need to factor in their travel time because they need to take him beyond the Beacon’s range or he’ll just come back, right?” she said.

Verin stared then said, “are you under the impression that my brother is consecuted?”

That struck Caleb like a brick to the side of the head. In an instant it seemed like so much had changed that he felt dizzy from it, but in reality the timeline remained unaltered. This had always been true; Essek had never been consecuted. Caleb’s conception of Essek had been fundamentally wrong. This most basic fact, one of the first things Essek had ever told them, was not true at all. A transmutation of perception, an artful forgery of truth.

“Godsdammit!” said Beau, exasperatedly throwing her hands up, “can Essek be honest about anything?! Just one fucking thing!”

“He was honest about his heresy,” Caleb said firmly. He was only now realizing how much Essek had revealed to them that night. Knowing that Essek wasn’t consecuted showed just how little faith he had in the Luxon. He denied this rite of passage, seemingly a key part of growing up in the Noble Dens, he turned down immortality itself, because he lacked faith in what was held here as absolute. Caleb recognized that that night Essek came to dinner he had all but told them he had been the thief. He said he believed the Luxon was an inanimate artifact, made by wizards in the Age of Arcanum. He said he wanted to be allowed to experiment on the Beacons. Caleb didn’t know if Essek had beared his heart in order to gloat, if he’d wanted to be captured and punished, or, perhaps most likely, he had been gauging how his new friends would react.

And because of his own stupidity Caleb missed it.

He’d let Essek down.

“Essek told you he was consecuted?” Verin asked.

“Ja, he did,” said Caleb. “The night we met him, on the way to the Dim’s Inn.”

“That was a long time ago!” said Jester, as a means of his defence, “he didn’t trust us then!”

“Maybe he’s embarrassed?” said Yasha.

“He isn’t embarrassed,” said Verin with offhanded confidence. “Did you ask him if he was consecuted?”

“I don’t remember,” said Fjord.

“I don’t think so,” said Beauregard, flipping back through her notes.

“We did,” said Caleb firmly with the benefit of his keen mind.

“I thought you must have,” said Verin. “That would be the only reason I believe he’d mention it at all. No one knows the truth outside our immediate family. Even if Essek refused to be consecuted he still completed all the pageantry around it. It was a convincing spectacle. Afterward our Umavi and mother of bone swore all who knew to secrecy. This was one of the few orders she gave that Essek actually followed. Probably because it would have wreaked havoc not only on our den but also on his personal reputation if it got out. Our parents were furious that he hadn’t actually bound his soul to the Luxon, of course. Being imperfect, our father took it particularly hard.”

Our parents were furious…our father took it particularly hard.

I would say... ‘anger my father to a point where he went unprepared into the depths of Bazzoxan and didn’t return.’

Oh.

Essek’s “worst” thing made more sense now. It wasn’t just the rage he’d inspired in his father, it was the cause of that rage. Breaking the cycle of consecution, countering the trials of faith by refusing to take them on, choosing to die rather than follow the laws of the Luxon, disobeying the orders of the Umavi and undermining ageless tradition with his absence. It was an act that set up the crimes he’d since actualized. Essek had told the Nein so much that Caleb failed to see it. He’d been so wrapped up in his own life and his own thoughts he hadn’t seen how Essek was suffering. Essek had needed him and he failed the test. He would not fail twice.

Essek’s decision made perfect sense to Caleb. Had Caleb been Essek he would have gotten consecuted out of dedication to his den and the Kryn Dynasty at large, but somehow Essek did not hold such loyalties. Essek saw only an artifact and being consecuted would mean selling his soul to a great unknown. No one knew the mechanism, no one knew how a soul returned, no one knew what happened to the soul of the deceased in the time between death and rebirth. All they knew were legends, none of which Essek would accept on faith alone. It seemed even as an adolescent Essek was untrusting, cautious, intelligent, contemplative. His disloyalty was something Caleb could not personally understand, but he understood it vis-à-vis Essek.

But...Essek wasn’t disloyal. He was treasonous, but not disloyal. His loyalty may not have belonged to Xhorhas, the Bright Queen, or the Luxon, but the Mighty Nein certainly had it. Somehow Essek had failed to achieve any sort of patriotism, but there was no better friend and ally to have at one’s side than he. Essek was as loyal and loving as any of them gathered in this room. What he needed was a friend or seven or eight. The Kryn Dynasty had not given him that. Maybe it was selfish, but Essek had never denied being selfish. And neither had Caleb.

“You realize what this means, right? Essek not being consecuted?” asked Beau.

“Yes,” said Caleb, “unfortunately.” The brick that had struck his head smashed into his gut. They had always had a safety net…a Beacon would eventually spit Essek back out and if (when) Caleb got impatient he would know exactly where Essek’s Essek-ness was held and could find a way to speed up the process. Then Verin had revealed their safety net had been entirely imagined, an illusion, a lie. There would be nothing to catch Essek if he fell.

But Beauregard, being Beauregard, did not leave it up to the imagination. “If we fuck up…that’s it. There’s a good chance we never see Essek again.”

“Never say never,” said Molly, surprising the room with his voice.

“No offense, Molly, but you are the perfect example of how this could go wrong. We almost lost you,” she said.

“But you didn’t,” Molly answered.

“Yeah, but only because a literal goddess helped!”

“Optimism is good, saving Essek is better,” said Yasha diplomatically. Molly nodded in agreement.

“Essek’s lying habit aside, this does mean no one will be leaving the city,” said Verin, “so the only travel time is to the Dungeon of Penance or the Lucid Bastion depending.”

“Will the execution be public?” Caleb asked, remembering the hangings done in Rexxentrum of traitors, killers, and rapists.

“What? No!” said Verin, wrinkling his nose, “is that something you do in the Empire? Watch people die? Don’t answer, please, I’d rather not know. Even if such brutality was common here Essek’s imprisonment and execution will be kept from all but the Umavi and the executioner. I do not know if I am even supposed to know. The more quietly they can make him disappear the better.”

The word “brutality” stung Caleb badly, but they could argue the finer points of Imperial and Dynastic politics after Essek was saved.

“We will get to him long before they can make him disappear,” said Caleb. “We will need to get into the Lucid Bastion and Hall Thelyss. To get into Hall Thelyss should be simple, ja? We put on some disguises and Verin takes us into his family home, easy-peasy,” Caleb said, looking from the map Verin had drawn on the board to the artist himself. Essek’s room was sitting on an ordinary hallway, seemingly reachable by anyone.

“Yes, getting in should be, at least. Getting past the guard will not be so.” Verin looked back at the board and chalked a little stick figure standing sentry in front of the door in question. He added two lines to indicate a sizable sword to the end of one arm and a squiggly ball of what was probably magic to the other. “They are very good at what they do and they are already leery of my intentions.”

“How many are there?” Fjord asked.

“One,” Verin answered.

“One?!” Fjord sounded understandably incredulous. They had just defeated a mad wouldbe god made of the melded flesh of a demented power-hungry tiefling and the undead super-intelligent hive-mind of the nine best wizards of the Age of Arcanum, a living city and a being without moral or qualms with destroying the very fabric of reality and their victims’ minds in order to get what they wanted. The Mighty Nein could handle anything the material plane had to offer and then some. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but we’re really good at this! We can easily handle a single palace guard!”

“I have no doubt,” said Verin, “but this is no ordinary palace guard.”

“Who are they?” Beauregard asked. Caleb was curious as well. Who was considered to be enough of a threat that they could contain the Shadowhand? The Bright Queen and her allies had no way of being sure Essek would keep his word on any matter, so they must have trusted this person to be able to keep this genius traitor mage in tow. That seemed a tall order for anyone.

“Zokol Omrifar, The Gloomblade,” said Verin with a cold smile.

“And who the hell is that?” Beauregard asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“Oh, of course, I forget how little you know,” said Verin with Essek’s familiar condescension. “Though I suppose the commons do not often speak of assassins, eh?”

“We’re waiting,” said Beauregard.

“The Gloomblade is the leader and trainer of the Shade Fist, the Queen’s mage assassins.”

“Molly and I heard about them!” said Jester.

“Mage assassins?” Fjord repeated.

“Like Scourgers?” Beau said, half stating, half asking.

“Very much so,” said Verin. “They’ve met on the field, more than once, but the Empire has never managed to catch a Shade, certainly not the Gloomblade. Though from what I have heard they’ve tried.”

Caleb’s stomach clenched queasily. Cold dread coiled deep in him like a snake waiting to strike as his mind flashed back to his time at the Academy. Verin explained the finer points of the Shades and the Gloomblade themself. Every word made Caleb’s gut sink deeper, the snake grow. A phantom of his past slowly materialized in front of him. A legend being woven into the fabric of reality. Caleb’s fists tightened and tightened until...there was a loud snap. The sound brought reality back into focus, the present overwhelming the past, Caleb looked down at his hand and opened the palm to find that he had broken his chalk cleanly in half. Verin looked over at him with the sound.

Caleb took advantage of that. “This Gloomblade they have been doing this for some time, yes?” he asked, depositing the remains of the chalk onto the lip of the board.

“Centuries at this point. Far longer than your Scourgers,” said Verin.

“Do they have jewelry of, ah, of note? A greenish stone? Humanoid bone, perhaps? Pilfered armor?” Caleb asked, wiping his hands free of chalk on the legs of his trousers.

“...Yes,” said Verin. Then recognition dawned on his face, stretching his scar. His eyes went from Caleb’s face to his arms, bare to the elbow because Caleb had rolled up his sleeves to avoid getting his pullover covered in chalk dust. Verin’s eyes settled on the scars Trent had left him with, easy identifiers for anyone who knew what they were looking at, as good as any brand on livestock. Verin’s gaze made Caleb uncomfortable, his arms, his scars, itched and ached. Caleb distantly realized he had started to scratch at them. If Verin looked back up at Caleb he didn’t know, he didn’t think he could handle all of these stimuli at once, so instead he stared at the bare wooden floor between them, trying to chase out the darkness from his mind. He knew he would not succeed.

“Have you, by chance, crossed paths with them before?” Verin asked quietly.

“No,” Caleb answered truthfully. Something grabbed the wrist of the hand he’d been using to scratch and Caleb forcefully pulled himself free. It took him a moment to recognize what it was, too lost in the past to see the present: Beauregard. She still had her hand raised like she might try again. “Entschuldigung. Sorry…” he muttered to her.

“Allow me to be blunt. There is a rumor going around that you were a Scourger, Mr. Widogast,” said Verin as Caleb stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“He doesn’t need to—” Fjord said at the same time Veth snapped, “That’s none of your—”

But Caleb cut them both off.

“I appreciate your concern, Fjord, Veth, Beauregard, everyone but it is fine. I am fine. If we are going to work together then all our cards should be on the table, oder?”

“Yes, I’d like that,” said Verin, still calm, but with a slight edge to his voice. The room went silent for Caleb’s response. He appreciated it.

“As rumors tend to be, it is not perfectly correct, but nor is it without truth. There was a time when I would have become what is commonly called a Scourger. That is, I was trained to become one. I, ah, parted ways with the program a very long time ago. I should hope it is perfectly clear that my ideology has changed since that time. I was brainwashed and misled and lied to as the other Voll—Scourgers are to this day. Tortured and mutilated to fit into a mold that the Cerberus Assembly has fordged. I ridded myself of their poison and want nothing more than to help my home do the same.”

“Does Essek know this?” Verin asked.

“Yes,” said Caleb. “That and more.”

“I see,” said Verin. Caleb swore he could feel the drow’s eyes on him, trying to dissect him, but he said nothing else. Caleb was glad there wasn’t any kind of condolences or further questioning.

“Ja,” said Caleb. He tried to focus on anything but his arms, which felt like they were burning now, throbbing and raw. For the first time in years his imagination conjured up images of the drow hunter, the butcher, the entity that Trent would not acknowledge or name. Caleb remembered hearing stories about the bodies of Vollstrecker turning up dismembered, arms stripped to the bone, and their implants missing. Or mutilated even worse.
.

“We — my fellows and I — we heard rumors of a mage killer from the Dynasty. That there was a…a creature, a monster that our mentor would not acknowledge or speak of. There were stories of a…” Caleb would not say the slur aloud, the word he had used back then so freely, that he had heard since his infancy, because his ancestral enemies were now his friends, “a dark elf assassin who stole chunks from their victims. Armor, tooth and bone, and most notably the crystals implanted in the most recently trained generations of Vollstrecker when they went out on missions. It was said they made jewelry out of what they stole, that they were hungry for more trophies, that they ate humanoid flesh, and they could not be stopped, not even by a mortal wound.”

“Those last parts aren’t true as far as I know,” said Verin offhandedly. “Who told you that?”

“No one, this was only what we overheard. No one spoke of them above a whisper and certainly not to us who were still training, but we overheard things from the active Vollstrecker. Our mentor, trainer, in that way alone comparable to the Gloomblade because he would never put himself in danger, Trent Ikithon, told us it was just a story and that put all doubt from our minds. We believed then that our Master would never lie. But something happened and we were not so sure…what we saw, well…Back then our teacher had an Annex, an, ah, understudy or something to that effect. He still does today, today it is Astrid Beck—”

“Caleb’s ex-girlfriend,” said Jester.

“Ja, fine,” said Caleb, “but back then it was a young man named Johannas Porchester, and the reason he is no longer the Annex is, well, the Gloomblade. Eadwulf and I stumbled upon Trent being given Porchester’s corpse. Or what was left of it.”

“Eadwulf is Caleb’s ex-boyfriend,” Jester added as Caleb swallowed, trying to wet his dry throat. He was actually grateful for her nonsense, it was a good way to stay rooted in the present rather than lost in what had once been. Jester giving a running commentary, his friends surrounding him, the reminder that Essek, dear Essek, was missing from their number. Still it was impossible to escape the image burned into his mind that night in Trent’s manor house.

Eadwulf and Bren had both woken up before their assignment and slipped out of bed. Astrid had been under the weather and they would have said that that was why they’d snuck away to make out. But Caleb was self-aware enough now to admit that part of it was the desire for the risk. They wanted to nearly be caught. They wanted the adrenaline of escape and the ego boost of having outsmarted their teacher to compliment their teen hormones and passionate love for each other, every member of their triangle. Of course Trent had known the three of them were together, which he eventually revealed to them, but at the time they thought they had the upper hand. As if they ever could. Trent allowed them that overconfidence.

That pre-dawn morning Eadwulf had Bren pinned against the wall near the gallery above the entrance hall. Then suddenly the front doors slammed open below them. Eadwulf and Bren broke apart, they nearly bolted back to their room but then caught sight of the forms slipping inside, Trent’s dim Dancing Lights barely illuminating the three men in the deep black of night. They were speaking urgently, animatedly, barely keeping their voices down, and the two who were not Trent had a stretcher held between them.

Bren cautiously slipped toward the gallery railing. Wulf grabbed Bren by the arm, whispered, “Wir müssen jetzt gehen, bevor sie uns sieht!” (“We have to go now, before they see us!”)

“Bist du nicht gespannt? Willst du nicht sehen, was die da machen?” Bren had answered, taking Wulf’s hand and nodding to the hectic goings on below. (“Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to see what they’re doing?”)

Wulf sucked in a breath. He glanced past Bren at the arguing men, Bren saw his expression change. “Wenn wir geschnappt werden, ist es deine Schuld,” he added. (“If we get caught it’s your fault.”)

Bren smirked, “Genau, ‘wenn.’” (“Exactly, ‘if.’”)

Wulf shook his head and sighed. Bren shushed him and pulled him down lower. He himself pressed against the floor, squinting into the hall below, straining his ears, trying to hear what Trent was saying or who the other two were. They only caught a few words and phrases, when voices pitched too high, before Trent violently shushed them.

Bren distinctly heard “the crick” and “skinned him” and “heard him screaming”. Trent listened silently, nodding in the white glow of his Dancing Lights.

The tension made the minute between entry and reveal feel like hours. But finally Trent threw back the sheet over the body.

And there was what was left of Porchester. Bren bit his lip hard enough to bleed to keep from shouting. He was glued to the spot, not even able to blink while the remains were on display. Trent looked at it for 34 seconds before covering it again and sending the men away.

“We only caught a glimpse of what was left on the gurney but…the worst part was how…thorough it was. I say ‘butchered’ and I mean that in the most literal way, he was taken apart by someone who had clearly practiced, someone who knew all the cuts to get what they wanted.” He glanced up at his friends and stopped the description. He could save them from the more horrific details. “The crystal implants, back then we did not know what they were made of, but the implants were gone. A lot was gone, to be fair, but his arms were stripped almost to the bone. We ran off before Trent spotted us and told Astrid what we’d seen.

“What we saw that morning made us question our Master, you must understand how grave a sin it was for us to doubt him. It was unthinkable, that was how badly we had been shaken. We thought there was a possibility that this hunter was out there. The rumors left this boogie man unnamed, but my friends and I, we called them der Magiefleischhacker…the, ah, ‘the magic butcher’, or more precisely ‘the magic meat mincer’.

“We swore that if they were real then we would kill them and take back the trophies they stole.” Caleb did not say ‘along with as many of our own we could carry’. His friends did not need to know they envisioned using the killer’s fanged skull as a goblet or keeping their mummified hand as a candle holder. They did not need to be reminded that he was a vicious fighting dog acting as a house pet. He was lucky they still liked him, loved him, knowing what they already did.

“We thought we were unstoppable and immortal back then, prideful and powerful. Of course we never saw them and the story became less important, more distant. The only time der Magiefleischhacker came up was sometimes in the dark night when we were huddled together in the cold and whispered to each other about them, especially if a sibling Vollstecker disappeared. Our fury kept us warm and our power comforted us. But then…”

Then he broke. But he caught sight of Verin’s stern and silent face and did not say that. He had probably already revealed himself to be a monster in his own right. He didn’t need to make Verin think he was mentally unstable as well.

“Then shit happened. I, ah, parted ways with the program. The story was all but forgotten until now.” Caleb swallowed hard to force down the bile that was rising dangerously in the back of his throat. “But I am very good at remembering.”

There was a beat of quiet. The kind that Caleb knew was created as his friends tried not to say “that’s so fucked up” or something similar for the dozenth time.

He pointedly did not even glance toward Mollymauk. The tiefling had not yet been subjected to the horrors of Caleb’s adolescence in anything but, he assumed, Jester’s summarizing monologues. Potentially, if he remembered their more intimate encounters from last year, he could have deduced some hint of the darkness in Caleb’s past. But Caleb didn’t think most people could imagine the cruelty and depravity that he had once thought to be not only normal, but noble. He once would have said especially not Mollymauk, but, well, now he had met Lucien.

“I am sorry about your friend,” said Verin, expression and voice calm.

Caleb shook his head. “We were not friends. He was my family, but not in the blood sense, that is to say we were not related. Perhap he would be the equivalent of a distant member of a shared den. Our loyalties were the same, but I barely knew the man and I best remember him dead and hamburgered.” Caleb caught Verin’s amber gaze, “now if you could please tell us everything you know about der Magiefleischhacker.”

Verin’s description of the type of person the Gloomblade was would have only slightly disappointed Bren, Wulf, and Astrid. They had very human traits, like a personality and flaws, which would have disappointed the three. But their reputation for grisly spectacle, cold pride, and undying loyalty to the Dynasty would have fit the image the teenagers had conjured for der Magiefleischhacker. They would not have pegged them as a Chronurgist, because they did not know Dunamancy existed, but they would have loved to hear that there was a school of secret magic hidden in the Dynasty. The fact that der Magiefleishhacker were physically strong and armed with a specially customized Kryn sword and an unknown number of other weapons would have also excited their hungry imaginations and added to their dreams of glory.

“Okay, okay, okay, yeah, they are very scary, but first of all we could definitely totally kick their ass!” said Jester. Verin looked doubtful, not knowing what they had done, but Jester kept talking. “And maybe we don’t need to fuck with them at all!”

“How do you figure?” Fjord asked.

“Come on! Isn’t there a really easy answer we’re all forgetting about?” she asked.

Verin furrowed his brow again. “I cannot think of anything.”

“Your mom, obviously! I know she’s super important and stuff, maybe she could tell the Gloomybroody to fuck off or bribe them or something like that? I know my Mama would want to do anything to save me! She’s threatened everybody here like a million times!”

“That’s true,” said Fjord.

Caleb was curious where this would lead. He knew very little about the Umavi, only that she and her elder son did not see eye-to-eye and she was an important religious figure. One look at Verin’s expression told him this would not be the easy answer Jester was hoping for. Caleb suspected as much. Why would Verin have come to them if their mother could just make all their problems disappear?

“The Umavi won’t get involved. If she tries to help, you must tell her you don’t know what she’s talking about.”

“Why?” Jester asked.

“Because she would be undeniably baiting a trap. She wants to get rid of you,” Verin said.

“She doesn’t even know us!” said Jester, offended.

“It’s not about you, exactly. That is to say you’re not who she is worried about. It’s the Bright Queen. The Umavi Thelyss has…concerns…about the Bright Queen’s sanity. I don’t know anything about it!” he said very quickly, holding up his hands, before Beau could ask a single one of the questions Caleb could see on her lips. “However, if it could be publicly revealed that the Queen’s Heroes of the Dynasty were actually the thieves they seemed to have foiled, it would be strong evidence to support her point. On top of that it would mean that Den Thelyss wouldn’t take the blow to its reputation Essek’s sudden disappearance would cause, especially if the truth eventually gets out.”

“But we’re innocent!” said Jester.

“That isn’t the point,” replied Verin.

“That’s so shitty!”

“That’s politics,” said Verin bitterly.

“I always hated politics,” said Caduceus.

“What if we’re not part of it, what if you put forward the idea of saving Essek?” asked Fjord.

“That will make no difference,” said Verin. “She knows much more than I, and has never listened to me in my life. Besides, if it got out that she helped Essek it would make her position even worse. It is precarious as it is.”

“So what is she actually doing?” Beauregard asked. “Just kicking back and watching the ax come down?”

“Not quite so callous,” said Verin. “Or perhaps seemingly more so depending on your point of view. Her goal is to separate the den from Essek, for preemptive damage control. If people find out what Essek did it looks better for the Umavi and all of Den Thelyss if she assisted in carrying out the Queen’s justice. Furthermore she views my brother as a threat. If Essek is at large he can say and do whatever he wants, and at this point our mother does not trust what that is. An escaped Essek is a dangerous Essek. She believes this is how this must end.”

“‘This’ being Essek’s whole life,” said Beau.

“Unfortunately yes,” muttered Verin.

“That’s so fucked up!” cried Jester.

“What does letting Essek die give her? What does she want?” Beauregard asked.

“I believe she wants the throne and I know she wants to spread the word of the Luxon,” said Verin.

“How does signing Essek’s death warrant get her either of those things?!” Beau demanded.

“Letting Essek be executed shows that she is honest and true in her intentions.” Verin remained calm, his voice even. But Caleb could see it was the kind of calm that one took on when the only other option is to break down entirely.

“So she’s going to put her ideology before a life? Ambition before her own son?” Beauregard asked, knowing the answer as well as Caleb did.

“The den comes before the individual,” said Verin with that same desperate calm, “especially an individual who has committed such a grave crime.”

“That’s bullshit!” said Fjord.

“It isn’t, actually,” snapped Verin. “The Umavi is Essek’s mother, yes, but she is also the mother to the whole of Den Thelyss and something like the elder sister to the whole of Xhorhas. She is an Umavi, the decisions she is forced to make must always create the most common good and are not enviable.”

“Essek is trying to make up for what he did! He wants to do and be better!” said Veth, “his own mother should recognize that! He deserves another chance!”

Verin’s ears had lowered profoundly and now dipped lower still. “Essek is one person. He is unremarkable in the grand scheme of eternity, that is what you all are failing to understand. He is not special because he is his mother’s son,” Verin said. Caleb could not disagree more strongly with that statement, Essek was in no way unremarkable. “The Kryn Dynasty and Den Thelyss are infinite and eternal. They consist of all of their people and all of their lives that are, were, and will be. Essek is one against thousands. The Umavi is not treating Essek as her son, she is treating Essek as a criminal, a single soul that has struck back against the whole.”

“Veth is right,” said Caleb, no longer able to contain himself, “Essek deserves redemption. He is more than capable of attaining it and no one should take that away from him.”

“I cannot question the wisdom of the Umavi,” said Verin.

“If you’re on your mom’s side then why are you helping us?” asked Beauregard.

“Because I lack the wisdom of the Umavi,” said Verin with a wry smile. “I want Essek to live.”

“Sure,” said Beau, skeptically.

“I do!” said Verin. “Why would I be here otherwise?!”

“To set a trap,” she replied.

“If my mother wanted to trap you she would send someone she trusts, not me,” said Verin. “I am sure Essek told you, I am remarkable among Den Thelyss in how unremarkable I am.”

Jester tisked sympathetically.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” said Caduceus, which was always a funny expression for him to use when his sitting height was taller than most humanoids standing. “Essek never said anything like that. He only had good things to tell us.”

A ghost of a smile haunted the corner of Verin’s lips for a brief moment.

“Enough pity party, looks like we’ve got to scratch Mama Thelyss off the list of ideas,” said Beau.

Various ideas were bounced around the group, from the frustratingly simple to the mind blowingly obtuse. The winner came from a very surprising source: Molly. Slowly over the course of the evening his voice had returned to him more fully and suddenly he lit up like a lighthouse.

“This Gloomy One likes jewelry, yes?” he asked.

“Sorry?” Verin asked. He’d been reading over Beau’s notes and now looked over at Mollymauk, who was longer in Yasha’s lap but hadn’t gone far, he was beside her but had acquired one of the chairs from the table. Gods forbid he sit normally however and was now upside down with his knees hooked over the backrest, his tail was actually in the hole in the back probably designed with tieflings in mind, but from the wrong angle. Yasha’s hand was fidgeting over his horn. Caleb knew from experience, that was a very good texture and a very fulfilling fidget.

“They like to wear jewelry,” said Mollymauk more slowly, lifting and wagging his tail to show off the bangles on it.

“...I suppose, in the broadest sense of the word,” Verin agreed uncomfortably. “I don’t believe they are doing it in the name of aesthetic, exactly.”

Molly batted a hand dismissively before letting it fall to rest beside his head. He then asked, “do they make it all themself?”

Verin’s expression was somewhat incredulous as he made a show of shrugging. “I have spoken to them once and it was outside my condemned brother’s make-do cell. Shockingly, hobbies didn’t come up in the conversation.”

“Glad to see the sass is hereditary,” said Molly dryly with a flick of his tail. “But we’re trying to save Essek here, yeah?”

“I apologize,” said Verin with a short bow, “I assume they make it all by themself, considering the source of the materials.”

“What is the plan here, Mollymauk?” Caleb asked, not following it in the least.

“Well, you see, Mr. Caleb, Mr. Verin, all assembled,” he held out his arms while still remaining upside down, looking very much like a painting of a priestess giving a sermon that had been flipped over, “as an arrogant fuck myself, I can tell you that I have been proud of far less than handmade jewelry.”

“So…flattery? That’s the idea?” asked Beauregard. Caleb thought this was going to collapse too, like every other plan.

Molly shrugged hugely, an elegant roll of his shoulders, the little jewelry Lucien had left him with glittering in the lamp light.

“Wait a moment, he has a point,” said Verin.

“He does?” Beau asked.

Molly stuck out his forked tongue at her.

“It’s been known to happen,” said Veth ‘never steal from nice people’ Brenatto.

“I don’t know how they feel about the jewelry as jewelry, but they have a reputation for being…perhaps…a overly proud of their, well, I apologize for the uncouth wording, I cannot think of a kinder way to say it in Common, their hunting trophies,” said Verin, cringing. Verin seemed to be too good a man to connect with this. Verin himself had a leather strap necklace with a fang of something dangerous and monstrous on it, but he probably didn’t realize how easy it was to see someone as something. To Omrifar a human tooth was no different than whatever fiend’s fang Verin wore.

“Gross,” muttered Jester, wrinkling her freckled nose.

“Alright, we’ve got flattery,” said Beauregard, breaking away to write it on the board. “How do we use it to get to Essek?” she asked, pointing to it with the chalk chunklet like a general before her troops.

“What stone is it again?” Molly asked.

“Residuum,” said Caleb and Caduceus at the same time.

“Oh shit!” said Beauregard suddenly. She swung around and, while she narrowly missed Caleb, she struck Fjord who had come up behind her to look at the collection of thoughts scattered like dice on the board. “Fucking residuum, geeks love that stuff!”

“Mages,” Caleb corrected her as Fjord rubbed his sternum where she’d struck him.

Beau ignored them both. “Think about Waccoh! What if one of us pretends to be Waccoh and wants to know about residuum!”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to waste her sample!” offered Verin. “It’s not as if we have much of it here.”

Beauregard pointed at him and nodded emphatically. “Verin can show fake Waccoh where Omrifar is and then she can get them aside for a few minutes while someone sneaks in and gets Essek out.”

Caleb raised his hand, “me.” There was no question in his mind. “I can make myself invisible and teleport. But somebody must watch the door.”

“On it,” said Beauregard.

“And I can use my handy-dandy new Seeming spell to dress us up,” Caleb added.

“I’ll find someone to make you,” said Verin.

“What’s Seeming?” Beauregard asked.

“It is an Illusion spell that allows one to cast an eight-hour disguise over a group of people. Essek showed it to me from one of his old spell books in the study,” Caleb said.

“Those aren’t Essek’s,” said Verin. “Not here. This isn’t his home. It belonged to our mother’s first daughter, Nadzieja.”

“Another fucking secret,” said Beauregard. “Essek never mentioned he had a sister.”

“He doesn’t, I’m his only sibling,” said Verin.

“You just said you had a sister!”

“Ah, I see the problem. Nadzieja Thelyss was born roughly a thousand years ago in our mother’s first life. The Umavi had a different body, a different partner, a different perspective, the only relation that binds us is the Umavi’s bloodline and that is true of everyone in Den Thelyss.” There were still looks of confusion which Verin met with a friendly smile. “The Umavi has lived a very long time and over her lifetimes she has had, oh,” Verin looked like he was doing some quick math, “perhaps around a dozen children. However Essek is my only brother because we were born to the same parents in our mother’s same lifetime and we were raised together. There is an Undercommon word for Nadzieja’s relationship to Essek and me, ‘poprzedniczka.’ I suppose one could translate it as ‘she who came before’. But regardless she is our poprzedniczka, not our sister, this time Essek was not lying.”

“Makes for a nice change,” muttered Beau. Then more loudly she said, “could you pass me that notebook, Verin? And say that word again?”

He did as he was asked although he looked a little confused, “poprzedniczka?”

“Peh-ough-peh-err-zet-ehh-de-enn-ee-seh-zet-kah-ah?” she asked.

“What the fuck?” Fjord asked.

But Verin replied “Yes. Learning Undercommon then?”

Beau nodded, “Just wanted to make a quick note. Nadzieja means ‘hope’, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” said Verin.

“Interesting,” said Beau.

“Are we through with the spelling test now?” Fjord asked in disbelief. Beau swatted at him before going back to writing.

As she did so Caleb said, “to borrow your sentiment from earlier, Verin, I would not care if the spell came from Trent Ikithon himself if it will save Essek. Now, we will need a distraction to keep the real Waccoh away while she appears to be with Omrifar…”

Sometimes stupid pieces come together to make something more brilliant than the sum of their parts. Much like the Mighty Nein themselves. The simplest idea germinated into something complex and beautiful. If it would actually work was another question entirely, but at that moment Caleb thought it was a very good plan.

The final plan consisted of three parts.
In order to preserve Essek’s efforts to keep them from getting into trouble a red herring team would be sent to make a small scene in one or more of the Gallimaufry’s most popular establishments, depending on how many chucked them out. That unit would consist of the three most recognizable members of their party. Caduceus was an anomaly to the point that Verin had never even heard of a firbolg, only naming him as giant-kin based on his substantial height. Even if a patron or two had encountered a firbolg somewhere, the shocking pink phosphorescent lichen the Clays favored for hair dye made him unique. Veth was the only halfling Caleb had seen in any of their journeys throughout Xhorhas. Verin said there must be some, even if they were only merchants or transplants, but he couldn’t remember encountering any. Besides with her unique tattoos and her having stayed in Rosohna for so long she was immediately recognizable and synonymous with the Mighty Nein (as she should be). The last member was Yasha. Even putting her six-foot-five frame aside she was apparently marked distinctly as Waste Folk by her face tattoo and white/black hair. Molly noted that when they had gone out for drinks the night before the gaggle of tieflings (plus one goblin) had been startled and fascinated to meet a living specimen of the Kryn-rejecting barbarian tribes. And if all else failed Caduceus had an army of beetles, Veth knew how to jury-rig any number of explosives and acids, and Yasha could break things and bones.

To make sure the real Waccoh did not intrude on them while they were borrowing her face the tieflings would be sent to keep her occupied by any means necessary. With Mollymauk’s moral compass seemingly still pointing north, Caleb wasn’t terribly concerned about what those means might be.

Then came the final and most important unit, the actual rescue. Verin’s job was to them into his ancestral home, Fjord being a good actor and the closest to Waccoh physically would play her, Beauregard to act as sentry, and Caleb to slip invisibly into Essek’s room and cast Teleportation Circle. He was not using Teleport specifically to leave room for his other new spell, Delayed Blast Fireball, should things go south it would be nice to have both firepower and precision. Besides, it felt…comforting. The two wizards would end up at Yussa’s tower in Nicodranas, the others would subtly sneak away, and no one would know Essek was even gone until his evening meal. Verin would be saved implication because there was no way to tell when Essek had left, Verin had not been in the room, and Verin could not cast a spell with a level that high. The Nein had an alibi, as did Waccoh. The only victim would be the Gloomblade and that pleased Caleb in a deeply satisfying but vindictive way.

It was decided they needed team names. This was the single least important aspect of the plan, but somehow it still took forever to decide. Caleb provided several perfectly valid options. The first were simple Zemnian words, the primary colors, Rot, Gelb, Blau. Those were shot down for the very valid reason that Zemnian might be linked too intimately to Caleb, should they be overheard. Verin offered the Undercommon equivalent: Czerwona, Żółta, Niebieska, but between those being common around Rosohna, besides Fjord and Caleb’s own useless pronunciations made him dip back to his well of languages. The next were the first three numbers in Celestial: Unus, Duo, Tribus. Those were abandoned because several of the chucklefucks Caleb hung around with could not take the word “Unus” seriously. His final perfectly good and usable offer were the first three letters of an ancient language of the Menagerie Coast, now largely relegated to myth: Alpha, Beta, Gamma. These Jester rejected out of hand because of a particular subgenre of romance novel that Caleb never knew existed that used those first two terms in a wildly different and upsetting context. At that point Beauregard and Caleb gave up on theme and everyone just did whatever the fuck they wanted.

Veth’s team was eventually named Team Going Downtown, arranged to best allow for innuendo. Team Tiefling was decided before the idea of shared theme had been abandoned. And Team Name was the last team. Then, finally, plan sketched out as fully as possible, they went for their long rests with the sun only a few hours away.

As Caleb was preparing for bed someone knocked on his bedroom door. He was halfway into his nightshirt but paused to pull it open.

Veth was there. “Hi,” she said gently as he shoved his head through the shirt’s neck hole.

“Hello, Veth the Brave, what can I do for you?” Caleb asked, opening the door wide to her.

She shrugged, “Everything’s mostly fine, I wanted to check up on you.”

“Me?” Caleb asked, “Why me?”

Veth gave him an incredulous look, “because Essek is in prison and about to be executed.”

“Ja, well, we are not going to allow that,” said Caleb, trying to ignore the punched feeling with which the cold reality left him. His weak smile twitched as he struggled to keep up his play-acted calm. “We are all worried.”

“Of course!” said Veth, “but not all of us are in love with him.”

Caleb’s heart lurched, it was not something anyone had said so bluntly before. His fingers tightened on his arms. Gods, she was right. She was so right.

He knew it, of course he did, he had been trying to deny it, to fight it, to hide from it. But of course he knew what the warm feeling Essek sent flooding through him was, bright as the sun. It was the same warmth that Astrid and Wulf had provided, and what was noticeably absent in his crush on Jester. He knew why he trusted a known and admitted liar. He knew why even just thinking of Essek had made his heart skip. He knew why every time he looked at Essek there were butterflies let loose in his chest. He had fought it for so long, refused to admit it and now here it was, laid bare before him by his dearest friend.

He and Essek were dangerous for each other. They were dangerous for anyone but especially each other. They brought out the best in one another, but he knew how easily that coin could flip to the worst. And Caleb had thought no matter what he did he would always end up hurting Essek. When lifespans were compared Caleb would die centuries before Essek even reached middle age. He had fought his own feelings for Essek’s sake. Let Essek find his righteous redemption. Let Essek live out his years without having to lose his lover. For Essek…and himself, so he didn’t have to know he was leaving Essek behind.

But now the script had been flipped. Now Caleb was the one forced to face the prospect of losing Essek without ever having told him the truth. Without ever having…

Gods, he’d been so wrong.

He felt his body crumple in on itself, a hole where his heart should be. “I love him,” Caleb whispered, daring to say it aloud for the first time, finally allowing himself to admit it. He sank into Veth’s open arms, no longer able to carry the weight of his mistakes.

“I know, Lebby,” she said, rubbing his back.

“What have I done?” he whispered.

“Nothing, and that’s why you’re upset,” said Veth.

“I was trying to protect him…” he said ‘And to protect myself,’ he did not say, but he was sure Veth knew his motives were not wholly pure.

“It was a stupid choice, but you can fix it. We’re going to save him and you can fuck that elf,” Veth said.

Caleb chuckled weakly into her shoulder, sniffling. “I would be happy to, if he is amiable.”

“I’ve seen how he looks at you, even if you’re ignoring it. He’s very amiable,” said Veth. “You’ll kiss him, fuck him, and probably marry him one day. Maybe have some half-elf babies. But make sure you’re ready, don’t have kids before you know you want them.”

He smiled weakly, tears damp on his cheeks. Gods above, he would never be able to forgive himself if something happened to Essek.

After a silent moment spent clinging to Veth she spoke almost apologetically, “Lebby? Can I tell you something?”

“Anything,” he said into her shirt, “you know this.”

“I had a sort of ulterior motive for coming here.”

“What is that?” Caleb asked.

That was comforting too. This was the nature of their relationship, symbiotic and in perfect symmetry. She didn’t see Caleb as weak or needy and he didn’t see her as such either. They equally comforted each other. They equally needed each other. Neither had the upper hand nor had they ever. Caleb thought this might be the only relationship he’d ever had where that was always the case, equal in all things.

“I need to say something…” a breath, “I think I’m a terrible mother. Not ‘I think,’ I am a terrible mother.”

Caleb lifted his head so he could look at her face, she could not be serious. And yet she seemed to be. “That is ridiculous.”

“Is it really? Luc deserves a better mom. Somebody who isn’t fucked up and who can give him all the time in the world!” she moved to sit on his bed, her short legs kicking against the mattress and toes dangling off the floor.

“Veth, Luc is so lucky—”

“To have a mother who worked as a torturer? Who steals? Who’s been living with other people? Who’d rather be out adventuring?” she asked, voice full of all-too-familiar self-loathing.

“To have a mother who loves him with all her heart,” said Caleb firmly. “We all have our flaws. Some greater than others.”

“I don’t know if he has all my heart. My heart is always pulled in a lot of directions,” Veth admitted. “I’m afraid I’m going to end up like Deirta Thelyss.”

Caleb frowned, “in what way?”

“I was thinking that maybe she’s so hard on Essek and Verin because she’s stretched herself too thin. Maybe she’s tired. Gods know one kid is fucking exhausting, I can’t imagine 12.”

“You are doing well with nine,” said Caleb.

“What’s that mean?”

“Luc, of course, plus the Mighty Nein. You have adopted us, Veth, and we are grateful for it.”

Veth huffed, somewhere between amused and annoyed. Caleb plopped down beside her. “I do not believe love is finite. It may be Exandria’s only perpetually renewable resource.”

“You sound like Caduceus,” said Veth.

“He is often wise, loathe as I am to admit it when he speaks of faith and gods.”

Veth shrugged, picked at a loose thread on his sheets.

“I think that Deirta Thelyss is the problem, not the size of Den Thelyss,” said Caleb. “She has chosen to put herself before her children, no one forced her to do so. I know for a fact you would die rather than allow anything to happen to Luc.”

“Of course I would!” Veth said.

“You’d fight the Raven Queen for him,” said Caleb, “you already have.”

“Don’t remind me,” she snapped off the loose string.

“And you did the same for Mollymauk,” Caleb pointed out.

“I…guess I did…”

“See? Already better than Deirta Thelyss,” he said, smiling at her.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Anytime, my friend. Now, shall we get some sleep? Tomorrow will be a very busy day.”

“Yes,” said Veth. Without needing to be asked she stayed at his side. He lay on the pillow and she took her spot at his knees like she had all those months ago when she was a goblin and he was a filthy hobo. He blew out the candle at his bedside and not for the first time dearly missed Frumpkin’s comforting weight and sleek fur. He wondered what Essek was doing at that moment, if he was cold and frightened. He felt Veth’s hand find his and squeeze. “We’ll get him back,” she said. Then with a yawn she said, “you’re going to fuck that hot boi.”

Somehow that was exactly what he needed to drift off into a blessedly dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

It was afternoon by the time they all had gotten eight hours and eaten. It felt like a long time to wait, but they had one chance and rushing in only to spoil it would cause more harm than doing nothing at all. The first of the groups to leave was Team Tiefling, off to track down Waccoh. They had several plans for distraction under their colorful belts, ranging from asking the professor about her research or offering the fascinating specimen of Mollymauk up for new research to knock-knock jokes or juggling. A Sending from Jester assured them that one of those had worked. Team Going Downtown and Team Name set off at the same time immediately after those 25 words. Or immediately after they fully decoded Jester’s message.

Before they parted ways Veth promised to make as much of a ruckus as possible, which was more promising than when Caduceus and Yasha assured them of the same. Caduceus’s idea of a bar brawl would probably be knocking over his glass of milk while Yasha’s version might turn into a bloodbath. It seemed Mollymauk had a similar thought since before he left he had reminded Yasha that some things were off limits. “Don’t break anything we can’t afford or replace and don’t hurt anybody. Unless they start it, then knock them on their sorry arse, but try not to kill them or fuck them up too badly. You know, circus rules, dear.” He punctuated the request by going up on tip-toe and she bent down, angling her face so he could kiss her on the forehead, leaving some sparkling purple lipstick behind.

Team Name met Verin at a “safe” and discreet place in the Gallimaufry to put their disguises on. Fjord’s finished product wasn’t too far off from the real Waccoh. Caleb used his new spell to Seem Beau into a Den Thelyss guard to Verin’s careful specifications, a tiefling named Bia T’kyzh. Verin provided a stolen uniform for Beau, the faceplate of which could be lowered to hide any errors or to escape notice should the real version turn up. Verin thought it would be unlikely, she seemed to be ill or on holiday; he hadn’t seen her since he came home. That set off a quiet alarm bell in Caleb’s head, but T’kyzh was their best option. An Aurora Watch weapon would have been harder to sneak off with, said Verin, as they were kept carefully and each one’s owner was documented. So instead he gave her his own, a glaive she could barely lift, but hopefully she would only need to hold it.

The trickiest part were the particularly tiefling traits of horns and a tail. Obviously Beauregard was not used to having them. Thankfully Bia’s horns were about as small as Jester’s. They lacked the corkscrew shape and instead went backward over her head almost like a helmet; they should not be too much of an issue, it would be hard for Beau to accidentally shove her illusory horn through a wall and give them away. She would have to be hyper vigilant about the tail, which she had promised to be and Jester had helped Caleb pick a neutral sweep for it to repeat. They had thought it through, but Caleb still worried about it constantly. He had a keen mind; there was a lot of brain-space to both carry out the plan and have an ongoing internal panic attack about it.

The timer began counting down: eight hours until Seeming ended.

One of the few things that didn’t worry Caleb was their choice of casting and roles. Beauregard as Bia T’kyzh (Biaregard) and Fjord as Professor Waccoh (Fjaccoh). It wouldn’t be uncommon for either of these people to be near or in Hall Thelyss; Bia worked for the family, Den Thelyss had control of the Marble Tomes Conservatory with which Waccoh was associated. And with luck any eyebrows raised at their presence would be lowered with Verin by their side.

When they were closer to the Lucid Bastion but theoretically still out of sight of the citadel’s guard towers Caleb ducked down an alley and cast Invisibility on himself. The timer shifted, sand avalanched from one end to the other. Now they had one hour. He kept a firm hand on Biaregard’s arm, much the way he had when using Frumpkin’s senses…once upon a time not so very long ago.

It went almost too smoothly. They got easily past the front gates of the Lucid Bastion (timer: 57 minutes) and through buildings and courtyards. Verin was the skeleton key for every door and gate in the citadel. Once they saw Verin it was as if guards’ eyes slid right off Fjaccoh and Biaregard; they seemingly could have been dressed as anyone in the world and it would not have changed anything. They probably would not have noticed if Beau was Dwendel himself or Fjord was Uk’otoa. Verin, member of Den Thelyss and son of its Umavi, was above reproach. Thankfully, Fjord was a born actor and Beau took her role very seriously, only adding to the performance. Caleb just had to remain silent and he could do that easily.

He could not help but compare the two palaces he’d seen in his life. Both were equally spectacular; in the past, in his more fanciful moments, Caleb thought of the Bastion as Ungebroch’s dark twin sister. Ungebroch was whites and bright reds, erected in glass and marble, a beacon of order, built out horizontally in perfect even polygons, sparkling brilliantly as it reflected the sun of the northern Empire. The Lucid Bastion was blacks and deep purples, carved from quartz and smelted from matte metal, triumphant spires stabbing defiantly upward and glowing gently from within in the perpetual gloom. A shield to defend what had been conquered and civilized, a sword to fight the ever-present threats to the hardwon order, each built for the same purpose made unique by their landscapes.

As the little party of Team Name got their first look of the quartz spires Verin quietly pointed to one of the four towers cleaved to the central spire. “That is Hall Thelyss,” he said. “Our ancestral home.”

The one he had indicated was one of the closer towers, facing into the citadel rather than out over the city. It was hard to tell because of distance, but the indicated turret (and its identical siblings) seemed to be about the same size of the Candles in Rexxentrum, although higher off the ground and, Caleb would readily admit, more architecturally ordered and aesthetically pleasing than the eclectic wizards’ towers held up by magic, pride, and very little else.

“One for each Ruling Den,” Biaregard said. “And the last one? Waiting for a new Umavi or..?”

“If a new Umavi ascends then it will likely be repurposed for that Den. It has housed the clergy for 800 or so years,” said Verin.

“Sounds like you don’t think the ascension will happen. We met a Minotaur who came close.”

“That would be Sunbreaker Olomon,” said Verin. “An exceptional warrior, because of his dedication and bravery he has probably lived more lifetimes than anyone else in the Kryn Dynasty and has been behind the Bright Queen since the very beginning.”

“But…” Biaregard pressed, voicing Verin’s unsaid conjunction.

“But as much as the status of Umavi is determined by the Luxon it is determined by the other Umavi. Mt mother and Umavi Mirimm would never allow someone so bent on battle and so loyal to the Bright Queen alone to gain a Ruling seat. As I told you last night, it’s all politics.”

“So you don’t think she—”

“This line of conversation stops here, we are getting dangerously close to blasphemy while standing in the home of religion and state,” Verin spoke quietly and in a very serious tone. “The Umavi are perfect, the Umavi are chosen by the Luxon. Period. End of discussion.”

“Fine,” sighed Biaregard

“How big is Den Thelyss?” Fjaccoh asked diplomatically, squinting up at the structure.

Verin hummed, considering. “We are one of the oldest Dens in the Dynasty, our Umavi was among the ones to escape Lolth’s control with the Bright Queen, the Skysybil, and Sunbreaker Olomon; that is to say we have had a long time to grow. I believe there are around thirteen-hundred of us all told? Somewhere near that.”

Fjord let out a low and impressed whistle.

“We are rarely all alive at once and like I said, we’ve had a long time to grow.” Then Verin’s warm and content affect flickered like a candle’s flame. “Although all of the Dens in and around Rosohna took substantial blows in, er, in recent years. Some smaller ones were wiped out entirely. A lot of souls were lost to the gods when the Beacons were…” he let out a rueful sound so dark and lost it could not be called a chuckle, “when our mutual friend stole the Beacons.” The ghost of his smile remained, but his eyes were hollow. It made Caleb’s heart wrench. It was a darkness one as kind as Verin did not deserve to be engulfed by. Verin shook his head as if that would rid him of the thought, it wouldn’t, but at the very least it gave him the time to school his expression.

Caleb glanced at Fjord but Fjaccoh’s face was blank. He and Caleb were both highly accomplished liars and understood the pressure Verin was under, just as Caleb and Beau were both skilled at detecting lies. Caleb could not help but wonder if Verin could have kept up the double-life his brother had. He also knew what Beau’s answer would be: it didn’t matter, because he never would.

“They don’t all live up there, do they?” asked Fjaccoh.

“Are you kidding, dude?” asked Biaregard. “over a thousand people in there?!”

“Could be bigger on the inside,” said Fjaccoh.

“Could be,” Caleb said as a reminder that he often transmuted physics to his liking.

“I fucking hate magic,” said Biaregard irritably.

“If it makes you feel better, it isn’t. Not noticeably at least, I have never stopped to measure it. And it’s just my mother living there these days,” said Verin.

“Your mom lives all alone in there?” Biaregard asked, nodding toward the tower.

“In that turret, yes.”

“It’s too small for one-kay, but it’s way too big for one old rich lady.”

“She isn’t old in this life,” said Verin.

“I’m not touching that,” said Beau.

“I suppose that’s fair on both counts,” said Verin, looking up at Hall Thelyss and cocking his head slightly, as if trying to see his ancient home from a new angle. “There are always more people there, servants, clergy, parishioners, guests and the like but she lives alone.”

“‘People’ other than you and Essek,” Biaregard said. “Given what you said last night, it seems like you aren’t too close to her either.”

“No, not terribly so,” said Verin, looking somewhat awkward under Beau’s barrage of questions. Caleb had been too distracted last night to notice if he was similarly flustered then. “But we are far from her only family. There are children from various lifetimes, their children, their children’s children, cousins, siblings, family members without Common words for them and people from associated Noble and Lower Dens coming and going, looking for advice and approval, expressing dismay and appealing, playing politics and only the Luxon’s Light can show what else. They come from all over Xhorhas so they often stay a week or more.”

“But they can’t live up there, huh?” asked Biaregard. “Is that your mom being a snob, an archaic tradition, or coincidence?”

“Mostly tradition, but it is for a logical reason. Because of the size of a Den as established as ours there are practices to keep the household manageable. The only people who live there permanently are the Umavi’s immediate family in her present life; her spouse, any concubines she should have, and her children before they experience the anamnesis or reach maturity. My mother has had two children thus far in this lifetime and we’ve both moved out, and it has been centuries since she has sought any partner other than my father who is, unfortunately, deceased for the time being.”

“You got along with your dad?” Biaregard asked.

“I did,” Verin replied. “I know what Essek says about him but…” he shrugged, “agree to disagree.”

“So you don’t think he was ‘without ambition’ and ‘no great loss’ like Essek does?” asked Biaregard. Fjaccoh gave Biaregard a hard look. She ignored him entirely.

Verin waved a dismissive hand, “It’s no trouble, I have heard my brother say far worse about our father.”

“And you thought he was…” said Biaregard.

Verin sighed.

“You don’t have to answer,” said Fjaccoh. “We are all curious, but you don’t have to answer.”

Verin let out an amused huff. “It’s fine, truly. I am gathering my thoughts. No one has ever asked me before…Our father was very different from Essek and they never got along, neither of them liked the other. He was…strong, unrelenting, pious, emotional, principled, and very loyal. Perhaps a little too eager in his role as our mother’s consort rather than to establish himself as himself. He was the Taskhand of Bazzoxan most of his life and the life before, years before it became my post. He served it well enough, his men respected him, but he was not a great strategist and very dependent on his advisors for more than advice. I think he was not cut out to lead, but not everyone is, not everyone needs to be. As for his ambition…no, he was not an ambitious man. The Umavi got him his role, and he stayed in it. He had a head better suited for a helmet then a coronet. He was a good military commander and a poor politician. I suppose I take after him in that regard.”

Now Caleb had to ask, speaking softly so as not to be overheard. “You keep saying ‘politician’, ‘playing politics’, things of that nature, I wonder what exactly that means in this instance.” He had a suspicion he knew exactly what sort of politics it was.

“Oh, the usual,” said Verin in an almost exhausted tone, “debating and creating laws of state and religion, matters of property, civil and criminal procedings, arranging marriages and adoptions, settling disputes, blackmail, bribery, sabotage, the occasional assassination.”

“Ja, I thought as much. It seems the Dynasty and Empire are birds of a feather,” muttered Caleb, thinking of the inner machinations of the Cerberus Assembly.

“I’m not surprised,” said Verin, “I believe, regardless of what people say and biological deviations, elfoid beings are largely the same as one another.”

“I don’t think it is ever that simple, cultures vary, you proved that last night, but that doesn’t alter anybody’s humani—value. We don’t need to be the same,” Biaregard said.

“Well said,” Verin replied.

“Yeah,” said Beau dismissively. Then, “doesn’t seem like you’d be good at blackmail, bribery, or murder, Verin.”

“Me? Luxon, No. I’m not even good at the savory aspects of politics. The last time I got directly involved at all…” Verin clicked his tongue and pointed to his scarred eye with his thumb.

“Shit, really?” Biaregard said, her cold interrogator persona gone for a moment.

“Really,” Verin replied.

“I thought you got that fighting a monster,” she said.

“I did.”

“I meant a non-person monster,” Biaregard clarified.

“So did I,” Verin said with a mirthless smile, “but it was here in the Lucid Bastion and not Bazzoxan. Shall I explain?”

“Yeah,” said Biaregard.

“Absolutely,” said Fjaccoh. Caleb could not help but silently agree. It seemed like a hell of a story even with the few pieces he had and he, like Essek, was always hungry for more information.

“It was…” Verin clicked his tongue as he did some internal calculating, “16 years ago. Essek had just been named as the new Shadowhand but hadn’t been through the creation ceremony yet…”

Verin said “16 years ago” as it was not an astonishing number. 16 years was roughly half of Caleb’s life. 16 years ago he had been — who? He hadn’t been Bren. He had been as astronomically far from Bren as he had been from Caleb. He had been Nothing, a forgotten catatonic husk in Vergessen Sanitarium. 16 years ago seemed like eons, just a smudge in Caleb’s mind, dull colors and acrid smells and muffled sounds. Knowing how others’ memories worked he doubted it was much better for Beau or Fjord even without his then shattered mind.

Sixteen years ago Beauregard was nine. Fjord was 15. The shell of Bren Aldric Ermendrud was scarcely 18. But 16 years ago Essek was old enough to hold a position at the Queen’s side. Caleb was reminded that both Essek and Verin were older than his grandparents would have been and yet they were barely adults by elven reckoning. The other day, just before everything fell apart, Essek said that when he had been Caleb’s age he had been young enough to have just started his formal education. Elves must have seen time so impossibly differently, so impossibly slowly. Ludinus Da’leth, still the Martinet of the Cerberus Assembly, had been an adult when Molaesmyr collapsed. The Bright Queen was one of the survivors of the Calamity and Divergence. Caleb could not hope to live to be even as old as Essek was now. It was a little frightening to think about.

Caleb couldn’t marvel for long as Verin was still speaking. “The Bright Queen’s choosing Essek was wildly unpopular in the court.”

“Why?” asked Biaregard.

“Whoever was chosen would have been unpopular because everyone is unpopular around here, but they made an excuse of his age. He was too young to be Shadowhand,” Verin replied.

“How old is too young?” Biaregard asked.

“I am astonished by how many questions you can ask,” said Verin.

“I’m barely getting started,” Biaregard answered with a proud smile.

“Essek was 106 at the time and obviously in his first life,” said Verin. Ah yes, elves, beings in which 106 was ‘too young’ and the Kryn where being alive only once was a disadvantage rather than a sad truth.

“Essek kept trying to dodge his age when we first met him,” Biaregard reminded Fjaccoh and Caleb.

“Because he is practically an adolescent and he wanted to sound more intimidating. If he says ‘around 120’ a Kryn is libal to round up, perhaps to 125, 130, perhaps even higher,” said Verin. Fjaccoh chuckled. “He only just turned 122 two months ago,” said Verin with a ghost of a smile.

Fjaccoh stopped laughing. “We missed his birthday,” he said distantly.

“We can make it up to him by saving his life,” said Biaregard. “You were saying.”

“Yes, well, everyone was complaining about nepotism as if everyone in the court hasn’t earned their seat through heredity and nepotism. They said it was unwise to put somebody who was practically a child in a seat of so much power…and maybe they were right…” Verin allowed the darkness to close over his handsome features again as his mind clearly went elsewhere.

Caleb knew Verin was looking for excuses for Essek and finding none. What Verin did not realize was that sometimes a brilliant mind could be warped by its own ambition and desire for knowledge and power. A brilliant mind could become too convinced of its own brilliance and lose sight of all but that, so sure it knew what was right until it didn’t. And by then it was too late. Too late for Essek and too late for Bren.

“Well, there were a lot of people who wanted Essek’s new role and a lot of people who just didn’t want Essek to have it. So I appointed myself as his bodyguard and tried to keep others at bay. I was 96,” Verin laughed, “Not even an adult and I thought I had the slightest idea what I was doing because I’d had some martial training. I probably only made things worse, but I wouldn’t be deterred and Essek let me pretend I was helping. Shortly before Essek’s creation ceremony, two weeks into his tenure as Shadowhand, some belligerent party summoned a barbed devil to attack him—”

“Are you certain?” Caleb asked.

Verin looked vaguely in his direction and spoke very seriously, “Mr Widogast I may not be as smart as Essek but I can assure you I know my fiends and aberrations extremely well. Even if I didn’t then, I’ve faced enough of them by now to be entirely certain.”

“Yes, of course, I am not doubting your insight. I am simply, ah, impressed with the caster, that is a very expensive and very high level spell,” Caleb replied with an apologetic but invisible bow of his head.

“I’m not surprised. Life in the Noble and Ruling Dens is very, shall we say, cutthroat. Sometimes literally.”

“So who was it?” Biaregard asked.

“Hm?”

“You know who did it. You said ‘life in the Noble and Ruling Dens’, that means you know the other guy was from a Noble Den,” Biaregard finished confidently.

“Huh, maybe it does, I hadn’t thought of that, but I don’t think of much. I don’t know for certain who it was, but Essek has always remained unshakably confident that it was Zokol Omrifar, our very own Gloomblade. But he could never prove it.”

The mention of Omrifar, all that they implied, and all the memories they brought back still made Caleb vaguely nauseous.

“So Essek worked with them after that?” Biaregard asked.

“All the time,” said Verin. “But it isn’t uncommon to work with your rivals or enemies around here. I think every official with any sort of clout does it.”

“That is also the same as the Cerberus Assembly. Every Archmage hates and plots against the others,” said Caleb, now that his mind was dragged back there.

“Makes sense and I hate it,” said Biaregard. “Go on.”

“Essek and I were attacked. I stupidly didn’t suspect something like that would happen, Essek did. I got involved and it didn’t go well.” He chuckled a little and shook his head at his own innocent valor. “Of course it didn’t, I was a child with very little training, which I foolishly thought was enough. Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t. It took more than just us, obviously, members of the Watch and the Lens both stepped in, and ultimately the devil was killed, Essek was not, my face was nearly torn off, the carpet needed a good scrubbing, and the Umavi restored my eye as best she could, and business returned to normal.”

Biaregard pinched Caleb’s arm hard as Verin finished. He bit back the squeak of surprise and pain, but he thought that perhaps, probably, almost certainly, Beau had been drawn to the same phrase and come to the same conclusion that Caleb did. “As best she could”. That plus the specificity of the eye (rather than the skin or a more general face) led Caleb (and Beauregard) to believe that his eye had not been returned to full function. Maybe Beau didn’t actually want a scar like Verin’s after all, at least the changes caused by hers were entirely aesthetic.

“When it became clear Omrifar would get away without punishment I was furious, but when my mother asked me to carry out some kind of reciprocation I found that I had lost my taste for politics and truly no longer wanted to perpetuate the cycle of bloodshed. It didn’t help when my mother pointed out that Essek would ensure I would never be officially tied to any attack on our under-den; that really only made me more confident in my decision to leave. So I dedicated myself to the Aurora Watch.”

“Can I just say ‘what the fuck?’ Isn’t your mom supposed to be all holy and shit?” asked Biaregard.

Verin violently shushed her, looking around in alarm. No one seemed to notice. He spoke softly, “she is. Extremely. My mother is one of three souls perfected by the Luxon. She is one of the three lawmakers of the Kryn Dynasty. She has lived nine lifetimes and carries the wisdom of each. She was one of the first to be reborn by the Luxon’s consecution. She is the mother of our den and its under-dens. Sometimes conflict rises between them. Due to the nature of elfoid free will, she often has to make difficult decisions and things can get ugly.”

“Man, the more I learn about this den shit the more Essek’s whole deal makes sense,” said Beau. “I’m not excusing what he did,” she added quickly, “but this place would fuck up anyone, turn them into a selfish asshole.”

Verin shrugged, but neither agreed nor disagreed with her accusation.

“Except you,” Biaregard said to Verin.

“I assure you I am undeniably fucked up,” Verin said cheerily.

Biaregard scowled, “yeah, but the same way everybody’s fucked up, you’re not homicidal. How’d you grow up in all…” she gestured vaguely at the towers growing in front of them as they crossed the courtyard, “all this and not end up a complete psychopath?”

“Neglect, mostly,” said Verin, still smiling.

“And yet you still go to the wall for your mom and Essek,” said Biaregard.

“Not that we’re complaining about the second one,” said Fjaccoh.

“I do,” Verin said.

“That’s really big of you,” Biaregard said. Caleb could not help but agree. “I would have just told them to go fuck themselves a while ago.”

“Essek is the only person who didn’t neglect me,” said Verin, “And I’m not going to abandon him.”

“Essek trusts you,” Fjaccoh said to Verin, “you should wear that with pride.”

“I should hope he does,” Verin scowled, but his expression softened as he added, “I do understand what that means. Essek has never trusted easily.”

“As your tale so aptly demonstrated he has never had reason to,” Caleb said as Verin led them to a door the base of the central spire. It was to the side of the lavish main entrance and below the looming Hall Thelyss. Caleb would have said the doorway was in the shadow of the other spires if everything wasn’t in shadow in the perpetual twilight and the spires didn’t glow. It had to be unlocked with a heavy iron key and led into a narrow vertical tunnel, lit by a pair of lanterns at the door. There was a spiral staircase climbing the wall into the impenetrable darkness above and below to a trap door under which Caleb assumed there were more stairs leading below ground. In the center was a strange contraption that dragged booths up the tunnel along an enchanted pulley, or Caleb assumed it was enchanted. The booth could probably fit the four of them uncomfortably and had a cage door to keep them from falling to their deaths. Caleb did not in any way like the look of it, it would be a terrible place to be caught by an enemy, but he liked it better than the prospect of wheezing his way up another staircase. It seemed it would also be faster, which was good; they had 47 minutes.

“In, in,” Verin said shooing them toward the booth, which was when Caleb realized it wasn’t going to stop for them.

The four of them clambered quickly into a booth as it began its ascent. It was uncomfortable and cramped, yes, but it was fast. They rose quickly enough to be faster than a humanoid taking the stairs would be, but slow enough that one could take in the splendor around them. Or one could so long as they had dark vision. Caleb did not and now that they were beyond the lantern light from the entrance the tower was lit only by the occasional peek of the quartz wall. These revealed small segments of what must have been enormous murals and mosaics made of gemstones he could not name. It was what each of the Candles was trying to be: unique, expensive, impressive, attention grabbing. Den Thelyss did it much better, even judging by just the little Caleb could see.

There wasn’t much room to move in their little cage, but Biauregard was in motion, doing her best, it seemed, to knock them off the pulley, which did not help Caleb’s nausea. She was nervous in her Beauregard way. Angry and antsy, in other words. Caleb had made a careful study of people. Naturally he was not necessarily good at judging interactions and reactions of sentient beings, but he had always been eager to study. He had his mental checklist that, at the very least, Dwendalian humans tended to follow. Except Beauregard. She required an entirely unique list of expressions and reactions. After a year of near constant interaction he thought he had some level of mastery in understanding her different flavors of mood.

“Was that you, Caleb?” she muttered as she must have felt her elbow collide with something fleshy.

“Ja,” Caleb wheezed, “you just elbowed me in the solar plexus.”

“I thought I’d caught the bars for a second, how is all of you so bony?”

“The parts of me that are not bone are gristle, you know this. Is something on your mind, Beauregard?” Caleb muttered, rubbing the pain away from where she’d struck him.

“I hate this plan.”

“Ja, well, so it goes,” said Caleb, frustrated.

“Too late now,” said Fjaccoh and Verin hummed in agreement.

“There are too many things that can go wrong here. What if the Gloomblade doesn’t fall for it?” said Biaregard. She had had this complaint last night, but it had seemed very unimportant then within the walls of the Xhorhaus.

“If Om…Orm…Ormafarm?” Fjaccoh struggled and looked to Verin for help.

“Just call them ‘Gloomblade,’ please,” said Verin.

“Orfinar?” Fjaccoh tried again, farther this time.

“Omrifar,” said an exasperated Biaregard.

“Good pronunciation,” said Verin, sounding genuinely impressed.

“Omrifar is one of the 12 Noble Dens, I do my homework,” said Beau with a smug flick of her hand that hit Caleb in the Adam’s apple.

“If Omrafrr,” Fjord muttered the last bit of the name, attempting to hide his mispronunciation. Gods above, Beau was right. This was going to go wrong. This was going to go so very wrong.

Verin winced, shoulders rising and ears sinking to meet them, but he muttered, “a little better.”

“Thank you,” said Fjord, “if they don’t buy it…well, we make them buy it!”

“Ich glaube, ich spinne,” Caleb muttered into the heel of his own hand.

“Try not to address them by name, alright?” Verin said gently to Fjord. “‘Gloomblade’ will do.”

The booth paused, caught on the edge of a platform. They had come to a landing, lit again by twin lanterns flanking a heavy door at the far end.

“No turning back now,” said Verin as he opened the door to the cage and stepped out.

“There never was,” said Caleb, following suit. “Not so long as Essek is in danger.”

The other two piled out. The change in weight seemed to release their booth from its snag and it restarted its ascent. Fjord only just managed to get his back foot onto the landing before the car kicked free, nearly tripping him. It quickly must have reached its apex somewhere in the dark above, because within a few moments their booth (or perhaps merely an identical one) was sinking again. In that time Verin had opened the door leading into the Hall. As Caleb turned away from the lift, he saw Verin leaning through the crack in the doorway, just wide enough for this purpose, checking whatever corridor was beyond. Without so much as glancing backward, Verin made a beckoning gesture and muttered, “Let’s go.”

This was, Caleb had to admit, where the plan got sticky. There were still 45 minutes left before Caleb became visible again, but Team Name was not in the clear. Now they four were in a much smaller space, a denser tide of people and their scrutiny. It was easy (or at least easier) to get a good look at them, speak to them, accidentally stumble into the invisible Zemnian, or find out Biaregard’s illusory face was just that. Very probably with the same considerations in mind, Biaregard put down her helmet’s faceplate.

Waccoh and Verin were, by the latter’s admission, not usually companions, but with the Thelyss family ties to the intellectual elite it wasn’t unlikely for them to run into each other. And if Waccoh was looking for Omrifar and Verin knew where to find them, why couldn’t they be seen walking together? The guard and Verin were even more likely to be paired up. The problem, Caleb thought, was the three of them all together; Waccoh + Verin + T’kyzch. Only time would tell if they managed to fit in or not.

Caleb followed the trio invisibly up two storeys, holding tightly to the plate on Beau’s shoulder. The first two floors of the Hall were busy, or perhaps not busy, but certainly occupied and in motion. There were servants, priests, and who Caleb assumed were people either seeking the Umavi’s blessing or hoping to impress her. There were not so many people that an invisible Caleb couldn’t dodge them, but there were enough that the dodging was necessary. No one seemed suspicious or concerned, however. The most Verin got was a brief nod or a muttered word of greeting. He certainly was not an object of any interest. Indeed, Fjaccoh had to talk his way out of more conversations than Verin did.

“‘Neglect, mostly,’” Beau repeated under her breath. Caleb didn’t know if she was talking to him or herself, in any case she wasn’t wrong.

It wasn’t easy to see where they were headed…or where they were, where they came from, or much of anything. This was the home of drow and it showed in its unrestrained darkness. Thankfully, the first two floors of the tower had occasional light provided for guests. But it seemed to be expected that the majority of visitors would have darkvision; none of the provided sources was very bright. Beyond any lit hearths, the only light provided came from segments of dim purplish quartz either carved from the spires or the same original source.

The third and fourth floors were emptier and darker, fewer people and fewer crystals to match. Indeed, by the time they reached their destination most of the light came from the few windows, making it dark enough that even Fjord was struggling to see.

“Never thought I’d miss those eyes,” Biaregard whispered to Caleb, only able to find his ear because he was still clutching her shoulder. For all he could see, she, too, might have been magically invisible as well, just a dark form on a plane of darkness.

“I disagree,” Caleb said honestly, “I knew I’d miss the abilities they granted to us, I do not miss the psychic link to Lucien and his polycule of lunatics, but that aside it was a pretty good deal.”

“Fair,” replied Beau.

Soon they were reportedly within eyeshot of the stopgap cell and more importantly its guard. When he decided they were close enough, Verin gave an exaggerated point in the direction of the vague shape materializing in Caleb’s line of sight.

“There they are,” said Verin, a little too loudly and clearly to be natural.

Fjaccoh nodded and separated from Verin, gesturing for Biaregard to follow. She did admirably for someone who, like Caleb, was flying literally blind.

Omrifar said some greeting to Fjaccoh that Caleb didn’t catch entirely. He was distracted by Omrifar’s jewelry, the residuum glinting in the limited light. The closer the three got to the Gloomblade the more Imperial blood was smeared across their features…the more der Magiefleischhacker grew from legend and solidified into flesh. In that moment Caleb could not hate anyone more than this person.

The expansive collection of jewelry on display made Caleb’s skin crawl. While there was an upsetting amount of humanoid bone on display, the objects of attention were the array of crystals. Caleb knew them well. Der Magiefleishhacker, the Gloomblade, Zokol Omrifar, had killed or mutilated at least five of Caleb’s Imperial siblings to make the grizzly trophies he wore now. They had put a lot of work into beautifying the stolen gems. The residuum based crystals that had been repeatedly forced into Caleb’s flesh had been inelegantly cut, knife sharp on one end, and a small gamit of sizes. These had all been smoothed, recut, resized, and made to perfectly match one another.

The implants themselves were an inelegant solution before Trent created, discovered, or stole the idea for the tattoos Vollstecker now bore. There was no way to put a foreign object deep into the body and not have it ultimately rejected. If the ever-encroaching infection didn’t kill the subject their own immune system would. Caleb had been taught that many times. Part of the experimentation he, Astrid, and Eadwulf had endured was to see how long the crystals could be kept in place without having to be removed. They had had different sorts of crystals put in, were given different healing potions, but in a matter of days or weeks they would need to be strapped down again, their wounds reopened, and crystals pulled free. Then it was always at least a half of a day to recover full function of one’s arms and a regime of potions and salves to treat the lingering effects. Those crystals represented sacrifice, agony, patriotism, and dedication; the misguided hopes and ideals of a pillaged youth. And now they were dead. Their killer may have never even known their names. And now these poor monsters were reduced to a trophy, a piece of jewelry to stroke the ego of the person who murdered them.

Here was the boogiemen of boogiemen, a nightmare’s nightmare, a storybook monster come to life, and that deep part of Caleb, the part he felt he constantly had to tamp down, told him to strike out for his fallen siblings. Kill Omrifar here and now for everything they had done. He resisted the urge. There was no death worth more than Essek’s life. Something inside called him a coward.

“You can definitely help me out,” said Fjaccoh in his close approximation of Waccoh’s rasp.

How well did the Gloomblade know Professor Waccoh? Caleb wondered. That voice had worked in encounters so far, but would that streak hold or was this where it all fell apart? Caleb’s breath caught in his chest but nothing seemed to change. Omrifar tipped their head as an invitation to continue and Fjord took it. “I got a residuum sample, expensive stuff—”

“It certainly is,” they said, rubbing their thumb not-so-subtly over the bracelet on the opposite wrist, the pattern of crystals was broken up by what appeared to be humanoid phalanges. Caleb’s anger burned. He saw Fjaccoh’s face twitch in disgust at their demeanor. Fjord, like Verin, had never been in a situation like Caleb and der Magiefleishhacker had. To der Magiefleischhacker the Vollstrecker and other Imperial units were as much rabid animals as the Kryn were to…well, as they had been to Bren once upon a time. The enemy could never be people, because then they would be so much harder to kill.

“Yeah, well, I don’t want to mess it up too much and since you’re an expert on the stuff — the expert in the stuff,” Fjaccoh corrected himself when he saw the way Omrifar puffed up their chest in reaction to the word ‘expert,’ “I was hoping I could borrow you for like fifteen minutes.”

Omrifar’s good mood shifted. Their smile fell to a scowl.

“I brought Bia here to cover for you,” said Fjaccoh, gesturing to Biaregard.

Omrifar’s look of doubt did not dissipate. “I have an important job to do, Professor, on behalf of the queen.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, but—”

“Do you?” they asked with cold curiosity. Caleb held his breath.

There was a pause that lasted for two of the longest seconds of Caleb’s life. Then Fjaccoh said, “Not in so many words, but if you’re helping the Shadowhand with something it must be important, right?”

Omrifar gave Fjaccoh a long look, eyes glinting like emeralds in the dim, a thoughtful gaze that Caleb worried would end in a Dispel Magic, but instead they sniffed dismissively and said, “it’s above your pay grade.”

“I didn’t ask, buddy,” said Fjaccoh under his breath, but more loudly added, “I’m much more concerned with what you can do for me. I want to integrate residuum into something for the Echo Knights. I don’t know if I can do it without you.”

Caleb thought that might have been laying it on thick but Omrifar smiled.

“With your help we’ll be done in no time! And you can get back to…” Caleb’s heart leapt into his throat, but Fjaccoh simply said “...whatever it is you’re doing.”

Omrifar, standing taller and prouder than they had been, considered for a moment, “Bia, was your name?” they asked Biaregard.

She straightened. “Yes, Gloomblade!”

“You are to stand at this door. Let no one in or out, by order of her Eternal Majesty the Bright Queen herself. Do you understand? This operation is worth more than your fragile soul.”

“Yes, Gloomblade,” Biaregard repeated, but Caleb could hear the edge of anger in her voice. Only loyalty to Essek was keeping her from pop-popping them right there.

“Professor, you have ten minutes,” said Omrifar to Fjaccoh. Caleb swallowed dryly. The timer was shaken again, another landslide of sand, now they had 10 minutes, one of which would need to be used on casting.

Fjaccoh put his arm around Omrifar who stiffened considerably and awkwardly. But the disregard for social graces and other’s personal space was very much in keeping with Waccoh. Biaregard took up Omrifar’s post, Verin’s polearm held tightly and awkwardly in both hands.

Caleb checked for the marks of an Alarm. Seeing none he unlocked the door with a muttered spell.

“Move your scrawny wizard ass,” Biaregard hissed, shoving his revealed form inside, yanking the door closed behind him. He didn’t need the push or the reminder. Caleb dispelled any magic in the room; still he fully believed somebody in Hall Thelyss already knew Essek’s door had been opened. It couldn’t be this easy.

The room he found himself in was nearly pitch dark. There was a small amount of light coming in from distant windows, revealing what counted as “sunset” in a city without sun. There was so little time.

“Essek?!” Caleb called out in a loud whisper, he dared not raise his voice any higher. There was no reply. “Scheiße!” he muttered to himself. He dug into his component pouch and squeezed a petrified glowworm between thumb and middle finger, his other fingers bending then straightening as he breathed out a few arcane words and his Dancing Light globules erupted from his fingertips. He saw now that he stood in a large common room of a suite. On the closer perpendicular wall there were two identical doors, each with a dodecahedron pattern carved into the wood, set with metal.

In his component pouch Caleb swapped the glowworm for a short length of copper wire. He wound it around his right pointer finger with another shower of words. The wire buzzed with magical energy as he brought it to his lips, pointing at the closed doors with his other hand.

“Essek!” Caleb hissed into the wire. No reply. “Verdammt noch mal!” (“Damn it all!”) He readjusted to the other door, “Essek!”

“I assume my silence will not encourage you to leave,” Essek’s voice buzzed through the wire and Caleb melted with relief. He almost lost concentration on his globules as the tension left him. They were far from done, but at least Essek was still alive and well. “It seems Verin found you,” he added.

“We were already working on our master plan, but yes, he was a very big help. Where are you?” Caleb asked, casting again.

“My bedroom,” replied Essek. And even now that made Caleb’s heart jump embarrassingly in his chest. “Farther door.”

Caleb tried the knob. It was unlocked and he stepped inside, amber globules close behind him. He was now standing in Essek’s childhood bedroom. He wished the circumstances were different so he could take it in, see if he could learn about the boy who became the man he loved. In the current circumstances Caleb only registered the room’s general size; as a child Bren had slept in the loft of his family’s two room home, below the sloped roof; Essek’s room was high-ceilinged and could easily fit the footprint of the whole doomed cabin.

Essek was sitting cross legged on his lounge, or rather hovering cross legged a few inches above it. He looked up when Caleb entered and the globules caught Essek’s tapetum lucidum, lighting his eyes up electric purple. Essek’s eyes were always striking, but, despite knowing it was an entirely natural phenomenon, there was something breathtaking and magical about his eyeshine. He was dressed simply. He wore a blue shirt with sleeves to the elbow, black pants secured by buttons on the hip, and no shoes or socks, just his slender bare feet.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Essek said, floating into a standing position, gracefully as a swan.

“Neither should you!” Caleb replied.

Essek laughed hard enough to show his fangs, “I should and you know it. I am guilty. Were I not born of Den Thelyss I would be in the Dungeon of Penance or dead already.”

Caleb caught Essek’s hand and pulled him close. He used his free hand to touch Essek’s cheek and redirect his face so Caleb could kiss him on the forehead. He wasn’t sure if it was to reassure Essek or find his own strength. “You deserve life,” Caleb said gently, “you deserve another chance.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because you are you.”

Essek looked up, touched, then shook his head, eyes falling to the ground, “who am I, Caleb Widogast? Who am I but a murderer?”

“You are Essek Thelyss and you are amazing.”

“I don’t—” Essek said, trying to take a step away.

When it became clear this was going to be an argument Caleb cut him off and held tight. “We do not have time to argue right now. Once we are safe in Nicadranas we will talk.”

Essek’s hand relaxed in Caleb’s grip. He let out a shaking breath and looked from their joined hands back up at Caleb’s face. He nodded and, not for the first time, Caleb thought about kissing him, but that would be foolish, there wasn’t time. Not now. Instead he dropped to his knees and producing his gemstone-chalk from his component pouch, he quickly began to draw a teleportation circle.

“Did you mean it?” Essek asked after a moment, “that I am amazing?”

Caleb was trying to concentrate on the magic he was imbuing into the circle. He spoke only in the pause between verbal components. “I did, I do.” He felt his face heating up as he added, “you may be the most amazing man I have ever met.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Essek replied. Caleb’s face got hotter and he almost fumbled on one of his own verbal components.

In the next break Caleb said, “You will give the world great things.”

“I cannot imagine giving them without you. You are…incalculable, my friend, your mind fathomless. I have never met another like you…” he let out a breath, “I apologize. I am not used to being this sincere and it is very refreshing, but just as difficult,” he let out a little laugh, “and perhaps even more embarrassing.”

“Please don’t apologize,” Caleb said, he wanted to tell Essek that he could think of no better fate than working with him forever, but now the incantations picked up frequency with almost each rune being accompanied by sound. So the conversation faded as Essek hovered nervously.

Just on the edge of his periphery Caleb saw Essek’s ears perk and flick toward some unheard noise. After a moment Caleb heard it too. Footfalls, rapid ones. Voices in the hallway beyond.

“You are running out of time,” Essek said.

But Caleb was nearly done. He was so close. A few more lines. A few more words. He could already feel the runes heating up below his hands, thrumming with energy they were desperate to release.

As he finished the verbal components the voices accompanying the footfalls became louder and clearer.

“Caleb!” Essek whispered, eyes wide and frightened.

“Almost!” Caleb snapped. He gritted his teeth and focused on not snapping the tiny fragment of chalk he had left in his haste. He knew how to cast and operate under the strictest and starkest of conditions, thanks to Trent. The secret was never to lose sight of your goal. Not for the first time Caleb missed the crystal implants that had increased his magical capacity and even envied the Vollstrecker tattoos. The scars on his arm ached with the memory, he wondered, perhaps madly, if somewhere Omrifar’s residuum was reacting.

Just a few more lines in Yussa’s arcane address. Just a few more.

Now Caleb could make out the voices distinctly. It was Verin and the Gloomblade, shouting at one another in Undercommon, they were joined in by Beau’s undisguised voice in the same language. He did not dare look back at Essek. He just had to connect two lines now. Just finish the circle, finish the circle and they were home free.

The door in the common area slammed open.

“You need to leave!” Essek hissed. Caleb was on his feet, the portal burst to life, they would be safe in a few moments.

“Not without you,” Caleb tried to grab Essek, but this time in a mirror of a minute earlier Essek caught Caleb’s hand and squeezed tightly.

“Caleb…” Essek brought their faces close, and Caleb thought he was seeking a kiss. He leaned in for it, his eyes fluttering closed. Instead Essek pushed him with an incredible amount of magical force into the sigil on the ground. Almost too quietly to hear over the buzz of magic Essek whispered, “forgive me.”

“Essek—!” Caleb shouted. He reached out for Essek but could not quite get to him. Then everything was amber light and a rushing noise and Essek disappeared miles behind him.

Chapter Text

Caleb was safe; now Essek just had to tweak the narrative. Hopefully, he could make Zokol think this was an attempted escape and not an attempted rescue. No matter what happened, Essek would not allow the rage of the Kryn Dynasty to come down on his friends or his brother. He knew the destructive force the Bright Queen had at her disposal and they did not, not even Verin knew what was being developed in the darkest corners of her barracks and laboratories.

“Going somewhere?” Zokol asked, when Essek looked up both they and Verin stood in his doorway.

“It seems not,” Essek replied dryly.

Verin stood behind Zokol, together their broader frames nearly blocked the door, but not enough that Essek couldn’t see the two people trying to shove their way into the room from behind. One was Tuss Waccoh and the other…the other caught Essek’s attention immediately. She was a young tiefling woman — her name escaped Essek at the moment — she had worked in the den’s Hall for a few years, but she was relocated to work for one of the Umavi’s daughters after an attempt on her life. She was now trailing said daughter on a mission trip in Marquet. Her transfer took place about a year ago, shortly before the Mighty Nein arrived in Xhorhas, and, importantly, between Verin’s visits to Rosohna. Neither his brother nor the Mighty Nein knew that the tiefling wouldn’t and couldn’t be in Rosohna. So she was a member of the Mighty Nein, disguised as someone Verin thought still worked there. Well, that explained how he heard Beau’s voice and her distinctly accented Undercommon. Likely there were more of them in the house. With that realization Essek felt his eyes widen, but he immediately corrected his expression to one of annoyance as he carefully glanced over the only other member of the party, Tuss Waccoh, now standing behind Verin. She certainly looked normal, but she had reacted strangely to the Undercommon exchanged between Verin and Zokol, perhaps like she didn’t comprehend one of the languages she grew up speaking. Then, when Essek looked for errors and inexactness in her form he could easily find them. The answer struck him like a hammer: Fjord.

Luxon above, why did they do this for him? He was trying to keep them safe! Why were they so stupid? Why did they care for him this much? He had done nothing to deserve their loyalty and love, yet they heaped it on him all the same. He was both deeply touched and equally annoyed with them; it was a strange cocktail of feelings that somehow the Mighty Nein and Verin all excelled at mixing.

Fjord and Beau needed to get away, and they needed an opening to do it. Essek let out a centering breath the way Verin often did, the way Caleb taught him, and slowly began to cast. If he got off a spell, good; if it went uncountered, even better, but the important thing was that he caught and held Zokol’s attention and gave the “guard” and the “professor” a chance to run. Unfortunately he didn’t know what he could do for Verin at this point. Idiots, all of them.

The disguised members of the Nein remained rooted in the doorway until Essek combined a somatic component with a jerk of his head. Beau understood that. She nodded in a curt way that would have made him certain she was Beau even if he hadn’t heard her voice and grabbed Waccoh-Fjord around the arm. Fjord had been standing, jaw agape when Beau pulled him. He looked like he was going to protest, take a step into the crowded room, but Beau’s insistence seemed to work.

Essek cracked off the Ray of Enfeeblement he was preparing. Verin jumped aside and Zokol Countered it almost lazily, the sickly black beam fizzled and dissipated harmlessly back into the Weave. By the time Essek’s eyes got back to the common room it was empty of life. Fjord and Beau were gone. If only Verin could or would do the same.

Now Zokol could have the bulk of Essek’s attention. They looked both triumphant and furious by degrees, each feeding the other. “I knew it!” they sneered. “I knew you could not be trusted! I knew you would try something!”

“I have a reputation for breaking the rules, don’t imagine you are the only one to doubt my veracity,” Essek said with his soft, political smile.

“The Umavi showed you mercy that I never would have and you betrayed her! You betrayed her, you betrayed the Dynasty, and you betrayed the divine Luxon itself!” their voice rose with each accusation and Essek’s nonchalance seemed to be only making Zokol angrier. Good. Anger made people stupid and given the scene staged before them Essek was going to need a lot of self-sabotage on their part for them not to suspect any outside influence.

“I have done it before. More than once, in fact. You may ask my mother for the details yourself,” Essek said. He felt his smile broaden and become sharper as his monologue came together in his mind. “Isn’t there a Menagerie Coast expression that says doing the same thing many times over and expecting a different result is the definition of insanity?”

And with that something in Zokol visibly snapped. Essek grinned as Zokol crossed the bedroom toward him snarling with rage on the Umavi’s behalf. The residuum in their jewelry flared brightly in the dark, serving as warning that they had another spell beginning to form in their mind. Essek was already summoning a Counterspell while glancing around for something to physically put between himself and the Gloomblade.

Neither proved necessary. Neither wizard even had the time to cast.

Verin’s Echo burst into existence between them. Then in almost the same instant Verin himself took its place, the long curved blade of his glaive pointed at Zokol’s face. Essek lost focus on his spell and it fizzled out. Zokol, however, held their concentration and an orb of energy in the cage of their fingers. It was a Pulse Wave, ready to cast and throw both Essek and Verin across the room. But of course for it to do so they had to get the spell out without Verin slitting their throat.

“Stand down, Taskhand,” Zokol said through their teeth, “you’ve already chosen the wrong side, do not make it worse.”

“I agree, Verin,” Essek whispered close to his brother’s ear.

The way Verin was standing he could not actually see his brother, nor did he turn his working eye from his opponent, but he muttered to Essek, “as they say, I’ve already chosen the wrong side.” Then speaking more loudly and extremely calmly to Zokol added, “Essek Thelyss is a prisoner of her Eternal Radiant Majesty the Bright Queen and a member of Den Thelyss. He is not yours to punish.”

“I am acting in the best interest of the Dynasty and the Luxon!” snapped Zokol.

“You speak for neither of them,” said Verin.

Meanwhile Essek scoffed. “Petty underling is not a good look on you, Zokol,” he said.

“P-p-petty!?” Zokol snapped, “you are the p-p-petty one! This is no longer about you, Essek Thelyss! This is about a threat to Dynastic security!”

“It is not your choice to make,” said Verin calmly.

“It always seems to be about me!” Essek said at the same time in his most condescending tone.

The Gloomblade reacted immediately, although Essek didn’t know which brother angered them more. The residuum glowed brighter, more and more stones lighting up in a wave as their spell flared up before sputtering down again like a candle flame. They stopped short of attacking Verin, however. “Taskhand, this is larger than you could hope to comprehend! You don’t know the sort of monster you are defending!”

Verin kept his glaive up and held Zokol’s gaze unblinkingly. The picture of a fearless Kryn warrior. “I know, just as I know it is not your choice to make,” said Verin coldly. “We’ve stopped the escape. It is your turn to stand down.”

“Then you’re nearly as bad as he is!” shouted Zokol.

“It is not your choice to make,” Verin repeated for the third time, just as calmly and even more slowly. “We’ve stopped the escape, it is your turn to stand down. Drop your spell, Ormifar.” Through the long pause in which Zokol sized up the brothers, Verin’s blade remained dangerously close to Zokol’s jugular.

People often underestimated poor Verin. It was true that Verin’s skill-set did not match that typically favored by Den Thelyss, but he was as exceptional as any of them. It had taken him a long time to realize that, but Essek was reminded of it now as Verin stood with his polearm at the ready, staring down the Dynasty’s greatest assassin, one of its finest living chronurgists as they held an orb of throbbing energy in their hands. Despite knowing it was ridiculous, Essek felt oddly invulnerable behind his brother.

“You do not deserve to be any and all you are! You absolutely do not deserve to be the children of the Umavi!” Zokol growled.

“Ah, but why would the all-knowing Luxon bestow blessings on the unworthy? Or give one of its champions children unbefitting of her?” asked Essek.

“Drop your spell and stand down,” Verin repeated with extreme seriousness. “I will not ask you again.”

“Or what? You’ll assassinate me?” Zokol asked, snidely.

“Nothing so artful. I kill, I don’t assassinate,” said Verin, tone unchanged. “The Lens has no jurisdiction here to carry out an impromptu execution, the Aurora Watch may implement violence with extreme prejudice against anyone who threatens the citizens of the Kryn Dynasty.” A pause. Zokol scoffed and puffed themself up self-importantly. Verin was unshaken and unchanging. “If you think I’m bluffing just try me. I have used this blade to sever the necks of things far more dangerous than you.” He tipped his glaive ever so slightly closer to the purple-blue skin of Zokol’s throat and the thrumming artery just below the surface. So close now the tip of the blade could have nicked them on their inhale.

Finally Zokol’s spell dissipated and the teal glow of the residuum faded away, plunging the room back into total darkness. Essek wasn’t sure if they owed that mercy to Verin’s threats or the sounds in the hall: heavy footfalls of guards and the soft voice of Deirta Thelyss.

The Umavi appeared in the common room a moment later. Her bodyguards were behind her. Scanning them, Essek did not see anyone who looked wrong or out of place. That was so much of a relief that he almost forgot to be anxious about his mother’s presence. Almost. As he found her face, dread washed back over him like a bucket of cold water. It was a reflex, like gagging, even now years after he had stopped trying to please her and only days from death somehow he feared what she might say, how upset she would be.

She dismissed her bodyguards with a flick of her wrist and they immediately obeyed without complaint, leaving the room. One of them did look back at her in concern, but she was the Umavi. No one could question her direct order. Once they were gone she cast Thaumaturgy and the door swung shut.

“What has happened here?” she asked, gliding gently into the bedroom on soft-shoed feet, hidden below the billowing layers of her hanfu. She was wearing what was casual for her. Shorter train and sleeves on her clothing, less elaborate makeup and jewelry, no tiara.

Her voice and expression were calm despite the uneasy circumstances of her surroundings. She was the smallest person in the room by a sizable margin with Essek hovering, but somehow she seemed to look down on all the players in the scene around her. She held the staff of her office, purple wood carved with a chain of dodecahedra and the distinct geometric patterns designating Den Thelyss. It served no practical or magical purpose, it just marked her as social superior. This was the Umavi and she stopped so that she was loftily regarding the tableau before her.

“The Shadowhand—” Zokol began but Deirta silenced them with a raise of her free hand, palm toward them. Her spiritual superiority dwarfed them and made them shrink back on themself.

“I have not addressed you, Gloomblade,” she said without looking at them, but instead found Verin’s eyes. Verin looked away, both obedient and guilty.

“Verin,” she spoke gently to him with her hand still raised against Zokol, “Taskhand of Baxozzan, my youngest beloved child, please, will you tell me what happened here?”

This was a test. She knew what happened. She could see the inert Teleportation Circle on the floor. She saw the positions of the combatants. Essek wondered if it was a display of dominance over Zokol; she presented a united Den Thelyss, so remaining pitted against their enemies would also mean standing against his Umavi.

Verin closed his eyes, scrunched his brow, took a few deep breaths, then looked back at their mother. “Blessed Umavi, mother of my blood, bone, and soul, voice of my den. I can...I was…Omrifar and I…er…” His voice began strong then tapered off into nothing.

The Umavi remained quiet when Verin fell silent. She waited for Verin to resume speaking, looking expectant with benevolent impatience. Verin opened his mouth but anything he was going to say was cut off by Zokol’s insistent boot-licking.

“Your Holy Grace, I caught the former Shadowhand—” they started strong, proud, but their voice became quieter and less sure as they went on and it gave out entirely as the Umavi turned to face them. Essek could not see his mother’s face turned as she was, but whatever it was it had the desired effect.

Essek used his mother’s distracted attention to his advantage. He had to get rid of Caleb’s Teleportation Circle before the Umavi got a good look at it. Caleb’s Circle was obviously very different from Essek’s, different enough that she should have already noticed, but he wasn’t sure how well his Umavi knew his spells. She had vague interest in the arcane in addition to the divine, but she didn’t get too close to Essek’s work for fear of the deity she helped create or the system she helped build. Essek had no idea if she would realize this was not his chalk (orange instead of blue), handwriting, or rune system. Caleb’s handwriting was deliberate, bold, and practiced; marked by charming quirks of individuality. Essek’s was pretentious, elegant, and delicate; artificially honed rather than springing from frantic practical use. There was so much power in Caleb’s runes, raw and burning.

“I have been patient with you, Zokol Omrifar,” said his mother as Essek began Prestidigitating the floor behind her, blowing away the chalk from the wood. Of course one round of the cantrip had not wiped it away entirely but at least the lines began to blur.

“I know, your Hol—” Zokol began. Good, let them keep pushing their luck. It bought Essek more time to clean.

“You do not,” the Umavi said, this time cutting them off mid-word. Her supposed patience was clearly running very thin and her voice became icier than a Ray of Frost. “I have been patient. I have been kind. I have shown you the mercy and warmth of the Luxon despite the fact that you have attempted to end my son’s life, twice now.”

During his mother’s speech Essek cast another Prestidigitation. On the third Verin seemed to realize what he was doing, if not the importance of it. He joined in, using his boots and the base of his glaive’s hilt to scratch out the marks. However, at that last sentence Essek’s ears pricked. He glanced at Verin who had stopped scuffing the floor. As if he could feel Essek’s gaze on him Verin’s met it.

The same sentence made Zokol gasp. They made a wordless gagging sound. Essek’s eyes flicked over to them. They dropped down to their knees and pressed their forehead to the wood, they clasped their hands in front of them in desperate prayer. Finally they found their voice, “Umavi, p-p-please forgive me! I w-w-was only trying—”

“No,” she said in a voice like a knife, and Essek was sure, a gaze to match. “I did not grant you permission to speak. I forgave your attempted assassination on a member of my family, my child, but not because of any modicrum or mote of affection for you. I ignored the fact that you tried to kill my son for the good of our dens and the relationship between them, out of my love for your matriarch, who you selfishly disobeyed, and because you were so grossly inept you were unable to even permanently harm two children.”

Out of the tail of his eye Essek saw Verin look again in his direction, face pale and tight with discomfort, before going back to smudging the remaining chalk on the floor.

Zokol was breathing raggedly, hands bloodless and shaking where they were clenched in prayer. The Umavi let them grovel and beg, babbling senselessly for what felt like an eternity. Then she used her cloth-of-silver slippers to tip Zokol’s chin up. Essek could see tears shining in their eyes and tracing rivers down their cheeks. Deirta Thelyss’s voice was calm, ever serene as she said, “Your mother would slit your throat in an instant if I asked her to. You have been blessed enough to be reborn as a drow because of me, you only live because of me, you have only been saved from the gods beyond the Gate because of my blessing and I can just as easily remove you from the Luxon’s cycle. Do you understand?”

Eyes averted, they sniffled and nodded furiously against her shoe.

“Good. Apologize for your impertinence.”

Their voice was hoarse and softer than Essek had ever heard it. “My dearest Umavi—”

“Apologize to both of us,” she said.

Zokol let out a pained noise and so did Essek. Verin glanced between the Gloomblade and Essek as they did so. “Your Grace, perfect Umavi…and Świetlisty Essek. I humbly, humbly beg for your forgiveness—”

“At his feet,” the Umavi said.

Essek didn’t know if Deirta was doing this to humiliate Zokol or to stop Essek from completing his task. Thankfully between the two brothers they had erased the bulk of the Circle, the runes rendered unrecognizable and the shapes smeared.

Zokol went to stand and the Umavi stopped them. “I did not give you permission to rise.”

“Umavi this isn’t necessary!” Verin said frantically, while Essek was still trying to calculate what to say. Verin’s blunt approach would not help anyone, but he was faster.

“That is not for you to decide, Verin. Do not interrupt me again,” said the Umavi. “Zokol Omrifar, you were going to apologize to my son.”

They crawled across the floor and begged at Essek’s feet. The Umavi followed them with her eyes, watching without emotion. The experience of Zokol’s debasement was excruciating for Essek and he could not imagine what it was like for them. The apology was brief but it felt so much longer.

When it was finally done the Umavi said, “Never again forget your place in the harmony of the Luxon. You answer to your mother, she answers to me, I answer to the Luxon. You stand so deep in my shadow it is only by my good graciousness that you can catch a glimpse of the Light.”

“Never again will I forget,” they muttered.

“I have been merciful, and I will not do so again.”

“Thank you, I do not deserve it,” muttered Zokol.

“You do not. Now. Leave. Leave before I change my mind. Say nothing of what happened here,” she said.

Essek wondered if this display would have ever made him feel smug. It certainly didn’t now. All he could feel was a very palpable sense of disgust like vomit rising in his throat. Damn his eyes and damn his heart. It ached as he watched this proud warrior shakingly and slowly raise their head.

Essek wondered if he should have offered his hand to the Gloomblade as they were on their knees. But even as he resolved to do so, Verin beat him to it. Bending down with his hand extended to the assassin. Zokol glanced from Verin’s hand to Essek’s solemn face to Verin’s. They looked shocked, then they cringed hard, then jolted back like they had been electrocuted and staggered from knees to feet. They glanced at the unfeeling face of the Umavi then quickly looked away from all of them, as if the sight hurt their eyes. They exited quickly and shakily, but without turning their back on any of them or removing their gaze from the floor, they had to feel for the door knob blindly. Verin’s hand fell uselessly to his side. Essek put his hand on Verin’s shoulder in an empty show of support, but as Zokol disappeared their mother turned back to them and almost as a reflex Essek’s hand fell away as well.

Verin’s pose was more relaxed than it had been when it was Zokol helping bracket him, glaive lowered and harmless, but he stiffened slightly when their mother’s eyes turned to them. He hadn’t moved, still standing between Essek and the new threat.

“That’s finally done,” said their mother. Essek didn’t know if she meant the minor threat of Zokol or the final time she and Essek would ever be on the same side. “Verin, tell me what happened here.”

Verin took a breath. Had he been a harder soul he could have ignored the Gloomblad
e’s dilemma, and crafted something while Zokol was being debased. Not that Essek had come up with some ingenious excuse either. “...Well…”

He paused and after a few moments their mother spoke again. “Allow me to rephrase it for you. Tell your Umavi what happened here.”

And that, of course, was enough to loosen Verin’s tongue. His loyalty was not entirely Essek’s. It was divided and torn raggedly between both parties here. He was Essek’s brother, yes, but also a son of Deirta Thelyss and her den. He turned his head to look at Essek over his shoulder. Essek’s stomach roiled with the fear that Verin might give away the Mighty Nein. Not maliciously, but because that was what he had been trained to do. They were the only variable Verin had no loyalty to in this equation. He looked at Essek with his kicked puppy expression.

“Know that I love you,” he said.

“We’ll see,” replied Essek.

Verin turned back to their mother. Let out a long breath. “Essek attempted to escape…” he paused. Essek’s heart pounded into his throat. Then Verin visibly deflated, “and I tried to help him.”

“Go on,” said the Umavi.

“I told Essek that Omrifar was distracted and tried to stop them from finding him. I failed. And then I tried to keep Omrifar from murdering Essek when he was discovered,” Verin said, the lies mixing with truth as easily as rivers meeting.

Internally Essek both melted with relief and tightened in agony. His friends were safe, his brother wasn’t. And Verin, the selfless bastard that he was, did not capsize the Mighty Nein even when he could have stolen their lifeboat.

“He did not conspire with me,” Essek said, trying to do whatever he could to protect Verin.

“I know,” said the Umavi, her eyes sharp and cold as icicles as her gaze slid from Verin to Essek. “I know exactly what you did, Essek.” Essek didn’t think that was true, but he would not have trouble believing it either, she said it so convincingly. Her gaze turned back to her youngest son. “I warned you, Verin, and you ignored my guidance and wisdom, words of advice others would kill to receive.” She sighed deeply, the weight of centuries in that sound, “Of all the children I have raised across all my years and lives none have ever compared to either of you in ingratitude.”

“I’m sorry, Umavi,” whispered Verin, head bowed.

“I’m not,” said Essek, staring into his mother’s face.

She ignored Essek, eyes still digging into Verin. “You are a fool, Verin,” she said.

“He is n—!” Essek began to snap.

But Verin spoke over him, “I am, your Holiness.”

“You are a fool, but in truth your greatest crime is loyalty to a man who does not deserve it, a dark and twisted creature that would drag you out into the tide of the Astral Sea with him. But, despite Essek’s best efforts, you will not die for his deeds. We will discuss how you will be punished later.”

“Yes, Umavi,” said Verin quietly, still not daring to look up.

“Go now to the Skysybil, tell her to arrange for a mage’s cell in the Dungeon of Penance. Return when it is ready to collect the prisoner,” said the Umavi.

Verin’s eyes widened almost humorously. The grip on his glaive tightened, then loosened again more deliberately.

“Verin,” she said again with more urgency, her eyes steely.

Verin looked back at Essek with an expression of pure agony on his face, closed his eyes, let out a breath. “I’ll be back, Umavi.” He bowed low and exited the room. There was something distant in his gaze as he departed. The door shut and now it was just Essek and his mother.

Essek was still trying to figure out how this would end for Verin. He hoped his status as the Umavi’s only child of this lifetime (with Essek dead and likely outlawed) would save him from anything too sinister. He didn’t think she was lying when she said that Verin wouldn’t die for helping Essek. But what did happen entirely depended on the three Umavi and what they decided he deserved. Bitterness and pettiness ran in the Lucid Bastion like venom through snakes’ fangs. Or venom in Essek’s veins.

Essek hadn’t moved much at all since he shoved Caleb through the Teleportation Circle what felt like hours ago. The Umavi Thelyss crossed to the remnants of the Circle, stepping around Essek. Essek was confident it was too far gone for her to glean much from it. Still, she walked what was left of the perimeter, studying it carefully. She jabbed her staff at one of the larger remaining chalk blurs, dragged the base through it, and turned the staff so she could run her finger through the meager remnants she had managed to dredge up without bending down. Even looking for it, it was hard for Essek to see any of the powder on her dusk-colored fingers. She rubbed her pointer and thumb together thoughtfully, scratched her long nails across the staff, repeated the process, but ultimately her search seemed to come to nothing.

She righted her staff, and finally she spoke, “How long are we going to stand here in silence?”

Essek stayed where he was, floating just off center in the ruined circle, determinedly not looking straight at his mother, but instead keeping her in his periphery, looking at her from the corner of his eye. “As long as you like,” he answered.

From across the circle she eyed the length of his body, head to toe, gaze lingering on the profile of his face, his hovering feet, and perhaps longest on the tips of his fingers. “And how long are you going to pretend your friends weren’t here?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Essek over the pounding of his heart. It was so loud in his ears and his mother’s gaze was so hard on him that he had the irrational fear that somehow she could hear it too.

After an unblinking pause she said, “I’m sure you don’t.”

She crossed to the armchair, leaned her staff against the wall between it and the bookcase, before taking a seat as if it was a throne. She was very intentionally centered in Essek’s eyeline. “Here we are again,” she said dryly.

“So we are,” said Essek.

She sighed and shook her head, weary of the world and especially of Essek. “This is not what I wanted.”

“Nor I,” said Essek, “but we do not always get what we want, mother.”

She shot him a cold glare that would have reduced a weaker drow to whimpering and begging. His instinct was still fear, but his rational mind had reminded him he had seen so much worse than Deirta Thelyss now.

Her tactics changed, her expression softened, “but you could. It isn’t over yet. So long as you have breath and voice you have the power to stop your execution. You could still survive, my son! We could still fix this! The rumors have not spread far yet.”

“No,” Essek said.

“Come now! It would be easy. It is not as if the queen’s mercenaries, your supposed friends, are so innocent. Shift the focus and save yourself from the dire wolves!” she said, hiding the growing frustration that Essek knew was just below the surface.

“No,” Essek repeated.

“Do you really think they would be willing to do the same for you?” she snapped, then coached her tone again. “I assure you they would trade you to the accursed King Dwendel or the hedonists of the Clovis Concord if they were faced with the mere possibility of death. There is no friendship so strong to withstand the threat of dying in the souls of the unconsecuted.”

“They would and there is,” Essek replied. “Am I not proof of that?”

Her eyes narrowed for a fraction of a moment. “They did not stay to fight for your freedom today, did they? They teleported away,” she said, nodding to the circle.

“They have not been here,” Essek said.

She briefly put her face in her hands in a show of exasperation. “So you will not give them up?”

“They are innocent and they were not here,” Essek repeated.

“Why do you willingly walk onto the sword when you can sheathe it with a few words?” she asked.

“I will face punishment for the crimes I committed and I committed alone. I will not doom others in my stead,” said Essek flatly.

The Umavi let out a loud, humorless “Ha!” a sound too undignified to be heard by most people. “You have done so before,” she said.

“Things were…different then,” said Essek, trying to keep his voice from wavering.

“It was only weeks ago. Things are not different, the would-be victims are different. That is all,” she said.

“They are,” Essek said. It wasn’t worth denying.

“You killed your own father with less thought than this,” she said with disgust.

Essek didn’t answer. He remembered Beau telling him that his father’s death wasn’t actually his fault. Beau had given him a shield and the blade his mother wielded against him hurt less than it ever had before. He had nurtured his father’s rage, but his death was his own.

“Explain why these mercenaries are held in greater esteem and revered more than the man who helped create you,” she said. She was shifting from questions now, her interrogation method was changing. He stayed on guard for whatever else would come with it.

“They just are,” said Essek. Another pause.

“You do not know what death is,” she said.

“I will know it soon,” Essek replied. “Experience is the best teacher.”

“Your nonchalance is noted. You will be less glib when your beloved intellect and your soul are cast to the unpredictable whims and wants of the gods beyond the Gate. That is, if you are not consumed by the horrors beyond this material plane.” She shook her head, “and all for a few measly sell-swords.”

Essek said nothing. His mother watched him, waited, expectant. Finally Essek said, “I don’t know what else you want me to say! Yes, I am nonchalant, yes, my mind will be at the mercy of the gods, and yes, I will endure it for my friends.”

“You can’t imagine what is waiting for you out there to destroy you, mind and soul.”

“I assure you, I can,” said Essek.

“Then you understand that all you are and all you know could be destroyed, obliterated, rended to dust,” she continued.

“I know,” he said.

“Even if you make it to the Outer Planes you will be lost to the living and meet an ultimate fate unknown, utterly subservient to the gods.”

“I know,” he repeated.

“You’re afraid.”

“I am terrified,” he agreed with a mirthless smile, “But there are things and people worth dying for.”

“There are also things and people worth living for. Your den, for example. Save Den Thelyss from your shame,” she said.

“I have no love for Den Thelyss. It can suffer,” said Essek.

Her fingers clenched on the velvet arms of the chair. “To hate your den is impossible.”

“It is entirely possible.”

“You are a link in the den’s endless chain. Somehow you have never managed to comprehend that it is bigger than you, more important than you, greater than you in all ways, and as a New Soul you were born for the betterment of our den, Essek Thelyss.”

“If I was born for this den I no longer live for it,” said Essek.

“So you say, but Verin is also a link in our chain,” she said.

“What is your point?” Essek asked, trying not to become anxious at this new tactic.

“You are turning your back on him with your death. You are blackening his name for lifetimes to come as well as those of every descendent he should have. You are ruining his eternal future.”

Essek winced internally. She was right. If the truth was ever widely known Verin could not even hide in the Aurora Watch. If it remained rumor or the Umavi was able to disguise the reason for his disappearance then maybe Verin could shrug it away. Or perhaps the Mighty Nein would adopt Verin the way they did Essek.

There was nothing he could do. If he saved Verin from humiliation he condemned the Nein to death. And that he would not allow. Damn the Umavi for forcing him to choose between his brother and his friends.

But he knew it wasn’t really her doing, it was the simple truth she was repeating. In reality the only person he could blame was himself. He was always going to ruin at least one more life (lives): Verin’s. But he would not let his mother know she won this, so aloud he said, “Verin would rather justice be served than a lie be told.”

“So you say, but you are not giving him a choice. You have tarnished the whole of Den Thelyss — all that was, all that is, and all that will be — with your actions. The least you can do for your beloved brother is try to clean it.”

“Verin will suffer no more or less for whatever rumors of my execution you cannot artfully entrap,” Essek assured her.

“How can you say so?”

“Because I am not tarnishing the chain as you say.
It is long past tarnished, I merely am the first link to rust through. Verin Thelyss will remain Verin Thelyss and all that entails.”

She audibly scoffed, “It entails nobility and piousness, servitude and loyalty. Den Thelyss has always been spotless in the Light.”

“You know that is not true. You stand in the Light, but there is so much done at your word in the shadows. There is so much I could reveal to the world,” said Essek vindictively.

“How dare you try to threaten me! I crawled out from the dark in chains, I fought Lolth’s armies, I survived the war of gods, I was left standing when they fled beyond their Gate, I helped conquer Ghor Dranas, I am not afraid of an obstinate self-important child!” she sneered. “For shame, Essek, you should be long past this sort of idiotic rebellion.”

“It seems I am not,” said Essek.

“I have been kind to you until now. I forgave you your previous grievous transgressions because you are young—”

“Forgave me?!” Essek laughed out loud, incredulity in every syllable, “when did you forgive me? When have you ever forgiven me? It has been a decade and a half since Leylas Kryn gave me your seat after your ill-advised machinations failed. It has been nearly forty years since my father got himself killed. You have not forgiven me for either of these things.”

“Quiet! You will show us the respect we deserve! Your father was my husband and consort! A good man who deserved so much more than to have his life robbed from him by his own son! I am your Umavi! I am a soul made pure by the Light! And though I may be concerned about our noble Bright Queen’s health, she is still a perfect soul who led our people to freedom from the Spider Queen, guided us through time, and was the first to be blessed by the Luxon!”

Essek was shaking his head even before she finished; he managed to stop just short of doing the ‘jerk-off gesture’ Beau taught him. “I am very tired of all this empty pomp and circumstance. This vain ego-stroking. The Dynasty’s definition of ‘perfect’ is severely lacking. I see none of it here. The Light blessed nothing!”

Her hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. She had caught him off guard and he missed the somatic components, so he didn’t know what she had cast until the pain struck, at once blisteringly hot and cold as death. His skin blackened and cracked under her hand, creating zig-zagging fissures up his arm from the point she held, her hand glowing with toxic green energy. He gritted his teeth and let out a low growl against the pain.

“Apologize,” she said.

“No!” he snapped.

“To question the perfection of an Umavi is ghastly in its own right! To question the Luxon itself is far worse! You are lucky I don’t kill you where you stand for all you have said and done!”

“There would be no difference to me, mother,” Essek gritted out, trying to get away, but she held tight.

Even as he spoke she was casting again. As soon as the spell’s verbal components left her mouth the oozing cracks in his arm began sealing themselves, the light in her hands and from the focus she held went from green to white. Pain was replaced by a spring warmth.

Essek looked down at his arm and scoffed. “It seems you already realized the slaughter of your own son in his childhood quarters would take quite some legwork for you to erase. The usual action of wailing prayers, costly indulgences, and haughty titles would not erase filicide.”

“And that is your response to mercy,” she said, releasing his arm.

Staggering, he pulled it back, rubbing the newly repaired skin of his wrist with the opposite hand. He hoped he was completely hiding how distraught he was; that somehow she didn’t see him shaking. His mother’s attack had been as startling as it was painful, she had never physically harmed him before in his life. For all of her poison this was new and dangerous. “‘Mercy’ does not cast Inflict Wounds,” he muttered.

“It hurts me as much as it does you,” she said. Her holy symbol was still in her hand rather than down her sleeve, which worried him.

“That is provably untrue,” he said.

She ignored him, “All of the pain you suffer at my hands you have driven me to inflict. I have never wanted to harm you, each wound you have cast against yourself for your innumerable crimes.”

“And where is your punishment? No one would dare to so much as scold you for your crimes!” Essek said.

“I have no crimes and know nothing of what you speak,” she said sharply. “I would love to hear you try to list them.”

“Careful Umavi, don’t overturn stones if you don’t want to unleash the spiders that crawl beneath.”

“What an apt metaphor,” she said with a sneer. “That is all you are, Essek, all you have ever been: a venomous spider!”

“I was not born with venom in my veins!” Essek shouted.

“You do not think so?! Then where did it originate?! What made you this poisonous thing?!”

“You!”

“How can you possibly—”

“So much of what I am was made! I was poisoned by you, by the den, by the Lucid Bastion, by the Luxon—!”

“Cease your blasphemy at once! You are a traitor!” it was finally enough to make her calm shatter entirely.

“As are you!”

“How could you even begin to accuse me of—!”

“You’ve plotted against Dens Kryn and Mirimm, you tried to unseat the Bright Queen herself while you sat at her hand! If that is not treason then what is it?!”

“Politics! It seems you are still too juvenile to understand the difference! And I would have that throne if not for you!” she said, angrily. “You betrayed me to her!”

“I did not!” he said, “you were found out due to your own failures! I am tired of listening to your lies!”

“A liar! You think I am a liar! If I am a liar then nearly every member of every Noble and Ruling Den is a liar! Do you believe your beloved Leylas Kryn is any better than I?! I am hardly alone in my political endeavors! Kryn and Mirimm have struck at us just as hard! Am I supposed to be stabbed without parrying?! Without striking back?!”

Essek did not have an answer for that.

She used his silence to continue her defense, “had you helped me the Dynasty would not be in the hands of a woman showing the symptoms of typhros! I would see our influence far beyond the borders of Xhorhas without war and without conquest! I would spread only Light and Life! If we did things my way the Luxon would bring the world to us! They would understand how superior we are, how powerful, how holy, and how low they are in comparison! They would throw themselves at our feet! I could have made our country safer, stronger, and universally beloved! We would live in a peaceful Luxon-blessed utopia! No drop of blood be spilled!”

“Don’t pretend you care about bloodshed!” said Essek.

“I care about it more than you! Instead of helping me better the Dynasty you supported a woman losing touch with reality who desires conquest and war! You stole my place on the dais! You sowed the seeds for your war years before you brought it to blossom!”

“I have no love for the Queen’s politics. I wisely aligned with the winning side. You never would have succeeded!”

“And if I had you would have lost all of your precious, blasphemous research! That is all that matters to you! Not your den, not your brother, not your poor father! You had no other goal in mind than tricking the Bright Queen into letting you destroy all we have found and built! And now that you have failed in that you are trying to take Den Thelyss with you instead of incriminating your filthy, worthless heath—!”

“Enough! I do! I choose my friends over you and I would every single time! Because my friends never looked at me solely as a tool to be used! They saw me as an ally, as a friend! They took me in! They showed me kindness long before I showed it to them! They showed me compassion when I gave them no reason to do so! They supported me when I revealed my guilt! They showed me l-love,” he choked on the word.

The Umavi looked unimpressed. “Is it so easy to win your loyalty? Pat your head like a dog? Comfort you like a child? I did not think my opinion of you could fall much lower, but you keep finding ways to debase yourself.”

“There is nothing simple or easy about kindness,” said Essek.

“Do you think the Spider Queen’s hoards showed us kindness in the Underdark?! Have you shown your victims compassion?! Do you love the Luxon?! You do not deserve kindness, comfort, or love.”

“I know. I am guilty of crimes I can no longer fathom. I have given up any attempts to claim my innocence. I am ready to die to make up for all I have done,” he said.

“There is no way to make up for all you have done, for your pointless mayhem!”

That caused a spike of anger to cut through Essek, “‘Pointless mayhem’ was never my intent! My goal was knowledge! Knowledge that you have worked so hard to deny the world!”

“Unnecessary and perilous! We need only the security faith can bring! Too much knowledge is too dangerous a thing!”

“Knowledge brings understanding that faith denies! Elfoid beings deserve to understand our universe! I am trying to forward the study of Dunamis by all the centuries you and the other followers of this damnable religion have been holding it back!”

“With blasphemy and violence!"

“With scientific study and reason!”

“The Luxon is not yours to toy with! The Luxon is divine!”

“The Luxon — Beacons are arcane! The Luxon does not exist!” He was breathing hard, it sounded so loud in the absence of other noise.

His mother looked at him in horror, her knuckles bloodless gray where they were wrapped tightly around her holy symbol. Essek, who thought he was beyond feelings, felt himself pulled under a wave of black anger and sick pride. Only he could make an Umavi shake.

Essek had never been quite so brash before. That kind of overt blasphemy would not be tolerated in someone of his rank and station. They certainly would not allow an atheist near the Beacons. If it were up to his mother he’d probably be put in the stocks or worse for it. Now she looked positively horrified. It was funny that so much of the Luxon’s religion came from the Umavi, because it seemed no one bought the story more entirely than the Umavi.

Deirta’s voice was barely a whisper when she said, “I should have let you die.”

“You are about to,” said Essek. “And I wish you would leave me to it.”

“Back then, when you were a child struggling to breathe,” she said, still holding her holy symbol. Essek was forcibly transported back to those memories made blurry and washed out by illness and nearly 90 years distance. He could remember the numbness in his legs. He remembered the fear and confusion of fever. He remembered that every time he managed to breathe he thought he might not be able to complete the laborious process again. “I should have let you die in Bazzoxan.”

His hands clenched momentarily at his sides. “You will make up for your mistake soon,” Essek said.

“I will be happy to. It is long past time I do my penance.”

“Then leave me,” he said. She did not move.

“Your illness was proof. The Luxon knew of your heresy and your betrayal and tried to stop you. I am a fool for not listening,” she said.

“Ignoring the will of the Luxon, tisk-tisk, mother. Now which of us is the heretic,” said Essek. He made sure she thought her attempt to upset him had failed. It seemed there were some masks he could not allow to slip.

She grabbed him again, but he quickly made himself heavier and dropped his levitation so that she was startled and overpowered into releasing him. He overbalanced but caught himself with another casting of Levitate before he fell too far.

Her furious face suddenly went soft. “You were still a child when you figured that spell out,” his mother sounded almost wistful.

“I was…” Essek conceded, waiting for her next move.

“You had so much promise as a boy.” Then more quietly, more solemnly she repeated, “so much promise.”

“I lived up to it,” Essek said.

“Hardly,” she said, bitterly.

“I am a prodigy.”

“A prodigy about to be erased from the material plane and if I am diligent and blessed by the Luxon likewise the collective memory of the Dynasty.”

“It is a death I earned with my own actions, it is not a death for Den Thelyss,” said Essek.

“Why hate your den? There was so much you could have been! You could have lived forever as the greatest mage Den Thelyss has ever known! You squandered all that promise! And for what!?” she demanded.

“Not for you,” said Essek.

She opened her mouth to respond but then there was a knock on the door. She turned toward the sound and called out, “Verin?”

“Yes, it’s me, Umavi.” Verin sounded solemn and Essek wanted nothing more than to hug him. Jester and Caleb taught him how good a hug could feel, how far a little contact went. But this was his fault in the first place and it would only get worse regardless of what Essek tried to convince himself of.

“Where are the envoys from Den Mirimm?” the Umavi asked, she was slowly reconstructing her calm, stoic court expression.

“At the mouth of the Ghor Dranas tunnels,” said Verin. Below the streets of Rosohna was the subterranean labyrinth of the Betrayer Gods’ capital. They ran to several ancient sites now long torn down by the survivors of the mines of Lolth. The tunnels had been repurposed and reused by the Dynasty, much like the Dungeon of Penance. The Lucid Bastion had many of these tunnels. The ones below Den Thelyss had been converted into a wine cellar, the base of the enchanted lift, the servants’ quarters, the kitchen, and an entry hall leading to the rest of the Ghor Dranas tunnel network.

“Good,” their mother said. There were still protective layers of stone and wood between the shame of Essek and the envoys of Den Mirimm and the Dungeon of Penance. Just as now she had her courtly calm between the outside observer and her anger. She rose to her feet and crossed to the door. She paused in front of it, fingers hovering over the knob. “You could have been great, Essek,” she said softly.

“Perhaps, but for once before I die I would like to try being good,” he replied.

Chapter Text

Essek and the Umavi briefly fought over whether or not his identity would be disguised. Essek was against it, wanting to be paraded in handcuffs before the Dungeon of Penance’s guards (his former underlings) and prisoners (his future companions). The Umavi was still trying to keep this secret as long as possible, she wanted Essek’s identity hidden. Verin had not been invited to offer his feelings and in truth he didn’t know what he would say. Essek pointed out condescendingly that any spell either of them knew would eventually fade and he would be Essek again. The result was an enchanted hood, which hid his face and robbed him of his voice. Essek hadn’t agreed to it, but bound as he was he had no means to remove it. Verin continued to say nothing. He was sure he would carry that guilt for the rest of his life.

He had watched Essek be dragged away to the bowels of the Dungeon of Penance; he hadn’t seen his brother since. Verin’s final view was one of him blinded, gagged, shackled, and helpless. It was only after he was pulled by his jailers into the Ghor Dranas tunnels that Verin realized this might have been the last he ever saw of Essek. He wanted to run after them, wanted to stop them, wanted to scream, wanted to sob, wanted to hug his brother close, promise him safety, and find it. But instead he just froze. He remained frozen in a way he never had been before. He lived day-to-day waiting for an emergency. Bazzoxan was constantly on the verge of invasion, delay could cost the entire city gravely along with all surface-dwelling life in it. He had to be quick and take every opportunity he could find. But now he found he could not move and had no decisive action to take. He had never felt so clueless or helpless. He was nauseous in a way physical illness had never been able to reach him.

The Umavi dismissed him and he returned to the scene of his crime, to the suite he had once shared with Essek since before those had been their names. Now he sat in the common area thereof, lost in his own head. Nearly 100 years of memories were encapsulated in these walls and never had it been this empty, this quiet, this cold.

Somewhere, maybe a mile below him Essek was being secured in the Dungeon of Penance. Verin had failed him. And that hurt more than any wound he had ever received.

He lay on the couch and struggled to come up with another solution, just as he had been since the Umavi sent him to get a cell prepared for Essek. The problem was escape from the Dungeon of Penance was considered impossible, even for Essek who had long walked those halls. The dunamantic spells and enchantments in place there so altered the mind that strangers became utterly lost and disoriented (and without Essek they were all strangers there). The Dungeon held the Dynasty’s worst offenders and was in part designed to disarm and declaw powerful mages; Verin only knew rumors of the means, but he had no doubt they were effective. He refused to fail, he was a Thelyss after all, but it was going to be tricky to pull off…especially as the clock ticked down.

He waited for his mother to arrive and detail his punishment. But the Umavi did not speak to him that evening. Instead Verin lingered in the too-quiet rooms, haunted by a ghost of a man not yet dead. He got a message from Jester and they shared a brief exchange in which Verin told her everything he knew. Like Verin, the Mighty Nein were not prepared to give up, but like Verin they too were scrambling and clueless. Or at least so he parsed from Jester’s confusing message.

Verin was comforted by their passion, and promised to be there as soon as he could. He waited on the sofa for whatever would come next. Eventually, he curled up and fell asleep for the first time in over a decade; such was his emotional exhaustion.

An unknown amount of time later Verin was jarred awake by a knock on the door. According to the clock on the far wall it was the early morning; before what would be dawn in Bazzoxan. With a cold rush Verin remembered everything that had transpired the day before. He straightened immediately, crossed the room in a few strides and pulled open the door. It was not the Umavi as he thought it would have been, but one of the priests in her employ, a middle-aged goblin named Xhessik; she had, in her tiefling form, been the one to council the Thelyss brothers on the anamnesis, tried to help them begin it, and helped their parents when it failed to materialize in either boy. She had also been the one to baptize Essek and Verin with their adult names when it became clear they would be themselves forever.

Before that she had been a bugbear. Then a drugar. Back and back and back. Originally she had been a drow, and one of the first generation to be born free of slavery, when those who would form the Kryn Dynasty were just a huddled mass of refugees wandering in the Wastes. She was one of the first to be raised in the Light of the Luxon and had become one of the oldest and highest priests, a Motheringhand. She was not his mother’s child, but her eternal aid, priest, and servant. Luxon priests were supposed to be without dens and without kin, celebate and loyal to the Light and Umavi alone. While Verin eventually came to wonder if that was unjust, Matka Xhessik, Priest of Den Thelyss never seemed to be upset by it.

Matka Xhessik was devoted, honest, and rule-abiding. That wasn’t true of all the clergy.
There were many who largely shirked those rules, retaining their den’s name and its reputation. If they were noble enough they could even get away with any number of sins. It was instances that like that Verin thought Essek had a point about the church. Or at least he had once, before he knew the dark depths to which Essek sank. Now he truly didn’t know where he stood, understanding both sides, seeing both the corruption and selfishness in the Luxon faith and the strength and security it brought. Acknowledging the former felt dangerously close to excusing Essek’s behavior, but ignoring it felt irresponsible.

Matka Xhessik looked up at Verin with her strange green eyes. She was not yet old, but her eyes were. They carried the memories and personality of seven lifetimes. She had a serene and wise look to her that seemed strange on a woman who didn’t yet have many wrinkles on her skin, but it was an expression many of the consecuted on their second, third, fourth, and what-have-you lifetimes wore when they looked at Verin. The only difference was that hers seemed fond and without condescension.

“Matka Xhessik,” Verin said, “to what do I owe the honor? Would you like to come in?”

“That depends, ideally we won’t lollygag for long,” she said. Then she smiled a little mischievously, “but judging by your braid alone you may need time to make yourself ready.”

“My Umavi Mother sent you?” Verin asked, pausing in his attempt to fix his hair.

“She has.”

“Do you know why she hasn’t come herself?” he asked. He was trying to sound inoffensive and neutral, Xhessik was one of his mother’s truest disciples, but odds were she had no idea what had happened the night before…or anything that preceded it. There were some secrets left to bone and blood.

Xhessik bowed her head. “She is in no state to do so. The Umavi has been in prayer and contemplation all night. She has not tranced nor eaten, she has not yet found peace from whatever haunts her.”

Verin had been watching Xhessik, nodding, but he felt his expression tighten when she clearly tried to make him feel for his mother. Verin had no pity for the Umavi right now. He could have none. Her son was held in the hells-deep Betrayer-wrought Dungeon of Penance, an enemy of the state without a friend, sentenced to die tomorrow. “Give her my condolences—” Verin said coldly and went to close the door. A goblinoid hand caught the door and Verin immediately pulled it open again.

“Dearest Verin, she has sent me to bring you to her,” Xhessik said, “that is why you need to dress.” Verin’s heart thudded in his chest.

“Ah,” he paused, then muttered, “let me make myself presentable.”

“Of course, Świet — Taskhand,” she said with a dramatic bow, she stopped herself from using the full noble title he’d grown up with for the military title he hoped he had earned by now, knowing it was what he preferred.

He invited her into the common area and she followed inside. Her lifetime as a tiefling had almost perfectly coincided with Essek and Verin’s adolescence. She very much cared about all of the Umavi’s children across lifetimes, but she had always seemed to have a special soft-spot for Verin, even after he failed to undergo the anamnesis. Or maybe Verin just wanted to think that because he liked her as well.

He closed the door to his room and jerkily went about preparing for the day. He didn’t know what his mother had in mind for him. He had almost forgotten about himself in his anxiety for Essek, his own punishment had been a vague niggling detail, more a locked door in his way than a swinging blade. But now it was upon him and there was a familiar well of fear. Fear was his constant companion, both as immaterial and unavoidable as his shadow in stark light. It became familiar, almost friendly, there were things to fear and fear was wise. In the case of the Abyss, fear induced the adrenaline he needed to fight. With Umbra Gates it was always best to face your fear rather than allow it to grow or then let it come to you. Often that applied to the surface as well.

Although he didn’t think it would help him here; and, as terrible as it sounded, his mother was more frightening than the denizens of the Abyss. He knew how to fight, he didn’t know how to fix this.

When he emerged from the bedroom Matka Xhessik gave him a look over and an approving nod before leading him out into the hall. She tried to engage him and Verin gave short answers. He felt a little guilty about it, but he also did not have the head or stomach to speak much this morning. Quickly Xhessik seemed to understand and the pair fell into silence. Despite Xhessik’s words Verin feared what his mother might do. He would take his punishment without a word of complaint. He had betrayed her trust. He had betrayed the den. He had helped a self-proclaimed murderer, monster, and traitor.

Thankfully the Umavi was not in any of her private rooms this time, but one of the family’s larger sanctuaries. Walking through the nave it felt unreal, aethereal in a way that was incredibly nostalgic, like walking through a dream he’d had before. He could not see his mother, but he could smell the powerful incense she had lit, hear her indistinct melodic prayer, and, while the church’s iconostasis was tightly shut, there were strips of golden light around its door, ironically making the nave darker for it. Coming closer, thinner strands of light appeared in the cracks between the icons themselves, painted or mosaic portraits of the Umavi, the near Umavi, and images of those not yet returned (like his father), all below a huge gold and silver rendering of the Dynastic crest.

Xhessik glanced back at Verin giving him an unreadable look, then knocked on the golden door once, muttered something to his mother, and opened it.

Immediately Verin was blinded again. Opening the door had flooded the sanctuary with the light of a full noonday sun. Verin took an unconscious step back, his eyes squeezing shut. There was an artifact on many Luxon altars (including all of those in Hall Thelyss) in the shape of the Beacon but capable of casting Daylight at a touch for worshippers seeking penance. His mother was punishing herself. And with that realization came the sting of pity he hadn’t thought he would feel.

“Umavi, Taskhand Verin is here,” said Matka Xhessik as Verin pried his eyes back open against the light, furiously attempting to blink the purple spots from his seeing eye.

Deirta turned her head, listening. She nodded and replaced her headdress. The jewels on the tiara and threaded into her braid glittered. She rose and for a moment she was a sparkling silhouette, wreathed by the Luxon’s Light, a beautiful lacuna, or her own sky dotted with stars with the bright arm of the galaxy hugging her. In that moment, dizzy from the light, it was easy to see Deirta Thelyss as something beyond drow, truly perfect. Then she banished the Daylight with a wave of her hand and the spell broke. His mother became flesh and bone as she walked toward Verin. On the way she glanced toward Xhessik, “thank you, my Child. You may rest.” Only an Umavi could call a Motheringhand “child” and sound anything short of ridiculous. Age was complicated among the elite of the Kryn Dynasty, rank, however, was not.

Verin was still blinking the spots from his good eye as his mother gently led him to a pew in the nave and pressed him to sit down. The priest left them and the door shut heavily behind her. Between Xhessik’s dismissal and the sound of the door closing Verin took in his mother’s reddened eyes and slight sway. He wondered what she was seeking penance for, what she had been praying for, and wondered if somehow they were hoping for the same thing.

Once the sanctuary door closed Deirta turned her eyes to Verin. “Why have I asked you here?”

“To discuss my punishment,” Verin said, hoping this was not some kind of trick. He never knew what she was about to do. He felt like a loyal dog bracing for a blow from his owner, one he could see coming but could not comprehend.

“Yes, to discuss your punishment,” she said, nodding. She sat down on the pew and pivoted toward him, her hands on her lap. She sighed, “oh Verin, what do I do with you?” He didn’t answer. She spoke gently, “I know how he manipulated you.”

Verin recoiled, “Essek didn’t—”

“He did,” she said with finality. “Whether you realize it or not, he did.”

Verin hated it when she did things like that. She spoke with confidence and the wisdom of a millenium. It always made Verin doubt himself and it was hard not to believe her. Now her words were like a lead weight falling on his stomach.

She was wrong. She had to be wrong. But…Essek was much smarter than he was. Essek was so talented. Essek was cunning. No, no, when they were kids Verin always knew when Essek was lying. He had tells, twitches of his ears that set the chains hanging from them jingling, rubbing his nose, hovering a little higher. But…but what if she was right? Essek had hidden his crime from Verin. He manipulated other people for a living. It was years since they were children and Essek had changed so much since then, they both had.

‘So,’ thought Verin’s treacherous mind, ‘Who’s to say he didn’t…? No! Stop!’

Regardless of what he told himself, that niggling doubt sank into him like a harpoon and he knew that like a speared animal he would not be able to dislodge it. He tried to look away, but as soon as he turned his head the Umavi took him by the chin and turned his face back, keeping him there.

“Do not hide from the truth,” she said, firm but gentle, holding his gaze with eyes that looked so much like Essek’s.

“I am trying not to,” Verin replied in a cracked voice.

“I have weighed the options and I have found a solution that will rid you of all guilt. Your treachery will be expunged and you will take your new position in the queen’s court.”

“I acted of my own free will,” he insisted to both of them.

“You think you did,” she said firmly. Then her tone became gentle, “You are a good man, Verin. You are destined to serve your den for lifetimes to come. You have already done so much for it.” Her hand moved to his cheek. She ran her thumb across the three lines of his scar, like the strings of a harp. “Do not throw away your potential for greatness on the behalf of an unfeeling heretic.”

“What will you have me do?” asked Verin quietly. As soon as she removed her hand he looked away again. Turning his head to keep his mother’s face in his blindspot.

She caught his chin again more firmly and maneuvered his face back where she wanted it. “In roughly 24 hour’s time you will be my only remaining child of this lifetime,” she said.

“I know,” he choked out.

Her expression remained unchanged but for a moment her head cocked very slightly, perhaps because of his voice’s tone or his unschooled expression. Calmly, diplomatically, she said, “You must acknowledge that in the face of what he has done the world will be better off without him…”

“Umavi, please,” he whispered.

“I apologize,” she said without hint of the sentiment, “but you must understand that he has betrayed you as much as has me and the rest of our people. He has used you for his own ends.”

“Please,” he repeated, hands knotting in his lap, heart knotting in his chest. He was trying so hard not to allow that realization to find him. He couldn’t. Not yet. Not now. But his resolve was cracking like glass under pressure. He tried to keep Essek and his crime apart in his mind, lock them off in different cells. But his mother was knocking those manufactured walls down, blurring Essek his brother and Essek the war criminal together. Doubt was clouding Verin’s mind, or was truth clouding his mind? What if she was right? No, there was no ‘what if’, she was right.

“The truth, like the Light, is sometimes, oftentimes, painful,” she said after a pause. She patted his cheek gently and then dropped her hand from his face. She continued, “Essek has long been lost to you, you know this too.”

But that had the opposite effect that his mother had intended. Essek was not lost. Indeed, before the truth came out Essek had seemed more real and whole than he had in a long time. Guilty or not, monster or not, Essek was Essek. He wasn’t the same Essek, but Verin was not the same Verin. Personal evolution was invariably part of the elfoid experience. The Essek he met and the Essek his friends presented was complicated, regretful, brilliant, awkward, and loyal. Verin had seen an Essek like he had always known and the outside world had not, mixed with a worldly maturity, the fondness of friendship, with regret as heavy on his shoulders as his mantle had been.

Essek was still Essek. Still the man his mother was trying to tell him was either artificial or long since shucked off like dead skin.

His eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze focused on his lap. “Yes, Umavi,” he said absently, lost in thought.

She didn’t seem to notice. “Thus far it seems knowledge of his guilt has not left the handful who have been made aware by official channels. My desperate hope is that we can still destroy the evidence of Essek’s guilt as easily as his body. The fewer people know, the better off Den and Dynasty will be,” she said.

He didn’t argue with her, but she was wrong to think that somehow this could be covered up. People were already talking about his disappearance and his being dragged off by Omrifar. Doubtlessly there would already be talk of the extradition of a mage from Hall Thelyss to the Dungeon of Penance. Verin knew talk only ever got louder the more often it was shushed. It was only a matter of time before conjecture was tossed about the court like Serso rings. That oversight, too, somehow strengthened Verin’s resolve to help Essek; perhaps because it was a reminder that the Umavi was still a flesh and bone elfoid person, capable of mistakes.

“Which leads to our quandary. Have you seen it?” she asked, in closing.

“No,” Verin answered honestly, not looking up from his lap. Although he could be forgiven, his mind had been elsewhere.

“There must be an executioner. Someone who is skilled with a sword and who can be trusted completely. Someone loyal and true. Perhaps...someone with something to lose, who has already injected himself into matters in which he did not belong.”

From the word ‘executioner’ Verin’s heart wrenched and by the time his Umavi made it clear that she meant for him to behead Essek himself it had tumbled beyond his gut and into the Abyss.

“Your punishment, Verin of Den Thelyss, my son in blood, bone, law, and soul, is to carry out the Luxon’s justice against the worst traitor our Dynasty has ever known. With his life so will your crime be extinguished. With his body so will your crime be incinerated. Am I understood?”

All too clearly.

“Do I have a choice?” Verin asked hoarsely.

“Oh, Verin, you always have a choice,” said the Umavi. “But if you refuse, the consequences will likely be dire. Matters of execution are out of my hands and in those of her Radiance the Bright Queen. She will see it as an act of treason and I can only defend you so far. For some reason she has no love for our den and she is the shepherd of the lives and souls of the people of our Dynasty, not I.”

Verin didn’t answer.

Deirta Thelyss took one of her son’s hands in both of hers and gently squeezed, “You cannot save Essek from himself.”

“I can’t kill him either,” Verin said.

“Verin, if you do not wield the sword it will still swing,” the Umavi said frankly. “Essek has many enemies who would want him to suffer, there will be no shortage of applicants who would not ask questions if it meant personally removing Essek’s head from his neck and his soul from this world.”

Verin opened his mouth to speak, but no words came so he closed it again.

The Umavi let out another sigh and tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “You are so young. I know this is difficult for you to understand as a New Soul, but the importance of Essek’s life and your friendship pales in comparison to that of the life of and your love for our den. Each of us is a link and links only have meaning as parts of their chain. They exist to hold the chain together, to continue it, to make it grow. Without it, they are nothing. And without Den Thelyss so are you.”

“I know, Umavi.”

“But do you know the den also needs you?” she asked. When she said that he looked up at her in surprise, brows drawn. For a moment he swore she wore something almost like a fond smile. “It’s true. Given your position Den Thelyss is your den, forever and always. You give it your strength, you honor it with your service, your soul makes it grow. The den must be loved like the Luxon itself. It needs people who are noble and devoted as you. If you do not remove Essek from this plane, if you drink his poison and believe his lies, Essek’s darkness will infect and corrupt you and our family for all time.”

Verin said nothing, but he held her gaze. She reached out and gently wiped the tear from his blind eye when it overflowed. He hadn’t even noticed that he was crying until now.

She tisked somewhere between sympathetic and scolding. “I know, I know. It all seems too much. There is so much you cannot yet grasp, Verin. I have called you a fool, but perhaps a lot of it is simple innocence.”

Verin let out a bitter chuckle. “No, I am a fool,” he said honestly.

“You are, but we are all fools once. You will grow from it as your lifetimes go on. You simply do not yet understand that this life will fade into another, into another, into another. You were always destined to leave Essek behind. It is just happening sooner than you expected. The wounds will heal, the scars will fade, and you will be so much stronger for it. Den Thelyss will be so much stronger for it. The Light of the Luxon blesses you and will bless you for the good you do on its behalf.”

‘Which “good” are you referring to, mother?’ thought Verin. He was certain that she did not mean his work in Bazzoxan where he had been defending the Dynasty for years now. “The good I will do?” he asked.

“Of course. You can repair the damage Essek has done with this one action,” she told him.

That also set off alarm bells in Verin’s head, Essek took lives from the Luxon cycle, he started a war, the only thing Verin could do was soften the blow and prevent some of the damage potentially done to Den Thelyss’s reputation. He could not bring back the lives lost or rebuild what war destroyed. On the sliding scale the reputation of the den mattered, but while it was extremely important to his mother, it was very unimportant to Verin.

Verin’s loyalty had never been more divided in his life, his mother and den on one side, his brother on the other.

He reminded himself that — Luxon will it — it would never actually come to him…beheading his brother. Essek would escape. And if Verin didn’t agree Omrifar would. “...I’ll do it.”

There was no visible relief on the Umavi’s face besides a gentle smile. She squeezed his hand. “You will be a hero, a reputation to last you for all eternity, to follow you from lifetime to lifetime.”

“I don’t feel like a hero,” Verin said flatly.

“You will one day. You will restore our den to glory before anyone knows it has been laid low, and that is something to be proud of.”

“Of course,” Verin said. He stood up. “May I return to my chamber?”

“Only if you would like to,” she said with a brief nod.

“I’m sorry, Umavi? I don’t follow.”

“You are not a prisoner here! Your punishment has been decided and agreed upon. You can move about the city as you would. I expect to see you at this evening’s weekly service, but beyond that there are no shackles on you.”

“Oh!” he said, eyes widening.

“Well, there is one exception,” she said, he looked down at her where she remained elegantly at rest on the pew, “I know that you have disobeyed me on this front once by some unseen means. Do not do it again. Stay away from Essek.”

“Of course, Umavi,” said Verin. Then he set off for the Dungeon of Penance.

Nobody knew all the Betrayer-wrought tunnels under Rosohna, but when Verin was a bored noble child, utterly disinterested in the books that Essek obsessed over, he had sometimes explored the labyrinth below the modern city. He was the spare son, young enough then that he still fit into that slot that Essek had when he was sick as a child in Bazzoxan; unimportant as a new soul and close enough to a Beacon for no one to worry about his physical death if he was a returning one. Nobody was terribly concerned by his absence from the Lucid Bastion besides maybe the governess and Xhessik. The guards who patrolled the most heavily-trafficked tunnels expressed the most concern for Verin’s wellbeing (since nobody wanted to be responsible for an Umavi’s child getting hurt) and would drag him back home if and when he was caught.
Verin’s explorations of subterranean Rosohna slowed down as he got older; after he failed to reawaken as someone else he had to make himself respectable. In all of his treks he had never made it to the Dungeon of Penance, but he knew how to get far beyond the walls of the Lucid Bastion and remembered the route he took as an adolescent to get to the center of the Gallimaufry district where he met his friends and paramours. After emerging there he could sneak into the Dungeon of Penance in his uniform and armor where the rank it indicated would be enough to keep people asking so much as his name.

Getting into the Dungeon of Penance turned out to be fairly easy, getting around it was not. If one could figure out the intentionally confounding architecture the Dunamancy that clung to the place like soot would always scramble the senses. Verin was completely at sea, he would have never been able to navigate alone. Thankfully being a Taskhand of Her Eternal Radiant Majesty’s Aurora Watch was enough of an excuse for the guards to give him directions and to see a magic-wielding prisoner while not saying the identity of the mage.

The mages’ cells were deep underground and not usually occupied, especially not the ones designed for high level magic users. It took time to get down there, longer still with Verin jumping at shadows like he was, terrified someone would recognize him and know why he was there. The Dunamancy didn’t help his trying to keep track of how long he was down here.

He passed block after block. Each grouping of cells had a journal logging what prisoners were held within, when they were placed there, and what would ultimately happen to them. In the maximum security cells the most recent entry had a placeholder instead of a name. ‘Mage 06’. The dates and time lined up with Essek. So did the punishment listed: ‘execution’ written in unfeeling cursive. So either it was a scourger refusing to talk or it was Essek. That was a bet Verin was willing to make.

Now came the last hurdle and the one that would be the hardest to jump: the cell’s guards. There was still a door between himself and the guards in question with a small window. Peering into the cellblock Verin saw a small ring of dim purple light disrupting his superior darkvision. There were two guards outside of the cell assigned to Mage 06, they were relaxed, at ease, clearly unaware they were being watched and being watched by a superior officer. Neither was wearing their helmet and both had shed a couple of pieces of the more uncomfortable body armor. One was a female drow and the other was a male tiefling. The tiefling loosely gripped his pike, blowing his overlong hair out of his eyes. The Drow was leaning with arms crossed, one shoulder against the wall. The pair were speaking softly, too softly to be understood at this distance. The tiefling facing forward and presumably looking at the drow in their periphery. But the Drow was facing Verin.

He recognized her almost immediately. Verin had known her for roughly a decade. They’d gone through basic training together and become friends. She was about his and Essek’s age, also on her first life and consecuted. Her name was Edyta Czayka, her den was one of the lower ones tied loosely to Den Kryn, but Edyta was not terribly interested in social climbing and her family was insignificant enough that they didn’t get dragged into the politics of the Lucid Bastion. Den or not, her life was nothing like that lived by the son of one of the Ruling Dens. Indeed, she was part of the first group of friends to help Verin realize how fucked up his upbringing had been.

Verin was still in loose contact with most of that group, although distance and obligation had separated them; Verin himself being the farthest out and the highest ranking as Taskhand and leader of Bazzoxan. Eddy Czayka didn’t have the familial reputation or the conniving parent to get her a position of leadership in her first life, especially not straight after training, so here she was, Watchman in the Dungeon of Penance 10 plus years on. They had met up a few times since their training ended when Verin found himself back in Rosohna and were still friendly. He didn’t know if the pulse that went through him was anxiety or relief at the sight of a familiar face. She would recognize him, the question was what she would do next.

He didn’t know what she would do…but it was time to find out. He opened the door to the cellblock and both guards jumped to attention. “At ease,” he said.

Verin saw the look of surprise give way to recognition on his friend’s face. Recognition was ebbing into confusion as the tiefling struggled to get his horns into the specialized guards of his helmet.

“Shit,” Verin heard him curse. Then he stood stock still with their helmet on but still unsecured, looking horrified at having sworn in front of this unknown Taskhand.

“It’s fine, I said at ease. Besides, it’ll take a lot more than swearing to upset me,” Verin assured him. This tiefling worked in Rosohna, the bulk of the Taskhands he ran into were most probably bound to desks and hadn’t seen so much as a scuffle since their days in training. The kinds of officers who had too much time and energy, so they could be concerned with things like manners.

The tiefling gave a sort of weak, crooked smile. Eddy was just behind him, utterly unbothered and clearly waiting for Verin’s play. When he had first been promoted he had had trouble giving orders. That wasn’t true anymore, and Eddy had been one of the first to assure him he needed to learn. Eddy, meanwhile, had always been inclined to follow the chain of command, loyal to the Bright Queen, the Dynasty, and its people. And the Luxon, Verin supposed, but Verin tried to avoid talk of religion when he could. He had enough of it at home.

“…What’re your names?” Verin asked, eyes moving from his friend’s face and back to the tiefling.

The tiefling paused, stuttered, then said, “Tafa Kyzzl…a-and she’s uh…of den…” clearly he wasn’t part of the den system, almost certainly not consecuted. But that was not at all unusual outside of the Firmaments. Nor was it unusual for somebody who only knew about the rituals of the dens from a distance to struggle to understand them.

“Den Czayka. Edyta Czayka,” she said, but she held Verin’s gaze.

“Very good. Watchman Tafa,” said Verin. He startled back to attention. Verin let out a bemused huff. “Really, you don’t need to worry. You aren’t in trouble. Here, I just wondered if you’d head upstairs and get us some tea? I have business here.” He wondered if that was too obvious, too overt. It did seem to throw Tafa for a loop.

“Tea, sir?” he asked.

Verin didn’t budge. This was one of the things rank was good for. No matter how young he looked (and was), his armor made it clear he could not be questioned. “Yes. I’ve heard the Dungeon has managed to get itself quite the collection.” (He had, from Eddy herself, about five years ago. He hoped it was still true).

“Uh, yeah, kinda, what do you want in it?” he asked slowly as if he wasn’t sure he was asking correctly and was waiting to be disrupted.

“Crimson nettle tea with honey, thanks,” he said.

“Eddy,” Tafa whispered, gesturing with his head for her to follow.

“No, one of you has to stay here. Regulations,” said Verin. Which may well have been true. He wasn’t sure. He obviously didn’t work in the capital and the Dungeon of Penance was under the jurisdiction of Den Mirimm. Den Thelyss didn’t spend much time here…well, except for Essek, who was the second highest ranking official and most important figure in the Dungeon besides the Skysybil herself. And now he was its prisoner held in one of the lowest cells. Verin fought the instinct to look into the cell where his brother was. He didn’t know if he could keep up his already poor act if he did.

“Oh…oh, yeah, sure, I know,” said Tafa, who clearly didn’t. “Do you want anything, uh, Watchman Edyta?”

“I’m fine” she said, “thanks though.”

“Cool. cool. I’ll be right back,” he said. He turned on his heel and began to walk away. He stopped before he got to the door, walked back, and took one of the pieces of quartz from the sconce (unlike the two drow he could not see in complete darkness) and let out a self-deprecating little laugh at having left it. When neither drow said anything he turned it into a cough instead. He turned again, cast one last glance over his shoulder, and finally, finally headed upstairs with tail swishing.

Verin and Edyta waited in silence until the footfalls died away.

“Tafa’s not a wizard or sorcerer or anything, right?” asked Verin, glancing over his shoulder and then back at Eddy.

“No, he isn’t,” said Edyta. Then, “Verin, what the fuck are you doing here? Nobody’s supposed to be down here!”

“Well…uh…” he stuttered over what to say. He hadn’t planned this far.

She waited and Verin looked over her shoulder at the iron door that Essek was behind, the light from the sconces made him hard to see, but the spinal shape of chains was enough to wrench his heart in his chest.

“I think I might have an idea,” she said, looking up into Verin’s face.

“You probably do,” Verin replied, deflating a little.

“Officially, we don’t know who the prisoner is and Tafa doesn’t believe the rumors,” she said.

“Do you?” Verin asked.

“I do now,” she said.

“Will you let me in to see him?”

“Well, as the Dungeon guard of this mage I’m supposed to turn you away and report you.”

Verin winced.

“But as a Taskhand you have authority over me as a Watchman. I should let you in, but still report you. And as a Świetlisty Syn of Den Thelyss you have sway over me, a minor cousin of Den Czayka.”

“Forget about all of that for a moment,” said Verin. When she looked like she would object he said, “just for a moment. How do you feel as Eddy and Verin?”

She looked dubiously at him. Then she sighed, “I know you and I trust you. I don’t know what happened or why he’s locked up, but I know you love your brother…” she paused, then nodded, resolute, “just promise you won’t do anything crazy.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Verin.

“Whatever you say to him before Tafa returns won’t leave this chamber…within reason.”

“Within reason,” Verin agreed. “Thank you, Eddy.”

“Anytime, although I doubt this is something libel to happen again.” Without waiting for a response she unlocked the cell door and gestured with her head for Verin to step inside.

He did, allowing himself to be taken by the darkness beyond the purple light which had ever so slightly altered his vision of the shadows. Now back in the comfort of complete darkness he could see clearly again, if without color.

Verin had seen a lot of truly terrible things in his day and that was the only reason why he managed to keep himself from gasping. He had expected something like this, as cruel as it was he knew how a mage was restrained. The more dangerous and accomplished the caster, the more thorough their restraints were. Essek’s wrists were cuffed which were attached to heavy chains that hung from the point where wall met ceiling on either side of the room. These forced his arms up, out, and back into a painful shape somewhere between Y and T, pitching him slightly forward like a figurehead on a ship, spine bent enough to be painful. His ankles were also cuffed, but these chains were much shorter, only a few links, his feet forced on the ground. Those were unnecessary, nobody could cast with their feet, but it was obviously the Skysybil’s unsubtle and triumphant “fuck you” to the lying young upstart who made his name by floating. His legs were clearly shaking in their chains, forced to bear Essek’s unaltered weight. Verin didn’t know what that would do to Essek once they got him out of there, how bad the damage to his already compromised musculature would be. Essek was still wearing the hood the Umavi had made for him, there were runes written across it, keeping him silent. He was wearing a simple prisoner’s uniform, silk and pocketless, so the shake could also be from the cold. Chained like this, stripped of personal effects, and silenced by magic Essek had had all the components he needed for a spell taken from him: somatic, material, verbal. He was helpless.

Essek’s head jerked up when the door opened and his hands twitched, maybe unconsciously trying to cast before remembering it was fruitless.

“Essek,” Verin whispered as he approached, “Essek it’s me.”

There came no response of any kind. Of course he couldn’t speak, but he didn’t move either.

“I’m going to pull the hood off. I don’t have a long time here, but I need to speak with you.”

Essek nodded. Verin let out a breath and found the fastenings on the back of the hood and quickly undid them, pulling the coarse fabric up and off. Essek lifted his head to look up at his brother. He was clammy and sweat had caused his bangs to stick to his face. He shivered as his skin was suddenly exposed to the cold air of the Dungeon of Penance rather than the hood. His hair, Verin noted, looked about as messy as he had ever seen it.

“Why are you here, Verin? What happened?” Essek whispered. “I have guards! If they see you—”

“One of them is Eddy Czayka,” Verin explained.

“Who?” Essek asked.

“She works here, which means she is technically one of your coworkers,” said Verin.

“That doesn’t change anything,” said Essek. “The name means nothing to me.”

“Well, it means a lot to me,” Verin said, “We, she and I, were in training together. We served together until our assignments changed. We’re friends and she is giving me time to talk to you.”

“Czayka…” Essek repeated, testing the name like a wine he was tasting. “That is a low den with delusions of grandeur.” Essek smiled mirthlessly, sharply in the dark. “Let’s hope this isn’t a political ploy, shall we?”

“I trust her.”

“You trust too quickly.”

“Not everyone is as cruel as our parents, you know that,” said Verin.

“I do know that now,” Essek conceded. “I also know there are people who are even crueler.”

“She isn’t one of them,” said Verin.

“How can I help you, Verin?” Essek asked with a sigh that turned into a cough that turned into a groan.

“Have you been like this since you got here last night?” Verin asked. “Have you eaten or had anything to drink or—”

“We can’t possibly have much time and I doubt you came all the way down here to check up on me,” said Essek.

“But—”

“Verin, we both know I am more stubborn than you. Please do not waste the little time I have left.” And he sounded so much like Essek, Verin thought he would cry.

But instead he said, “the Umavi has decided how I can show my penance. In fact, if I do what she wants me to I’ll be…well, I’ll be entirely forgiven by the den, the Queen, the Dynasty, and, supposedly, the Luxon.”

“This must be quite a request,” Essek said, raising his eyebrows. “I am almost afraid to ask, but, well, things cannot get much worse.”

“Don’t be so sure,” muttered Verin.

“Dreadfully foreboding. Tell me, what does she have in mind?”

“She wants me to…” Verin swallowed again, “she wants me to be your headsman.”

He looked away and Essek let out an incredulous laugh. “How horrific! Yes, that sounds like her. I am surprised I didn’t think of it,” said Essek. Then he added, “Verin, please look at me.”

He did.

Essek’s gaze met Verin’s and he held it. “Do it,” Essek said with all the gravity and seriousness he had ever had.

“I am not going to—!” Verin realized he was shouting and he lowered his voice, “I am not going to kill you!” he hissed.

“You are and you will.”

“What? Why?!”

“Because if anyone else does it, they will be far worse at it. I have seen a number of executions. They can go very badly.”

Verin had seen three executions in his time. The two he carried out in Bazzoxan he had made sure were quick, even if the victims were heartless and murderous slavers. They sat up, blindfolded, and each was completely beheaded with one swing of a great sword he had specially commissioned. By custom they should have been hanged. They weren’t nobility or of any sort of importance; the masses were supposed to be hanged unless the specific crime stated otherwise, but never beheaded, seperate from the Dens even in death. Verin had decapitated them because the other execution he saw, inflicted on a captured imperial spy years earlier, made Verin too merciful to hang anyone. The spy had taken ten minutes to die, ten minutes of gasping, jerking, struggling. In his position of Shadowhand Essek must have seen many more, especially over the months of the war. Essek probably masterminded them.

Verin didn’t say anything.

“I don’t know much about physical combat, surprising, I know, but you are strong. While you prefer your glaive, I also know you can wield a sword well.” Essek finished with a small, sad smile, “that is better than I deserve.”

“I cannot let you die…” Verin said.

Essek let out a bitter sound between chuckle and sob. “You are far too late for that. I have lived my life doing unforgivable things. It was only a matter of time before they caught up.”

“This is madness! You can’t just—I am not going to kill you!” he said.

“If you want to remain in the Bright Queen’s good graces you must! It is a show of loyalty to the Dynasty you will be unable to replicate in scale! And to mother as well! You will be pruning the family tree to her liking! They do not need to know that you are showing me any mercy—”

“I don’t care—!”

“You should! I doubt they have considered means of execution as being easier or harder! The Umavi think all death is equally horrific, their minds are so warped—”

“Essek—!” Verin tried.

“It will be easy—!”

“Nothing about this is easy, Essek!” Verin’s voice cracked painfully. “Nothing! You can’t die here!”

“I will die upstairs in the interrogation chamber, actually,” Essek said, attempting to sound airy and light.

“This isn’t a joke!”

“No, it isn’t,” Essek quietly agreed. “I am asking you to make sure the last face I see is a friendly one. End my life quickly and without further agony.”

Verin’s heart shattered, “I can’t lose you! Not after I’ve just found you again!”

“I am begging you! Be the one to end my miserable life!”

“I can’t do it, Essek! I can’t!”

“Fine! Fine! Don’t! So long as this stops! I cannot have our last conversation be a fight! I cannot do that again! Not with you as well!” Essek’s voice cracked painfully.

That felt like a blow to the chest, it hurt to breathe. If all his plans failed and Essek did die Verin wouldn’t let it be a repeat of their father. If he was going to die he would die Verin’s friend. He leaned over and gently kissed his brother on the cheek, sticky with sweat, wet with tears. “I’ll swing the sword,” said Verin.

“Thank you,” Essek whispered hoarsely.

“I am not angry with you,” Verin assured him.

“Thank you,” Essek repeated and this time his whole body seemed to relax.

“I will do all I can, brother, to make this easier for you.” Verin was rapidly losing hope. He was trying to cling to it, but with each passing hour he felt more helpless. Seeing Essek so utterly resigned after having sabotaged an escape attempt made it infinitely worse.

“You are a far better brother than I have ever deserved,” Essek said.

“I could say the same for you.”

“You absolutely cannot, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

“Shut up and take the compliment, you prick.”

“You are a wonderful idiot,” Essek smiled through tears, “thank you.”

“Stop thanking me. I would do anything for you. I love you, Essek,” Verin said. He really just wanted Essek to stop thanking him for agreeing to kill him. It was making him feel ill.

“I love you too,” Essek replied. “Try not to forget me.”

“Of course I won’t! In a thousand years I’ll still be telling my descendents how brilliant and obnoxious you were,” Verin said.

“If my soul makes it to the outer planes I will not forget you either,” said Essek. “And should your soul ever escape the cycle…well, we will probably be going to different places—”

“If or when my soul leaves the cycle, I’ll come bother you again, that’s a promise,” Verin said.

“Good,” Essek sniffled, “by then I will have even started to miss it.”

“Verin!” Edyta hissed through the door. “Tafa is coming back!”

Verin paused. He couldn’t leave Essek like this, alone and afraid, facing death.

“Go!” said Essek, jerking his head toward the door. “As the expression actually goes,” Essek switched from Undercommon to Common to say, “‘I’ll see you on the other side.’”

“You will. One way or another, you will,” he kissed Essek’s other cheek.

“Don’t forget to put the hood back on me,” Essek said.

Verin paused.

“Don’t be a moron! They will catch you too if you do not!” said Essek.

Verin nodded. “Understood. Goodbye, Essek.”

“Goodbye, Verin. I love you. Tell my friends I said goodbye and I love them all as well.” He paused for a half second then added, “don’t you dare tell them where they can find me or try to help me escape.”

Verin was more gentle in putting the hood on and tying the knot then their mother had been, but the effect was the same. “I love you too,” he said again. “I’m sorry. Goodbye, Essek.”

Verin stepped out of the cell and Edyta slammed it shut. Just as she finished turning the key, Tafa returned to his post carrying tea. He had a cup for himself as well. He handed the steaming cup off to Verin. “Taskhand, they were out of crimson nettle, but I made you blade grass instead. It’s sweeter so I left out the honey."

“That’s fine, thank you.” He hoped his hands didn’t shake as he took the cup and downed it quickly.

Tafa looked from Verin to Edyta and back again. A beat of quiet and then as if he couldn’t contain himself Tafa burst out, “Are you two fuck—?!” He blanched, cleared his throat, and took a loud sip of tea and said, “forgive my impertinence, sir, but is this some kind of romantic liaison?”

Verin’s brain had already stalled, but Eddy took it in stride. “Just keep your big mouth shut!” she snapped.

“Really?!” Tafa asked.

“Don’t tell anyone!” Eddy asserted.

It couldn’t be more of a lie. Verin had never slept with a woman in his life. But he would accept this lie. It saved them an explanation. Besides he had done this before, lied about his status in relation to a woman. In those previous cases it had been to help his female friends when they were trying to avoid unwanted advances from the sort of men who didn’t take no for an answer. Verin was handsome, tall for his kind, and muscular for his frame; exactly the kind of person men like that wanted to avoid.

“I fucking knew—I knew it!” he said.

“Keep it quiet, Watchman,” Verin said as seriously as he could. He thought his angst probably helped. He was also grateful to not have to fake calm.

“Yeah, okay, sure. But if you don’t wanna get found out you need to be less obvious about it!”

“Noted,” said Verin.

“Let me show you to the exit, darling,” said Edyta.

“Yes, thanks,” said Verin.

They walked in silence for some time, even after they were out of Tafa’s earshot. Finally Edyta said, “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” said Verin.

“When is he—?”

“Tomorrow. Six.”

“When you feel like having company again, I’ll buy you the strongest drink we can find.”

“I’ll take you up on it…” the silence settled again. Then Verin said, “be kind to him, as best you can.”

“There isn’t much I can do, but I will do my best for you.” There was a pause and then she said, “I’m not sure if this will help but...this was inevitable. The things they say the Shadowhand was working on…I don’t usually listen to gossip but if what people say about him is true, well...the theories he proposed were—”

“It doesn’t help, Watchman,” Verin snapped, there was more bite in his own voice than he knew he was capable of.

“I only mean to say there was nothing you could do,” she said kindly.

“I don’t believe that. There is always something more I could do,” said Verin.

She sighed. “This has always been your problem, Verin. You can’t save everyone and you shouldn’t blame yourself for being only drow.”

Verin didn’t answer.

“Especially not people who won’t allow themselves to be saved,” she muttered.

“Edyta, stop,” Verin said.

“Okay…” There was a long pause where only their footsteps could be heard, the air was heavy and dizzying with magic, oppressive as smoke. Then she said, “you know, if you want to see him again before tomorrow there’s a shortcut.”

“What?” Verin asked.

“It doesn’t drop you right here, but close by. It’s an easy shot even with the enchantments and shit.”

“What do you mean ‘a shortcut’?” Verin asked.

“There’s a tunnel, one of the tunnels built by the Betrayer Gods. It ends up around the primary interrogation chamber but it’s only four flights straight down to get to him from there,” she said.

“Where’s the tunnel start?” Verin asked.

“The barracks, just outside the Firmaments on the north side. Most people don’t bother with it because they don’t work this deep, but it’s still intact, it’s a Luxon blessing for people like Tafa and me.”

Verin stared at her. He fought a smile. He nodded stoically, “yes, that would be nice,” he said.

And from there he and the Mighty Nein could start building their new plan.

Chapter Text

Unsurprisingly, Essek hadn’t tranced much. He had slipped close to it once or twice due to crushing exhaustion, but the bloodless pain in his limbs didn’t allow it to last long; jerking him into agonizing consciousness again.

He had experienced pain in his legs for almost two decades and weakness there for most of his life; he was used to it by now. After the cold of Eiselcross and the fight in the Cognoza Ward had intensified both he thought it wouldn’t get much worse, but over the last...he didn’t know how many hours, days, weeks, or years he had been strung up here…he had been proven horribly incorrect. The pain and exhaustion was enough to reduce him to crying, sobbing silently in the dark. The tears and sweat on his face made the course material of the bag and waves of his hair stick fast to his skin.

He had done this to people before: ordered them strung up similarly, watched it happen, seen the aftermath, but the physical agony was such that the bitter irony did not make much of an impact, glancing off his mind. Over his stay he only knew he was truly alive and that time was passing because of the surges of pain up his legs and down his arms, lighting up his nerves repeatedly like lightning strikes.

He knew he couldn’t be heard from inside the hood. He couldn’t even hear himself. He couldn’t call for help, nor would he get it even if conditions were different. There were a few truly lost moments where he had tried; he attempted to call out his friends’ names, before realizing how utterly pointless and pathetic it was. He cried then as well.

At the very least he had been starved and parched so he was saved from the humiliation of soiling himself. It did mean he was hungry and dehydrated. He was used to ignoring his hunger, he would rather feed his mind than attend to the basic needs of his physical body. But under normal circumstances, eventually he would give in to his body’s obnoxious demands and find something to eat. That was not an option now, and this was the longest he had ever gone without food (he wasn’t exactly sure how long it had been, but it must have been the longest). His hunger hurt now, adding to the orchestra of agony playing discordently through his body. His present thirst cracked his lips, caused his mouth to feel as tacky as slowly drying epoxy. He found it almost impossible to swallow, which probably added to the earlier hysterical state of his mind.

Not that it would matter soon. What did it matter how dry a severed throat was? His mind would be removed from his body along with the rest of his head.

Earlier Essek had had an unknown number of silent panic attacks under the hood, in which he had asphyxiated himself into unconsciousness for Luxon knew how long. But now he had reached a sense of peace. He was somehow beyond fear and panic now in the weird state of serenity some of the condemned found. As his body continued to shriek in agony, his mind called for quiet.

He wondered what Verin had thought when he had come here. If that visit happened at all. No, he had been lucid enough back then…

Back then.

By the Umavi, that exchange could have been a century ago. Centuries. There was no sense of time in the Dungeon of Penance, even for someone unmasked. For Essek the pain, confusion, fatigue, and magic made the time stretch on and on and on. There was a chance his friends had all reached their natural lifespans and died by now. He had no way of knowing.

The only relief was death. Blessedly, it was coming. He didn’t know if a soul cast into the Astral Sea or Outer Planes felt pain. He doubted the agony of guilt would leave him so long as he maintained conscious thought, but at the very least that of his broken physical body would. There was a lot that he didn’t know about death that he thought someone raised in a culture that accepted mortality and the prime deities might. But there were things that probably only the dead knew. He wasn’t sure how much even Mollymauk remembered about the worlds beyond the veil, and he had been dead.

But whatever happened next, Essek accepted his fate. He deserved it and he had written his own demise, there was some consolation there both in the justice and the self-actualization. And it would be fast. Verin knew what he was doing and for some reason still harbored some love for Essek despite it all.

Essek knew that his peace with his lot was probably just the delusion of his shattered mind. He had no choice but to accept his death, so he had decided that there was nothing to be done differently to save himself the guilt of having failed to change it. But it was a nice delusion for the end.

Some small relief.

What could have been a thousand years after he’d been locked up, Essek’s ears pricked up at the heavy, decisive clunk of the lock being opened and the moaning creak of the door. For a mad moment he thought it might be the Mighty Nein, that they had somehow broken into the most guarded prison in Wildemount.

Then he heard Zokol’s voice, “good morning, Essek Thelyss.”

So here it was. Essek felt an exhausted smile twitch at his lips. He wasn’t sure how much of it was bitterness and how much was gratitude.

He felt vaguely ill despite having had nothing to eat for what felt like an eternity (it had to have been hours, at least). It wasn’t hunger but the fear he thought he had moved beyond rather that made him feel queasy and light-headed and sharpened his dulled senses. Footsteps approached: two people, unless he was mistaken. His ears tracked boots sweeping through the dried straw on the stone floor and the jingling of keys. Then one of his wrists was freed from its shackle and his arm fell to his side, useless as that of a corpse. The other quickly followed and his arms hung bloodless, tingling, painful. But he forgot that for a moment because without the chains on his arms holding him up his legs immediately gave out under his own unaltered weight.

He expected to slam into the stone floor, but he gasped as someone caught him. They pulled him close as the other person undid the manacles constricting his ankles. He could feel them breathing — body big, warm, and strong. Protective, as if Essek could be protected.

Essek knew who it was before his brother spoke a word.

“Easy,” said Verin’s voice close to his ear. “I’ve got you. Easy.” His voice was so gentle and so sad it made Essek’s heart ache. Essek tried to blindly and awkwardly wrap an arm around his brother’s shoulders, to both find support and offer it to his brother. But even if he couldn’t, he knew Verin would not let him fall.

“Watch him,” said Zokol. “I — we — none of us want anything else going wrong.”

Essek realized that a lot of the smugness had been drained from their affect; they sounded more fearful. Essek assumed Zokol was still involved in this process by virtue of being the favorite for the role of Shadowhand and not because Deirta Thelyss had offered any kind of reconciliation or forgiveness. The envoy of Den Thelyss was Verin, serving to show the den righted its own wrongs. Zokol had lost the admiration of their Umavi, or rather they had been stripped of the delusion that they had ever had it in the first place. Essek could assure them any love Deirta Thelyss may have had in her heart had dried up and withered to nothing long before this lifetime.

“How have you been?” Zokol asked coldly.

Essek would not have responded even if he could. Nor was Zokol expecting an answer. Essek wanted to flip him off, but his hands were heavy, clumsy, useless and what little coordination he had he used to cling to Verin’s shirt.

“Fuck off!” said Verin as if reading and speaking Essek’s mind, adjusting his hold on Essek to something more comfortable for them both. Feeling was slowly returning to Essek’s hands, though he could not say the same for his useless legs.

“Very well then, shall we go behead your brother?” Zokol asked cruelly.

Verin physically stiffened and Essek was nearly lifted off his feet. “You have to read the condemned’s last rites!” he said suddenly as if the lunatic thought had just struck him.

“What?” Zokol asked just as the word silently left Essek’s lips.

“His last rites!” said Verin with more confidence. “Even slavers and killers get them in Bazzoxan! Is Rosohna less civilized than Bazzoxan?”

A pause pregnant with incredulity.

“This man is a traitor against the Luxon itself and you would have me pray for the Luxon to have mercy on his wretched soul?” asked Zokol.

“Yes,” said Verin firmly. Essek could not understand what his brother was doing. Verin had never been religious in his adult life. He knew Essek’s heretical feelings on the Luxon better than anyone besides maybe the Mighty Nein.

“No,” said Zokol, with just as much force.

“May I pray for my brother’s soul?” Verin asked.

“What would be the use?” asked Zokol. “Let’s move.”

“Wait!” Verin said, sounding a little frantic. And Essek realized Verin was trying to buy time. He didn’t know if Verin had a plan or if he was furiously trying to come up with one, but he was trying to slow Zokol down. It squeezed Essek’s heart in his chest. He was selfishly glad the hood kept him from seeing the desperate sorrow he could hear in Verin’s voice.

“We have a schedule to keep, Taskhand. Some of us have more to do with our day,” said Zokol, unmoved. For that alone Essek could hate them. Essek may have deserved Zokol’s ire, but Verin was largely sinless and had shown them kindness even in the face of all they did. His crime was loyalty.

Their callousness seemed to hit Verin deeply. He stammered then redoubled his efforts. “The traditions of the Dynasty are still of the utmost importance in—”

Essek shifted to move forward. He couldn’t listen to more of Verin’s desperation and Zokol’s denial of it.

“It seems the condemned disagrees with you,” said Zokol. “Let’s go.”

Essek could not make it far on his own. He immediately fell back and Verin caught him. Essek groaned and shuddered in pain in Verin’s arms, it was unconscious and embarrassing, but he didn’t think Zokol was still looking at them. Verin looped Essek’s arm properly around his, Verin’s, shoulder, leaning Essek against his body, taking his weight. “Hold onto me,” Verin muttered to him. “I’ve got you. Lean on me like the days of the Luxon when we were younger.”

Verin reminded him of a time long gone, before Essek had murdered thousands. Back when the weakness in his legs would strike only when he spent too much time in certain positions, like the endless hours spent kneeling in cathedrals and standing before shrines on holy days that their family status and rank did not allow them to skip. Essek had not been allowed to show his weakness, nor did he ever want to. But when he could no longer support himself, Verin happily did it for him. And he was doing it again here, now, at the end of it all.

“I’ve got you,” Verin repeated as they made their way slowly and painfully up the countless stairways. He broke the silence, voice weak and almost certainly too quiet for Zokol to hear. “Do you remember how mother would always start her sermons by talking about her countless lifetimes? Of course you do, you must. And you must remember saying to me ‘they’re only countless when you refuse to count them’ or ‘it’s a shame mother cannot count to nine.’ You started up your running commentary whenever you got annoyed. And six hours in you were always annoyed. I thought you were going to get us outlawed, it was so hard not to laugh. You’ve always been funny, Essek. It’s been hard to endure sermons since I went to Bazzoxan. It will be hard…” he let out a breath interrupted by a sound like a dry sob, cleared his throat, and changed the subject. “Do you remember when you tried to convince Matka Xhezzik I was praying at the Zmierzch Cathedral when I was out past curfew with my boyfriend? That somehow I had gotten so wrapped up in worship that I forgot to come home. You somehow got her to believe you, but you’ve always been persuasive, too. Too bad I ruined it by walking in with a hickey…”

Essek did. Of course he did. He wished he could reminisce with Verin or just comfort him. He could hear the tears Verin was probably willing not to fall as he kept talking.

Eventually they reached their destination. They were, he thought, on even ground, or a platform. Verin stopped. Essek heard the sound of keys and footsteps. He could picture the room in his mind. He’d been there enough times. He had conducted interrogations here. He had observed executions here.

Verin’s final story, a reminder that it had been Essek who convinced their mother not to marry Verin off as a political ploy as soon as he came of age, but instead let him continue his military training, came to an end. “I could not ask for a better brother, Essek, no matter what you think,” Verin muttered.

Essek wanted to disagree, but couldn’t speak. He could remind Verin of all the times Essek had rebuked him, talked down to him, ignored him, abandoned him. If anything Verin was the best brother anyone could ask for, willing to risk life and limb for Essek.

The door swung open somewhere beyond Essek’s hood.

“Enter, Taskhand,” said the Bright Queen’s voice from somewhere in the distance, “bring in the condemned.”

Verin paused.

“Taskhand,” said their mother’s voice, “did you not hear your Queen?”

“I apologize, your Majesty,” Verin managed in a deep choked voice. He brought Essek forward, he could feel the straw below his feet, there to help soak up his blood. He heard another pair of footsteps behind him.

“Your Majesty, Skysybil, …Umavi…” said Zokol from behind the brothers. They said the last title more softly and carefully than the other two. Their voice had lost any hint of malicious glee, leaving only defeat and anxious awe, “w-what w-will you have me do? Am I to act in the capacity of Shadowhand?”

“No,” said their mother’s voice. “I have filled the Shadowhand’s role for the execution.”

‘For the execution,’ Essek repeated in his head. He liked that she was forced to clarify, the Queen would not allow her to be the Shadowhand.

“I…” there was a long pregnant pause. “I understand. Am I dismissed?”

“No,” said the Bright Queen and Essek prickled in dread for a moment, that Zokol would be allowed to stay. “Stand guard outside the door,” she said. Essek let out a breath.

“Yes, your Radiant Majesty,” said Zokol quietly. Footsteps. The door closed and locked again.

“Put the prisoner down,” the Bright Queen’s voice coldly said as soon as the door closed again.

“Yes, your Majesty,” said Verin. He carefully eased Essek into a kneeling position and blessedly kept a hand on Essek’s shoulder so he didn’t just collapse onto the filthy floor as he tried to brace himself with his hands.

“Remove the hood,” the Queen said.

“There is no need,” said their mother.

“A condemned member of a Ruling Den is to be given his final words, no matter how heinous the crime,” said the Skysybil. “Such is how it has always been. Such is the will of the Luxon.”

His Umavi made a protesting noise but said nothing, unable to question her own myth. Had they all forgotten the Luxon was their own invention? The Bright Queen said, “what’s the matter, Deirta? Can you not stand to hear what you have created? Or are you trying to hide something even now?”

“Remove the hood, Verin,” said their mother through her teeth.

“Yes, Umavi,” said Verin and he did.

Essek took a deep breath of cold air, only a little less stale than the air in the hood, but so much less stifling. He would have tried to fix his hair but he needed his hands where they were. After the blackness of his hood, he was blinded by the dim light from the quartz crystals, his pupils struggling to quickly restrict. The cold quickly went from refreshing to chilling as the sweat on his face made him shiver. Essek smiled at the women as smugly as he could.

“Good morning, Umavi,” Essek said through his dry throat. He tried to wet his cracked lips but anxiety and thirst had dried his mouth to a point it didn’t make a difference. “How very nice to see you all. I would bow but it seems I am already on my knees and my mother knows how very difficult it is for me to get back up again.”

The Skysybil looked concerned by that comment, glancing with brow slightly furrowed between the three Thelysses present. Essek met her gaze. Then he looked to the Queen and his mother.

“What are your last words, traitor?” asked the Bright Queen.

“None. There is nothing more to say,” said Essek.

“Luxon be praised,” muttered Deirta Thelyss.

“Taskhand Verin,” The Queen said. “Draw your sword.”

“Now?!” Verin asked in a croaky voice.

“Now,” said the Queen without a hint of mercy.

Essek saw his brother’s throat bob. He put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“I’m so, so sorry, Essek,” he whispered. “I tried.”

Essek gave him a soft look, “thank you, Verin.” Then he closed his eyes and lifted his head, hoping to give his executioner the cleanest line. All he could hope was that the Raven Queen was more merciful than the Luxon’s followers, although given what he knew of faith outside the Dynasty he doubted it.

He heard Verin let out a shaking breath. He heard the sword be drawn from its scabbard.

Then…

Frantic familiar voices. The crackle and roar of burning wood along with a blast of heat at his back, the loud clatter of metal on stone, scrambling feet, then a frantic, hoarse Zemnian voice shouted, “Halt!”

Essek’s eyes flew open and he saw the door had been burned to blacked cinders thrown across the floor. Just beyond the smoking frame were Yasha and Jester threatening Zokol with sword and lollypop respectively, Yasha’s big pale hand over their mouth and blade resting on their throat. Mollymauk stood awkwardly in the doorway and gave Essek a little wave. And rushing into the chamber of his execution was Caleb Widogast and Essek’s heart skipped with emotion he hadn’t dared to feel, let alone name.

Chapter Text

Of course Caleb was surprised when Essek pushed him into his own teleportation circle. The whole event felt like it happened in another era, another life, but it had been only 38 hours, 22 minutes, and 12 seconds before he burned the execution chamber’s door to ash and ran to Essek’s side.

In the span of a moment Caleb had been about to kiss Essek, their faces close enough to feel his breath, then he was encased in a tunnel of noise and light, and finally found himself in Yussa’s Tower. He stumbled backward and fell onto his ass in the center of the circle carved into the floor. “Oh, fick dich, Thelyss!” Caleb snapped to the empty room. “Ich versuche dich einfach nur retten, du Vollidiot!” (“Oh fuck you, Thelyss! I’m just trying to rescue you, you complete idiot!”)

Of course he was just as angry at himself as he was with Essek. He dropped onto his back cursing his own libido and romantic streak. Essek, being a genius who knew Caleb well, had played the Zemnian’s emotions against his better judgment and won the bet. Caleb fell for it hook, line, and sinker: he thought Essek was going to kiss him, he let his guard down, and now here he was, alone in Yussa’s teleportation circle.

Caleb lay starfished on the floor as the fruity smell of Conjuration magic dissipated into sea air and attic dust. The thrum of energy was replaced with sounds of seabirds and the busy market beyond the open window. He blew it, they both blew it, Essek’s only chance. Idiots, both of them. Caleb scrubbed both hands down his face and let out a groan of frustration.

He must have been louder than he intended as he heard footsteps and then the door opening. Caleb did not want the company so as the door opened he teleported himself back to the Xhorhaus. He disappeared just as he heard Yussa’s voice, getting as far as the first syllable of his name before Caleb was back in Xhorhas, glad that his agitated state hadn’t caused him to teleport into a wall.

Slowly over the next three quarters of an hour the group came back together. Caleb’s stomach roiled and churned with anxiety as the discussion of what happened became increasingly heated. Teams Downtown and Tiefling had no idea that things had even gone badly until they returned to find Caleb waiting in the War Room rather than being on the Menagerie Coast with Essek.

“What’s going on?” Jester asked, “where’s Essek?”

Caleb heaved an angry shrug.

“Seems like Caleb took the trip by himself,” said Beau.

“What the fuck happened?” asked Veth, “everything was perfect on our end! What did you assholes do wrong?!”

“It was working!” Beau said, slamming the table.

“It was!” Fjord agreed.

“Then what happened?!” Beau asked, “who was that chick Verin was talking to? what was the real Waccoh doing?” Beau rounded on the tieflings. Her expression softened a little at their faces, they had that effect on people, too cute for their own good — or anyone else’s for that matter — but for once Caleb thought they might actually be innocent.

“We had her totally distracted!” said Jester. “She was really really interested in Molly’s blood magic!”

“A little too interested, all things being equal,” muttered Molly.

“Yeah, she sent one of her assistants to bring some notes to…oh shit!” Jester clapped her hands over her mouth in shock. “They must have gone to the Lucid Bastion!”

“Yeah, yeah they did,” said Fjord.

“Oh fuck! Oh shit! I thought it was the Conservatory!” said Jester through her hands.

“And I don’t know where any of those places are!” said Molly.

“Fjord, I’m so so so sorry!” said Jester.

“It’s alright, we managed,” Fjord replied gently.

“No, we did not,” Beau reminded him.

“What happened on your end?” Caleb asked Fjord, trying to piece together the past so he could get a glance at the future.

He hoped that Waccoh had not been compromised because if she could prove her whereabouts it would easily direct them back to the Mighty Nein. Even if nobody knew Molly was among them and even if Jester was not so unique in what was perhaps the tiefling cultural hub of Exandria the three Umavi knew the Mighty Nein were on Essek’s side and had already made moves on Essek’s behalf. They would be the perfect suspects and according to Verin Deirta Thelyss was just waiting for this opportunity to strike. Somehow they had to keep it clean.

“Me and the Gloomblade were talking down a side hall,” said Fjord, “I was bullshitting questions about residuum and it was going great, then there was some loud shouting — in Undercommon, I think — coming from the hall Beau was in.”

“Yeah, this’s the part I saw,” said Beau. “It was Verin who was trying to convince Waccoh’s assistant,” she nodded to the tieflings, “not to bother Omrifar. Verin was a little too insistent. He was pushing a little too hard. Not his fault, but that’s what fucked us.”

“Verin is what seemed to set off Omfi—”

Beau cut him off, “Omrifar, for fuck’s sake, Fjord! You talked like a cowboy for 10 months you can say a fucking name!”

“I don’t see how those are related,” said Fjord, blushing slightly.

“Om-ri-far!”

“Who gives a shit!?” Caleb snapped, it was his turn to slam his palm down on the table hard enough that it stung badly. “We all know who he is referring to, the Arschgeige who is holding our dearest friend hostage!”

“Yes, right, well, Omrifar,” Fjord said it near perfectly, which really only annoyed Caleb for some reason, “kept looking down the hall. They stopped listening to me entirely and then they took off toward you, Verin, and Essek’s room. I missed what happened exactly then because I had to deal with ‘my’ assistant and their questions without knowing who the fuck they were or really what they were saying.”

“How’d that go?” asked Veth. At the same time she took one of Caleb’s hands in hers and guided it away from his scars. He tried to fight her on it, seeking the pain, but she held fast. Her insistence made him realize what he was doing and his hand slackened. Caleb wasn’t sure when he had started to claw them, but looking over at where Veth held his hand he could see some of the scars on his arm were raw and bloody.

“Could have been worse,” Fjord answered, “we didn’t actually get to talk that much. Once the yelling started I used it as an excuse to go toward it and they used it as an excuse to take off.”

“That’s when we broke into Essek’s room,” said Beau. “I’m guessing that’s right when he sent you on your lonely-hearts vacation to Nicodranas.” She looked hard at Caleb. He could see the gears turning behind her eyes, trying to figure out exactly how he fucked up.

“I assume so. I have no way of knowing what occurred afterward. I was, as you say, in Nicodranas,” Caleb saidly flatly.

“What happened, exactly?” Beau asked.

“Does it matter?” Caleb asked. “I was sabotaged. The plan did not work.”

“Call me curious,” she said. “Besides, if it’s something that could happen again, we need to be ready for it.”

“It will not happen again, I can assure you of that.”

“Yeah? Can you really?” she asked.

“My guard was down and Essek pushed me into my own circle,” Caleb tried to scrub a hand down his arm but at some point Veth had put herself between his body and his arm so he would have to cross over her to scratch, “is that good enough, Expositor?”

“Doesn’t prove it won’t happen again,” said Beau, still looking at him distrustfully.

“You don’t need to know everything, nosy one!” said Mollymauk with only a shade of his attempted mirth coming through the tension of the room.

“That’s where you and me differ,” said Beau.

“Hardly the only place, thank the Moonweaver,” said Molly.

“What happened after I was hucked across the continent?” Caleb demanded, angry at the banter and horribly aware of the clock ticking down in the back of his head. Every second was a second Essek potentially didn’t have.

“Verin, Ormifar, and Essek were going toe-to-toe and Essek gave me the universal ‘get the fuck out’ signal,” said Beau. “Sneakily. Because he’s a sneaky bastard.”

“But what happened to Verin?!” Jester asked, horror dawning in her big purple eyes as she realized they had left him behind.

“We don’t know,” Fjord admitted. “He was defending Essek then Essek started casting something and Beau grabbed me by the hand and we ran!”

“He was giving us a diversion to get away so I used it,” said Beau. “It would have been worse if we got caught. So that’s all we know about either brother.”

“What do we do now?” asked Jester quietly through the fence of her fists.

Beau scowled and shrugged, somehow even that roll of her shoulder was bitter. Caduceus looked like he would say something, didn’t, and slumped further in his seat, looking distraught. Fjord, still standing, looked down at the table, brow furrowed, yellow eyes distant. Molly was sitting backward in his chair, his scarred arms crossed on what should have been the back, his face was cushioned against his arms except for his eyes, wide and peering around the group. Veth looked away, struggling to put on a sweater, one Caleb had not seen since Eiselcross. Yasha looked from Molly to Beau to Molly and found the tiefling’s hand when he wordlessly extended it to her.

“They could both be dead,” Beau said after a long moment, glaring a hole in the wall and giving voice to the fear that had been eating away at Caleb’s last strand of composure.

The most that could be said for Caleb was that he managed to make it to the waste bin before throwing up. Molly and Veth were beside him in an instant, he could see the flashes of purple and white and brown and yellow in his blurred vision. Veth was holding his hair back and muttering something in a comforting tone that Caleb couldn’t quite make out over the sound of his own retching. Molly rubbed his back as he emptied his stomach into the wooden bin. When Caleb’s own clumsy fingers failed to find purchase on anything but the floor, Mollymauk held the bin in place for him.

“—if we stayed,” Fjord was saying as Caleb surfaced, sweaty and shaking. Caduceus’s beetles were already investigating the sick, much to Molly’s surprise, disgust, and, judging by the movement and crook of his tail, fascination.

“That is the stupidest thing you have ever said,” said Veth as she offered Caleb a hand to help him get to his feet, “and that’s saying something!”

“So instead we left them both to die!” said Fjord. He rounded on her, “you’ve said it yourself, Veth! That is not how we do things! We save our friends!”

“We can’t save them if we’re all dead too!” snapped Veth.

“We don’t know if they would kill us,” said Jester.

“But they could if they wanted to,” responded Veth. “And we couldn’t stop them. Right now we have eight of us against the whole Kryn Dynasty. We can’t just punch some guards, grab Essek, and ride off into the sunset!”

“Why not?!” asked Yasha. “It seems easiest.”

“Because we don’t have enough manpower to punch an entire country. Veth is right,” said Fjord with a sigh, falling back into his seat, “as much as it pains me to say it. There are eight of us and the Bright Queen has an entire kingdom.”

“Really there are seven and a half of us,” said Veth, “No offense Molly.”

“Been called worse,” Molly shrugged.

“But-but Essek and Verin are royalty, right?” said Yasha, hopefully. “Maybe that means they’re fine! You’re not supposed to torture or skin or beat up princes.”

“Baby, even if they aren’t dead they’ve both got to be in prison,” Beau said to Yasha.

“You don’t know that!” insisted Jester and Yasha nodded emphatically.

“We do know that,” said Beau. “Verin isn’t here. So either he’s abandoned Esssek, which is un-fucking-likely, he’s in prison—”

“Or he’s dead,” said Yasha, her mismatched eyes wide.

Beau nodded and squeezed Yasha’s arm. Molly looked over at Caleb from where he was still standing, stunned, beside him by the now beetle-filled bin.

“Essek is one of the worst, if not the worst criminal in all of the history of the Kryn Dynasty!” Beau was saying. “He stole the Beacons, he started a war, he lied to the Queen. The blood of thousands is ruining his manicure. The Bright Queen isn’t ever going to let any of that go!”

Caleb felt as if the world was swaying, buzzing, which, he realized, meant he was probably close to throwing up again. He felt uneasy on his feet, but before he could take a step there was Mollymauk, wrapping a protective arm and tail around Caleb. Judging from his expression Mollymauk was only a little better composed than he was. But he leaned over and gave Caleb a kiss on the forehead. Warm, familiar, distantly comforting.

Beau’s rant had not let up. “And now Verin’s in the same boat! As far as I’m concerned it’s better to be pessimistic and be proven wrong than optimistic just in time for both of the Thelyss brothers to get decapitated.”

“Shit,” muttered Caduceus anxiously. Molly had just eased Caleb into his seat beside Veth; she immediately took his hand and Caleb looked from her to the firbolg on the couch as he spoke. Somehow the ash gray of his skin got even grayer below his fur. The couch, like all the furniture in the Xhorhaus, was too small for him, and it made him look all the more pathetic for it, big and hopeless and out-of-place. Both of his hands gripped his staff, twisting on the wood hard enough Caleb thought he would get splinters.

“Nobody panic!” Jester snapped, throwing her arms open wide to the table. She jumped up, knocking the table hard enough that Molly, who was now sitting on it at Yasha’s side, was nearly unseated. “I’m sending a Sending! I’m sending a Sending to Verin!”

Fjord obediently held up his hands to act as her counter.

“Hey, Verin, it’s Jester. We’re mostly okay. At home. Caleb went to Nicodranas. Glad you’re not dead! What happened?! You and Essek, okay? Dead, yes-slash-no?”

“I don’t know if ‘yes-slash-no’ counts as one word, Jes,” said Fjord.

But Jester shushed him. There was a pause during which Caleb could only hear his own heart pounding. Everyone stared at Jester, nobody even seemed to breathe. “You guys! He’s—” she stopped. Jester’s expression went from anxious to relieved to wide-eyed fear.

Fjord took a breath and held it.

“What?! He’s what?!” Caleb asked.

“What’s he saying?” asked Beau at the same time.

“Um a lot of stuff,” said Jester. “Hang on.” She cast again, “Holy shit Verin! That’s so much! You only have 25 words! Tell me everything again. But in 25 words this time because…” Jester realized she only had three words left and her panic was apparent, “how spell does.”

Another anxious pause in which Jester listened to Verin’s second message.

“What did he say?” Veth asked. Caduceus shushed her. “Oh, fuck off!” snapped Veth.

“Come on, Jester!” pleaded Beauregard as the pause lengthened by fragments of a second that felt like hours.

“Okay, okay, okay! Everybody stay calm! Essek and Verin are both alive and they aren’t hurt or in danger…buuuut Essek is in the Dungeon of Penance in one of those cells like where we saw that Scourger lady who got squished! And Verin is in big trouble with his mom!”

There were some sounds of dismay but Beau slumped back in her chair, looking relieved. “That’s the best we can hope for,” she said. Caleb couldn’t help but agree. Essek was not going to die any sooner than he was already damned to, Verin was not a prisoner of the state, only his family. They knew, more or less, where both brothers were. It did very little to get rid of the boulder of anxiety crushing Caleb, but at the very least the load of it was easier to bear.

“What do we do now?” Caduceus asked, looking to the humans for an answer. Caleb didn’t have one.

“Uh…” Beau looked from Caduceus to Caleb (who quickly looked down) to the notes she had scattered across the table in front of her.

“We save them!” said Jester.

“Yeah, but how?!” Beau asked. “Even if we somehow broke into the super prison that we only ever got around because of Essek, where Yeza was in a pitch-black cell eating his own clothes, that suicidal pretty boy stopped us the first time! He could do it again!”

There was more indistinct muttering. Or at least indistinct over the ringing in Caleb’s head.

“Why the fuck does he want to die?!” Beau asked her notebook.

Molly spoke up in the quiet that followed, “I barely know Essek so maybe this isn’t for me to say but…speaking from experience…he doesn’t want to die. He’s willing to die. They’re very different. He’s trying to save you lot and that’s why he’s willing to die…” One of Molly’s hands lightly touched the now enormous, ugly scar on his chest, the scar that has started with a glaive and ended with him ripping his own body in half. “Speaking as somebody who’s done it twice over, he’s ready. Not eager, ready. So long as everybody else gets away, he’s ready, and he won’t regret it.”

Caleb felt queasy again, a mix of pity, fear, and anger churning his stomach as he spoke, “you are correct, Mollymauk, you barely know Essek. Keep it to yourself!”

Yasha glowered at him, “Molly’s just trying to help!”

“It does not help us right now!” snapped Caleb. Then he made the mistake of looking at Mollymauk, this tiefling who had given his life, twice, for the people in this room. The kindest and most selfless Hochstapler that ever lived. “I am sorry, Mollymauk, I shouldn’t have shouted…”

Molly struck his apology down with a wave of his hand. “Don’t worry about it, Magic Man. I’m not offended. I was just…” he shrugged, seemingly unable to explain himself.

“Trying to offer some insight,” said Caduceus, still looking bloodless but at least now his grip on the staff has loosened to a point that Caleb wasn’t worried he would accidentally snap it in half. “And that’s just fine. That’s fine. Now we have it, so let’s all take a breath.”

Caduceus still looked worried, but he was also slipping into his role of Elder Brother of the group. Caleb honestly thought it might be as helpful to Caduceus as it was to the rest of them. It was easier to believe your own reassurances when they were said aloud.

“So,” Caduceus continued, still shaky, “what do we do now?”

Nobody had an answer. The anxiety thickened again. Caleb pressed his face into his hands.

“We could break into the Dungeon of Whatever?” offered Mollymauk. Caleb looked sidelong at him.

“It’s huge–” said Beau

“So what?” Molly asked.

“it’s underground, dark–”

“Some of us can see in the dark naturally,” said Molly.

“Heavily guarded and magically fucks with your head!”

That last one caused Molly to grimace, glance at Yasha, then deliberately look away. Caleb thought about an old Zemnian story from his childhood. Traversing the Dungeon of Penance alone would leave them no better off than Hänsel and Gretel.

“We can’t just leave Essek to be killed!” Yasha said. There were many reassurances including, Caleb realized, his own emphatic voice.

“Of course we will not!” he snapped. Again he felt anger and frustration, how could she even think that they would leave Essek to die?!

Because, he realized, she left Zuala. Again pity replaced anger. Caleb wished he could stay angry with her, it was so much more useful. He scowled and looked down.

“Baby, we’ll save him,” said Beau. “We just need to figure out how.”

“I can try Sending to Essek?” said Jester.

“Don’t waste the spell slot,” said Beau. “We don’t know what anti-magic bullshit is down there or if he’ll even answer. Did you say his mom locked him up?”

“Verin said something like that,” said Jester. “She sucks!”

“She sucks hard,” said Caduceus awkwardly.

“Do we know where Essek is going to be…executed?” Yasha asked, her voice was shaking and soft on the last word. Caleb’s heavy heart twinged deep in his chest.

“Why?” Mollymauk asked.

“Maybe it is a bad idea, I-I’m not sure. I just thought…If-if we can’t get into the Dungeon of Penance, maybe we wait until he comes out?”

“That’s brilliant!” said Mollymauk, hugging Yasha.

“I like that! That’s a good idea!” said Fjord at the same time.

“It is,” Beau agreed, but Caleb could see that she had found the same problem he had. Once it was no longer a stealth mission they were again seven-and-a-half against the Dynasty. Seven-and-a-half who had to move faster than a headsman’s ax. Perhaps she too was imagining what would happen if they failed. “It is…” she repeated.

“Okay, then what?” asked Veth. Caleb watched out of the corner of his eye as she futzed with something in the pocket of her long disused sweater. She had a curious expression on her face Caleb could not parse.

“What do you mean?” asked Fjord.

“She means what do we do after we triumphantly burst in,” Caleb said. “Because if the executions in the Dynasty are anything like those in the Empire, once you are in the killing field as it were, the Queen will scarcely need to breathe to have Essek killed.”

“What is that?” asked Caduceus.

Caleb glanced at Caduceus, confused. Although sometimes it was hard to tell with square pupils he thought Caduceus was looking beyond Caleb to where Veth was standing beside him.

“Is that a fucking Beacon?!” asked Beau.

Caleb looked over as Veth opened her hand. In her palm, about the size of her fist, was what was indisputably a Luxon Beacon.

“I forgot I had this,” said Veth as all eyes around the room found her.

“Where? Why?” asked Beau, dumbstruck.

“Aeor, obviously. And why?” she shrugged. “The itch. You know, just because I’m not a goblin anymore doesn’t mean I don’t get the itch. It’s been there my whole life. And I figured it’s fine to steal from dead people.”

“They’re not using it,” Molly agreed from behind Caleb.

In one fluid motion Veth rolled the Beacon onto the table like a die. It ended up in front of Caleb, silver and bright. Caleb found he could not take his eyes off of it.

“As insane as it is for me to say this, let’s focus on the task at hand,” said Fjord.

“Yes, please,” said Caleb.

“How do we stop an execution?” asked Beau. “What do we do if the ax is coming down?”

There was a pause. Caleb looked at Veth’s stolen Beacon sitting on the table, beating like a heart, throbbing with magic, glittering with possibility. In an instant Caleb saw the dozens of timelines climbing outward from this moment. He saw their successes, their failures, their deaths, their lives. He saw all of the things he could be, all the things Essek could be, all the things they could be together. All of them were more than possible, all of them existed in this moment, just waiting for the timeline to set. He could feel himself tipping into that infinity of futures, of lifetimes.

That was when inspiration struck. He saw one path, clear and bright. Possible. All he had to do was achieve it.

Caleb felt the ghost of a smile on his lips for the first time since the collapse of their previous plan. He picked up the Beacon and held it high, a miniature repeat of what he had done in the Bright Queen’s throne room, “leave that to me.”

Chapter Text

“Halt!” Caleb shouted, the scene had scared him so badly that he had momentarily forgotten Common; fear reducing him to a child. When his wits returned to him Caleb found he was already racing across the dark room toward Essek’s kneeling, shivering form, dressed only in a pale gray jumpsuit.

Standing close to Essek was Verin, wearing crimson red and pitch black from boots to jewelry. Verin dropped the heavy broadsword he’d been holding when Caleb’s quartet burst in, throwing it down as quickly and fiercely as if it was a venomous snake. In front of Essek, between them and the far wall, was a raised dark platform where the three Umavi sat in sharply-carved wine-colored chairs, looking down on the accused and his executioner. A carpet had been laid out leading from door to platform, thus creating a clean path across the filthy floor. Well, once a clean path, now it was covered in the charcoal that had once been the door. The room was lit by the same dim purple quartz much of the Lucid Bastion was, but this deep underground there were no windows, just the dark, dank stone walls. The room was just bright enough for Caleb to see, like a night with particularly bright moons.

There were shouts of Undercommon and Common from the Umavi on the platform, but Caleb ignored them for the moment. They were calling for guards that Caleb knew would not come. The rest of the Nein had either incapacitated them or were presently keeping them very busy. Having thrown down his sword, Verin feigned surprise, turning fully to face Caleb. The dropped weapon didn’t help sell Verin’s performance, but at least he had his back to the Umavi when he grinned with joyful relief. “Cutting it rather close, Widogast,” he muttered softly below the chaos. Caleb nodded minutely already dropping down onto his knees beside Essek.

“Are you alright?” Caleb asked. Essek looked over at him, opened his mouth but made no sound, closed it and instead nodded weakly, then with desperate shaking hands grabbed at Caleb’s. His whole body was quivering with pain or strain. Caleb took one hand and laced their fingers together, holding tightly, and allowing Essek to lean on him. For a moment Caleb simply reveled in the living warmth of Essek’s body (although he was still worryingly cold). Then he hauled Essek to his feet. Instead of standing upright, Essek immediately fell heavily against Caleb again.

“Caleb Widogast, this does not concern you!” the Bright Queen was saying. She’d jumped out of her intricately carved throne when the door exploded, but she had taken her seat again. She quickly regained most of her composure, realizing that she was neither about to be killed by the Nein nor about to be rescued by her guards. She kept her calm by a thread, visibly seething, a low boil of rage, but that was alright, Caleb could deal with that.

“I disagree,” said Caleb as he struggled to hold Essek. He didn’t know why Essek’s legs weren’t cooperating, but they could worry about them once his neck was safe. Caleb was not the strongest person in the room, indeed he may have been the weakest including the elderly goblin woman. Thankfully, Essek was quickly back to floating with a few one handed gestures. He still did not let go of Caleb’s hand and he glanced over at him as if asking if this was alright. Caleb squeezed his hand in response. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Then what is your plan exactly?” asked the Skysybil, businesslike, she hadn’t gotten up when the group made their dramatic entrance either due to her age or her demeanor. As she spoke her big pale eyes traced the disruptions in the room: the dead man standing on his feet — or hovering off them — clutching the hand of the Imperial mage so tightly his cold knuckles were gray; the executioner without his sword; a strange and scarred tiefling standing awkwardly in the doorway, looking as confused as the Skysybil herself almost certainly felt; the woman of the Wastes and the once cuddly, cute blue tiefling holding the Queen’s assassin at bay with an enormous blade and a piece of spiky confectionary respectively. It was quite a scene, Caleb would admit, even to him who had helped mastermind this plan, such as what it was.

“Verin, Co Wy robicie? Bierzcie ich!” said the woman to the Queen’s left. Caleb didn’t need to know Undercommon to understand the crux of what she was saying or know that Verin wouldn’t obey. Just glancing at her Caleb knew instantly who she was. He found that he could spot Essek’s cheekbones and the Thelyss Family’s sharp, heavily lidded-eyes from a mile off; the longer he looked at this woman the more Essek he saw. This was Den Thelyss’s Umavi, Deirta Thelyss, at long last. Verin had mentioned she was young, indeed looked as if she was her sons’ age, but age was always hard to tell with elves. She was certainly the youngest on the dais. Her throne was also carved with striking geometry, but it was the smallest of the three even if the Skysybil was smaller in stature. The Bright Queen had her royal scepter, but the Umavi Thelyss had a staff too, longer but much less impressive than the Queen’s, somewhere between bo-staff and cane, topped with what appeared to be a honeycomb of dodecahedrons.

“I am allowing this man to say his piece! Wasn’t Essek allowed last words?” Verin said in response to his mother, but he spoke to the whole room, grandly and in Common.

“Essek was and he stayed silent, Widogast was not,” said the Skysybil.

Caleb quickly spoke up with his artificial confidence, “I cannot allow you to execute this man! If he will not speak for himself I will speak for him!” Below the surface he was terrified, but no one in this room needed to know that.

“With what authority?” asked the Bright Queen.

“With—”

She cut him off, “None. You have no power that I have not granted. The former Shadowhand will get no mercy.”

Caleb could not respond, because as the Queen spoke Deirta Thelyss was in motion, a whirl of fabrics and somatic gestures. She was suddenly on her feet and at the word “mercy” her staff burst into a bright white light, twisting and molding like quicksilver. As a white glaive materialized she was already swinging it forward at her son and his wouldbe rescuer her long sleeves like wings, dress and robe flowing around her like water. Caleb, startled, knew it was too late to cast. Instead he pushed Essek behind him, putting his body between the drow and the holy weapon. But the strike never came, the Umavi missed. Caleb looked up, he saw the Umavi stagger back, the white glaive shrinking and fading back to the ordinary staff, the magical energy she had imbued it with was gone.

Caleb was trying to figure out the cause when he heard a small, pained grunt coming from behind. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Molly wiping a tell-tale spurt of blood from his bicep. He caught Caleb looking and gave him a lopsided smile. “I may have learned a thing or two from Luci,” Molly said in a hoarse voice.

“Danke,” muttered Caleb at the same time Deirta Thelyss shouted, “what did you do to me?!”

“Nothing permanent, I assure you,” said Caleb, drawing attention away from Mollymauk. “Merely an act of self-defense.”

That seemed to be enough for the other two Umavi, neither of whom said anything either to defend or admonish any party involved. Deirta Thelyss stood clutching her staff in one hand and her head in the other.

“You allow me to be attacked?” demanded Deirta.

“I allow you to be rebuked,” answered the Bright Queen, coldly. She turned her silver-gray eyes to Caleb, “now, Widogast, you and your party are woefully outnumbered and my Watchmen are already on their way to apprehend you. I will mercifully offer you this final chance to stand down and abandon the traitor.”

“I am afraid I have to reject your kind offer, the traitor must go free, and I have something that might sway you to my side,” said Caleb.

“That is impossible,” scoffed the Bright Queen.

But as she spoke Caleb reached into his pocket. He felt all eyes focus on him, even the stale, foul air was tense, like bated breath. He quickly produced the subject of his search, holding it high over his head, there was a gasp that cut through the room as people realized what he had. Between forefinger and thumb he held the tiny Beacon that Veth’s brilliance and kleptomania had compelled her to take from Aeor. Here stood Caleb Widogast, yet again holding aloft a piece of the Kryn god.

“Where did you find that?” Deirta Thelyss asked in a hushed voice. She looked like she might make a grab for it, her hand raising slightly, but she would never be able to reach it without her son’s levitation cantrip. Her arm fell back, pressing nervous fingers to her face. She kept staring at the Beacon as if she could not look away from its glow.

“This Luxon Beacon was found in Eiselcross. Is that not so, Essek?” Caleb asked.

“...It is so,” said Essek, seemingly as confused as the Umavi.

“All you have done is proven that the former Shadowhand did not lie about his research,” said the Skysybil. “We are grateful to you, Hero of the Dynasty. Now we will redouble our efforts in the north, perhaps even grow the pool of consecuted souls.”

That last statement did not seem to go over as well with Deirta Thelyss, at the very least, who looked over at the Skysybil with her perfect eyebrows drawn tightly together.

“I do not believe you will,” said Caleb.

“And why not?” asked the Skysybil with smug incredulity.

“Because it will prove that the Luxon is not a god,” said Caleb flatly.

The reaction in the room was immediate.

Deirta Thelyss growled something too low for Caleb to actually hear, but it may have been “poison.” She looked furious; her face pale and her expression dark.

“What?” The Bright Queen demanded of Caleb at the same time, nearly starting from her chair, looking aghast.

“What are you planning?” hissed Essek perhaps a second later.

The Skysybil’s expression didn’t change, but she leaned forward. “Explain,” she said.

“Why let him?! Why allow such blasphemy to continue when we can end it?!” said Deirta Thelyss.

“If it is a lie then there can be no harm in listening!” said Caleb, raising his voice just slightly to be heard above her. There wasn’t time for delay, artful pause but no actual delay. If he wasn’t extremely careful and/or very lucky the guards from Verin’s tunnel would have sounded an alarm and this little rescue team would be cornered and shot full of crossbow bolts. “If I am lying, what have you to fear but my damning myself and delaying the execution a few minutes more?”

“Deirta, sit,” said the Bright Queen gesturing to the carved chair the other Umavi had abandoned. She had settled back in her own throne, hands tense on its arms.

“Leylas, you cannot be serious!” said Essek’s mother. “You speak for the Luxon!”

“And the Luxon does not fear the darkness of lies. Sit down, or I will remove you from this chamber myself.”

Deirta glanced quickly between the queen and the interloper, then she jerkily sat down. There was anger burning hot behind her eyes and in the pressed thin line of her mouth.

“Thank you, your Majesty,” said Caleb without bowing or even blinking.

“Do not thank me yet. Should you fail to convince me I will have you executed as well,” she said.

He could feel the stares of Molly and the others behind him. Essek’s mouth dropped open.

“Deal,” said Caleb. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Deirta Thelyss’s lips twitch.

“Are you insane?!” Essek quietly demanded, shadowed eyes wide.

“Possibly,” Caleb answered just loud enough for Essek to hear. Then more loudly he said, “While the Dynasty has done work in excavating ruins in Eiselcross, it has not found the heart of the fallen mageocracy of Aeor yet. The Luxon is found everywhere there, in their writings, in their art, in their institutions, laboratories, on their streets. The people of Aeor were familiar with the Luxon, perhaps as familiar as the Kryn Dynasty, perhaps more so.”

“That proves nothing of the blasphemy you speak. The light of the Luxon has always shone upon the world—” said Deirta.

“It might show that, yes. But why did they have so many? Did the Mages of Aeor invent the Beacons, the soul of the Luxon, for their own ends? Were they creating them on a grand scale? Mortal hands could have cast the Beacons themselves if not the Luxon chunklets inside, you were given a complete object, not a raw orb of energy.”

“Or they may not have. You have yet to prove your point,” said the Queen.

“Mortal hands can assist your gods too and you would never doubt their ineffability! Your gods create material objects and you would not deny their divinity,” added Deirta Thelyss, almost over the monarch.

“They are not my gods, Umavi Thelyss, and they have not been for many years. I will not serve or respect anything that loves its children only on conditions.” Caleb gave Essek’s mother a long look, hoping both she and Essek understood Caleb’s meaning. From the gasp Essek made beside him Caleb thought at least he did.

“The gods beyond the Gate then!” she said in annoyance, meeting Caleb’s gaze in intensity and contempt.

Caleb smiled. “Ah, that is true. Perhaps the Luxon is divine after all. Of course, I had considered that, but I thought a false divinity might be an easier tablet to swallow than the other option.”

“Speak plainly,” said the Skysybil.

“Well, if the people of Aeor worshiped the Luxon as you do, it did not save them. If they put their trust, their love, their very lives into its grace they were left wanting. Aeor was struck down by the gods you so despise, collapsed and forgotten, frozen like a mummy in the ice, evidence of mortal hubris, or so the clerics say. Aeor fell, quite literally, and the Luxon did nothing. There is no Gate separating it from us. They had perhaps thousands of Beacons in their hands and not a single one was saved.”

“You know nothing, clearly. The physical body of any being, save for the Luxon itself, is doomed to die. The soul is what matters,” said Deirta, “and you have just tossed yours away.” Clearly she did not realize she was walking into Caleb’s trap. The wizard fought a smile.

“Oh, yes, their souls. Those who are blessed by the Luxon cannot fear death, because they will not die. The gift of Consecution bestowed only on the worthy few, a ritual only to be performed by the most perfect souls, I do wonder how the Umavi were able to do this for themselves, before they were Umavi. But there must be an explanation. It cannot be so simple as ‘the Umavi lied in order to keep a hold on their political power.’ Do they even remem—”

“Do not interrupt yourself to spew nonsense!” said the Queen.

“The souls of the Aeorian people could still be in the Beacons!” snapped Deirta Thelyss. Clearly he was very good at striking her nerves.

“Essek, my dearest friend, how far is the radius of a Beacon?” Caleb asked.

He saw Essek’s eyes widen in comprehension. “100 miles,” he said immediately.

“How far are the Dynastic outposts from Aeor?”

“Several are well within 100 miles.”

“So…if the Luxon truly loved and cared for those of Aeor, if Consecution was bestowed on those who keep and commune with the Luxon, if the Luxon comes to those deserving and in need, shouldn’t the Aeorean souls have been born into Kryn bodies?”

“There is some answer,” the Bright Queen looked to the other two women on the dais as if she could find it there.

“Of course there is!” said Deirta Thelyss with confidence, but no explanation.

“You would need to tell me, Your Majesty, Skysybil, Umavi Thelyss,” he nodded to both of them in turn. “I was told only the highest priests and Umavi have been allowed to examine the Beacons. But, following reason, just as Kryn have been born in Imperial bodies there should be Aeorians among the Kryn...curious no one has ever mentioned it. Essek, your family runs the Marble Tomes Conservatory, perhaps the greatest library in Wildemount. It certainly holds the most texts on Dunamancy, a rare magical school that the Aeorians utilized as well, yes?”

“Yes,” Essek answered. “Den Thelyss founded the Conservatory to house research on Dunamancy centuries ago. I have spent much of my life there.”

“In 122 years have you seen hide or hair of an Aeorian wizard? One would think that they would flock to the Tomes if they were still with us,” Caleb asked, feeling very much like a performer. He wondered vaguely whether the natural born Zirkusmensch behind him had an opinion on his show.

“I have not. That is certainly something I would remember,” said Essek.

Deirta Thelyss audibly scoffed. “You are asking an infant about the ages. He has not met my eldest daughter either, the one whose home you so ungratefully reside in, but I can assure you she exists,” snapped Deirta. “This charade is pointless!”

“Then have you, Umavi, met an Aeorian wizard? In twelve hundred years? Or certainly in the last 800 when every single Aeorian soul suddenly found itself homeless,” Caleb said. He was obviously picking and choosing his evidence. No need to bring up the Cognoza or the Eyes of Nine. Nor did he believe what he said so wholeheartedly. He trusted Essek’s theories and research but he knew Essek was playing with only half of the deck without translating the miles of research from Aeor. Caleb, who did not know the nuances of Essek’s life’s work, had maybe a quarter of the Luxon’s cards. So Caleb was using an argument he had pieced together in the last 10 hours. Or in the last half hour. Or partially in the next half hour.

There came no reply. Caleb pushed forward.

“So either the Luxon does not have sentience enough to act alone or the Luxon does not truly care about its worshippers,” said Caleb. “Pick your poison.” Caleb counted down in his head ‘fünfzehn…vierzehn…dreizehn…’ He couldn’t wait too long and risk being caught, but too short and his words would not have time to settle and take devastating shape. He had to be careful and precise. ‘drei…zwei…eins…’ He began speaking again, in an offhand manner (or so he hoped), “the problem with theocracy is that once the god behind the throne is questioned…well, so goes the throne with it. What is the Divine Right of Queens without a divinity to issue it?”

He was met with silence. Deirta Thelyss, seemingly cleric of the Luxon, was the most shaken. Her beautiful face screwed up in anger or loathing. She had pulled what must have been her holy symbol out from below one of her great sleeves and clung to it with her formally free hand, her face gray and bloodless.

“No one will believe you,” the Bright Queen said, finally. She looked the least affected in the room, including Verin where he stood beside Caleb, but when she spoke there was a distinct waver to her voice Caleb had never heard before.

“Perhaps not,” said Caleb, pocketing his Beacon prop. “Or rather, perhaps not yet. Doubt is a very powerful thing. Doubt is a spark,” when he said that he snapped his fingers so sparks leapt from them like striking flint to iron pyrite. “The unconsecuted will grumble, the consecuted will have that persistent anxiety. What if this time they do not come back? What if they never see their father or sister or daughter again?” The inclusion of the last was a deliberate jab at Deirta, cruel, but Caleb had been crueler with less reason. “And where do they go when they do not come back? And then that spark becomes a fire…” a small flame engulfed his hand. “The commons begin to ask, ‘if consecution is imperfect why is it not open more broadly? Why is this one consecuted but not me? Why must one of the three Umavi perform this ritual? Why are there only the three Umavi? Who says they are perfect? Maybe I, too, am perfect.’ Perhaps it will take a year for the outcry to sound loud enough to be heard across Xhorhas, maybe a decade, a century, an elf’s age, a millennium…” as he spoke he allowed the flame to slowly grow casting sinister shadows across the dark chamber. “But the Kryn Dynasty is eternal, yes? Absolute. Sooner or later that powder keg will explode.” The flame momentarily flared then settled. “I may not be alive to see it, but you certainly will be, your Majesty, Umavi, Skysybil, you will be. And what will you do when the unwashed masses storm the gate?” He let the image burn in their minds. Judging by the silence and the uneasy looks, it seemed to be working. He closed his fist and the flame went out, his blackened hand slowly becoming pale again. “But this does not have to happen. I can give you this little Beacon and,” he mimed locking his lips with a key and depositing it in his pocket, “the Mighty Nein will keep our mighty traps shut. The theocracy remains untouched, the Divine has offered its Right, the Mandate of Heaven is mandated.”

“You can say nothing from the Dungeon of Penance with your tongue torn from the root,” said the Skysybil.

“Another can speak for me all the louder. We have a dozen Beacons from Aeor.” For all they knew.

“I do not believe any of this,” Deirta said quietly.

“That we have other Beacons?” asked Caleb, “are you willing to bet your way of life on it?”

“Everything you say is a poisonous lie. I will not be swayed. My love of the Luxon is strong, my faith in the Luxon is strong. These are my shields. You have given up your life as well as Essek’s.”

“Respectfully, Umavi, it does not matter what you have or what you think. It only matters what the people think,” Caleb said. “Your shields, in this case, only work if others accept them as shields. They will not stop slung mud let alone arrows.”

“And you are promising silence in exchange for the Shadowhand’s life?” clarified the Bright Queen.

“Yes,” Caleb said. “You fear what people will think of you for failing to locate the traitor even as he sat beside you. I can do so much worse with this little Beacon.” He patted his pocket.

“Give us a moment,” said the Bright Queen. Then she looked to the other Umavi and nodded, gesturing for them to come close. Their seats shifted and the three women, two ageless drow and an ancient goblin, huddled together.

This conference was brief, Caleb knew it lasted only a little more than one and a half minutes, but it felt as if it went on for ages. He could feel Essek shaking beside him. Caleb glanced at him and he was struck by how small Essek looked without his robe and mantle. Essek was the most powerful, brilliant, and creative wizard Caleb had ever met (and he had met a fair few), but he was still so fragile, and Caleb was overwhelmed by a need to protect him. He hoped he had, because this was the last stand. If he’d failed, it was very likely they would both be dead within the hour.

Then the three Umavi broke apart. Time to find out.

“Essek of Den Thelyss,” said the Bright Queen

“Yes?” Essek asked, voice soft but steady.

“Step forward.”

Essek gracefully floated forward. He did not let go of Caleb’s hand. Or maybe Caleb didn’t let go of his. Or maybe it was both. It meant Caleb slid forward a little too so Essek’s arm was not wrenched sharply behind him. Essek’s body was so tense, but his head was held high, jaw set and handsome.

The Bright Queen regarded him silently, expressionlessly, then said, “You and your lawyer will be banished from any and all lands belonging to the Kryn Dynasty from now until Exandria’s end, but you will not die today. You will not die for these crimes.”

A cheer went up through most of the room, but Caleb barely heard it. His heart skipped and he was filled with an intense joy he had only felt once before in his life. He immediately pulled Essek into a tight hug. All of the tension had flooded from Essek’s body, formally stiff and tight as a hunted rabbit. Laughing, crying, overwhelmed by relief, Caleb held Essek close, kissed him on the forehead, both cheeks, the tip of his nose. It had taken a moment for Essek’s shock to subside enough for him to hug Caleb back and lean into the onslaught of kisses.

Caleb’s lips pressed against Essek’s for a moment that seemed to last a minute. Caleb wasn’t sure if he had been the one to find Essek’s mouth or if Essek had tipped his face to guide Caleb. He also wasn’t sure which of them pulled away first.

A teary laugh bubbled from Essek’s throat as he buried his face in Caleb’s chest, clinging tightly to the back of his coat. There were warm tears on Caleb’s chest and again he didn’t know if they came from himself, Essek, or most likely them both. Distantly now he could hear the tieflings, Yasha, and even Verin still cheering and chattering. But Caleb lay his face in Essek’s hair and took a deep breath, relishing the signs of life in Essek as he held him in his arms. The world had shrunk to just Essek, just him and Caleb. Caleb allowed himself to relax, Essek was safe. He was finally safe.

“Essek,” said Deirta Thelyss’s Chill Touch of a voice, breaking though the revelry and reverie, Caleb’s eyes snapped open again and he glared over Essek at her. He found himself clutching Essek all the more tightly for the disruption, even more openly protective than before. “We are not done,” she said and for once it wasn’t Caleb who was avoiding someone’s eyes as she determinedly dodged Caleb’s cold glare. Caleb heard Essek take a deep shivery breath and then he raised his head from Caleb’s chest and turned toward her.

“Yes, Umavi?” Essek asked as he forced himself, piece by piece, digit by digit, to let go of Caleb. Caleb had to do the same, willing himself to let Essek go. Finally and for the first time since Caleb had burst in their hands separated and Caleb felt strangely alone and empty.

Deirta stood again, an imposing shimmering beacon in the darkness of the dungeon. In contrast to her younger son she was dressed in silver and stark white. Like much of ceremonial Kryn garb her robes and dress were elegant, complex, and shining. Caleb thought it caused her surroundings to reflect back all the more strikingly, making her look ghoulish rather than holy. She looked at Essek with an unshielded disgust that only added to that end. It sent a chill down Caleb’s spine. It was not an expression he could imagine Una Ermendrud even capable of, let alone turning it on Bren. But Deirta Thelyss was no Una Ermendrud. She held her staff in one hand and her holy symbol bracelet in the other as she spoke; her grip on each was reminiscent of Essek’s on Caleb’s coat a moment before.

Her voice remained cold, almost distant. “For the heresies and crimes you have committed, for the humiliation and disgrace you have heaped upon this den you are hereby and for all of time outlawed from Den Thelyss.” Her voice gave out, turning into a quavering gasp for breath, but it came back all the more acidic for its momentary weakness. “Your actions are your own and unblessed as is your blood, your bone, your soul, your life, your birth, and your eventual death. You have been excised from the body and soul of Den Thelyss like the gangrenous tissue you have become. There is no one to protect you, no one to aid you, you have lost your place, guidance, and home. You have no den. May the Luxon show mercy on your lost and desolate soul, but I would not hold out much hope that it shall.”

“You suck!” shouted Jester from somewhere behind Caleb, but she was ignored. Caleb couldn’t help but agree. He was furious. He was about to speak up but Essek beat him to it.

“I understand, Umavi,” said Essek. It was hard to read his expression in the dark, harder to read his flat tone.

“Essek of Nothing,” said the Bright Queen. The title gripped Caleb’s heart with icy talons then wrenched it down through his guts. He had been nothing. He knew how awful it was to be without purpose or identity and Essek had just lost both in only a few days. “You have until noon to leave Xhorhas and never return. Should you return you will be immediately imprisoned.”

“Agreed,” said Essek.

“Good. Widogast, give me the Beacon,” said the Bright Queen, holding out her hand to him.

“Once we are past the borders of Xhorhas,” said Caleb, his hand over his pocket. He wasn’t a fool. He knew the Beacon represented any and all of his power. Without it all of this was toothless.

“I will not walk you home.” The Bright Queen’s lip twisted in disgust.

“I will,” said Verin, his head and hand shooting up. “I will see that they leave Xhorhas and I will bring all of the Beacons to your Majesty.”

“I agree to this,” said Caleb.

“Fine,” the Queen acquiesced. “By the Light of the Luxon it is said, by the Light of the Luxon it is done.” The Bright Queen took up her scepter and tapped it on the dais.

Verin hugged Essek. The Umavi began to shift. There were running footsteps coming down the black hallway outside the chamber, echoing around them. It was clear that the case was closed. This would probably be the last time any of them was ever in the presence of these women.

“May I have a final word?” Caleb burst out, unable to contain himself.

“I should say you have had more than your fair share of words, but I doubt I could stop you,” said the Bright Queen.

Caleb smiled mirthlessly, “I am afraid I become very passionate about what I care for and Essek is on that list.” He saw Essek smile beside him. That adorable little smile, pleased and private like a purring cat, it filled Caleb with overwhelming, heart-bursting affection. Without thinking he took Essek’s hand again. He brought it to his lips and kissed the back of Essek’s hand before he continued. He felt Essek’s grip shift. “You say Essek has no den. You say he is of Nothing. That is blatantly untrue. Essek is a proud member of a den, maybe not a Ruling or Noble Den, maybe a bit patchwork, but a den none-the-less. He is an essential part of Den Nein. We claim him. We protect him, we aid him, we grant him a place, guidance, and a home. We have no home without him. He is and always will be our family. Indeed, I wonder how Den Thelyss can disown someone it never truly had. I know very little of the dens, it is true, but what I have seen sickens me. You, sicken me, Umavi Thelyss.”

She stiffened where she stood and slowly turned her full attention to Caleb, eyes sharp and expression tight with anger. Caleb was unmoved by her rage.

“The Umavi is the mother of her den and of her children. But a mother is someone kind, selfless, unconditionally loving. Any mother in the world would have been grateful to have had Essek as their son. They would have nurtured his curiosity, marveled at his mind, were you anyone else this may never have occurred! Deirta Thelyss, you are no mother, and Essek deserved infinitely better than you have given him! And in the face of such glaring faults I do not know how you can claim to be perf—”

“Watch your tongue or you will lose it,” Deirta snarled.

The other two Umavi seemed more amused by this part of Caleb’s speech, but he didn’t intend to push his luck any further than he had. The immediate stab of anger had passed and reality was beginning to seep in at the edges of his adrenaline. He bowed. “I have said my piece.”

“Taskhand Verin, please show Essek and his ‘den’ out of my country,” said the Bright Queen.

“By the Light, your will is my deed,” said Verin, bowing low.

“What happened?” asked Beau’s voice in chorus with the growing footsteps behind Caleb.

“Ohmigosh, you guys, it was so crazy…!” Jester said as she began to recount what they missed.

Caleb looked over at Essek, who was wide-eyed, his ears had drooped slightly below their normal position and far below the alert points they had been before the verdict had been laid out.

Caleb was feeling jittery with excitement, exhausted with relief, and sick with the start of new anxieties quickly replacing those that had been assuaged. The emotional cocktail left him lightheaded.

As their friends jabbered behind them and the Kryn aristocrats muttered in front of them Caleb leaned close to Essek’s ear and whispered, “I cannot believe that actually worked!”

Chapter Text

He was alive.

He shouldn’t be, and yet here he was. He couldn’t be, and yet here he was.

Essek knew he was alive, but the same way he might know he was dreaming; vaguely, distantly, foggily. He would probably still be hovering in his execution chamber, struggling to process what had happened if his friends and brother hadn’t pulled him out and led him into the city above. It was probably the fresh air that had jogged him into some dubious sense of present and started time moving again, albeit sluggishly.

The danger had passed, he wouldn’t die today. An hour ago Essek had not had an hour left and now his life spanned centuries in front of him.

He was alive.

All ten of them, the Mighty Nein plus Verin, made their way to his towers. The others talked enroute but in his exhausted and dazed state Essek could fully comprehend what they were saying, he knew he understood the words, but meaning seemed to slide off his brain. They might as well be conversing in Zemnian for all his mind processed.

Verin and Beau forced him to drink from her canteen and Essek had to admit that it felt good to have water poured down his sandpaper dry throat. Caleb held Essek’s hand the whole way to his towers and Essek clung to him as if it was more important than breathing.

It felt as if it might be.

Holding Caleb’s hand made him real. That point of contact was one of the only parts of Essek’s body he could actually perceive; his hand and the places where Essek swore he could still feel the ghost of Caleb’s kisses and his tight hug. Once again, Caleb was the fire that thawed Essek’s soul and he did it so casually. It was a magic that Essek didn’t think he could ever truly grasp, even less than Caleb’s transmutations of the Weave.

Once in his towers Essek had gone and washed off the grime of what he now knew to be close to 40 hours in prison. Prestidigitation had done what it could, but it was not enough. He thought it would take a long time for him to feel anything close to clean, even in his black marble bath. He disinterestedly investigated the black bruises on his wrists and ankles as if they belonged to someone else, some stranger passing through his eyeline. They were tender, but barely noticeable in the chorus of pain currently echoing bone deep through his body.

There were no words for how good it felt to be in the clean embrace of water, submerging himself in its all-encompassing warmth. After nearly two days at the mercy of gravity he was happy to remain free of its unyielding pull. Nobody rushed him and it was good to be alone to try to put himself together.

Unfortunately, he was not having much luck. So instead he allowed himself to go over the events of the morning. If he couldn’t unscramble his own mind, he could at least sort out the day’s jumbled timeline like a historian dating texts.

Essek had been moments from dying for his horrific crimes. All that was left was the icy kiss of the blade. Then, Caleb and the others burst in. Verin threw down his sword, letting out a sigh of relief so definitive that revisiting it, Essek could tell from that alone he had been deeply involved in this grand scheme. It was revealed that the Mighty Nein had plotted to save his life. Not only did they succeed they had succeeded in a fashion both fantastically ironic, terrifyingly unscripted, and darkly satisfying.

Much like the first time Essek had seen Caleb, the transmuter stood holding a Luxon Beacon before the Bright Queen. The first time it had happened Essek had been stunned, furious, and ready to kill the (literally) filthy Imperial stranger before him. But this second time his heart caught for an entirely different reason and the feelings he had for Caleb could not have been further from what they were all those months ago.

Then Caleb unveiled his plan. Caleb Widogast had used Essek’s own theories pertaining to Luxon’s true character and shocked the Umavi. He left them reeling, confused, and silent. They had no response, no smug religious answer. It was what Essek had always hoped would happen, that the Umavi would not be able to ignore the proof he had. Unfortunately he knew the results he wanted — a free-thinking Xhorhasian elite — would not follow.

The changes he had long dreamt of would not come, there would be no revolution of reason. But he was alive. He wouldn’t die, he was free of the Umavi, but he had been outlawed and banished. He no longer belonged to Den Thelyss and in a few short hours he would leave Xhorhas forever. He should have been more upset about that. Maybe that knowledge hadn’t found him yet. It should upset him. He had no den.

But no. No, that wasn’t true.

As Caleb had said with so much perhaps-misplaced pride, Essek was part of Den Nein. Maybe that was why it still felt so far away, because he had been distant from Den Thelyss for years and Den Nein was more his den than that of Thelyss had ever been.

Caleb had told off an Umavi, Essek’s own mother, on Essek’s behalf. It was something that no one in Xhorhas would dare to do; except Essek, the eldest of this generation of Den Thelyss, and even he had often held his tongue. It was an offense that would have gotten Caleb imprisoned under normal circumstances, at the very least, and probably accused of assaulting an Umavi. But Caleb had done it and done it for Essek. He had crippled her with Essek’s hypothesis, insulted her on his behalf, and rescued him from her hold. And Caleb did all of it because he cared about Essek. His friends cared so much about Essek they risked their lives for him even when he turned them away.

Even understanding that he remained feeling distant from this morning’s events. Loosely tethered to the ordeal, like it had happened in a story he was reading. He could hardly expect much better, he felt only loosely tethered to himself at the moment. Everything felt far away and distorted like he was looking through the wrong end of a telescope.

But like any good wizard he had gathered the facts and laid them out. Essek should have been punished, lost, and thrown away. But he hadn’t been. Or he had been, but he had been redeemed, found, and reclaimed. He had been damned. He had been saved. He had been outlawed. He had been adopted. Caleb had kissed him. Now he was in his towers, washing away the memory of prison. He was alive.

Essek remained in his black marble tub until the hot water went cold, the salts melted, and the oils dissipated. He would have stayed longer, maybe forever, if the cold hadn’t forced him out. He had had enough cold for a lifetime. He dressed, putting on the first outfit he could grab from his closet and the jewelry he had been wearing when he was sent to the Dungeon simply because he didn’t have the energy to assemble anything else. He didn’t trust himself to apply make-up, his hands were too weak and shaky. For a moment he took in his pale, fragile reflection then went to rejoin the others.

Food and drink were waiting for him downstairs and Essek greedily indulged, suddenly very aware of his ravenous hunger and unbearable thirst. There had been a lot of joy, a lot of hugs, a lot of laughing and talking during the meal. He thought he must have been part of it, but he didn’t really retain what had been said to him or even what he said himself. Caleb sat beside him and once or twice reached out for his hand. Essek gave it to him and again Caleb’s warm touch and fond looks reminded him he survived his death.

After breakfast or lunch or whatever it was Essek began the surreal process of packing up his belongings. He would need his personal effects in his life beyond Xhorhas because he was alive. He would be leaving these towers and never coming back because he had been banished and outlawed. He had Disintegrated everything he had ever known, he had unleashed all of his secrets, emptied and unloaded his weary soul, and been sentenced to die. But he survived. He would survive, he would live. He still couldn’t look at that straight on. It still felt like a spell he couldn’t master.

Someone called him back to the present where he stood holding a notebook in his home lab. He had to pack. Most of Essek’s belongings were books and research. Even in his dreamstate he refused to leave any of the latter behind. He gathered up almost 40 years of journals, notes, and logs, tucking any loose papers into leather folders and shoving them into Jester’s preoffered haversack. There was enough of it that the haversack was necessary, the documents had a substantial weight even if they were mostly paper. However voluminous, his research was luckily easy to round up. Most of it was housed in a few arcane safes in his laboratory. That had been a necessity. It was far too heretical to leave lying around. He realized with a start that that wouldn’t be the case moving forward. He was going somewhere where the Luxon’s light would not blind him, even if the sun would. For the first time in his adult life his thirst for knowledge would be breaking no taboo. In the moment he felt vaguely bemused by that miraculous fact.

After his lab came his library. Regardless of his love for it, there was no way to take the entirety of his collection with him even if he magically halved the books’ weight; sacrifices had to be made. He knew that later he would regret leaving specific texts behind to certainly be destroyed either by the Queen’s paranoia or the Umavi Thelyss’s pettiness. But he didn’t have the brain power, energy, or even the time to give the operation the right amount of attention and thought it needed. Instead with the half-mind he possessed he worked quickly and mechanically, choosing on impulse and instinct. Thankfully Caleb and Beau were there to help. Together the three picked and pulled particular books off the shelf and dropped them into their friends’ packs. Essek’s own bag, the only one he owned suitable for travel, was already full of specific research notes, ink, paper, quill, vital books, and spare spell components. Things that he didn’t want to be separated from even for a moment.

After picking the books he could save he hovered uselessly in the middle of the tower, clueless as to the next step. Some of the others reminded and urged him to pack and he impotently gestured to the bag at his feet. But they meant clothes, money, jewelry, toiletries.

They were right, of course. Those were things he would need because he was alive. Life outside Xhorhas would somehow be very similar to life in it. The same basic rituals needing the same basic supplies.

So he went to his bedchamber, emptied a drawer of his dresser, a row of his closet, and the basket on his vanity. For good measure he grabbed a random one of his jewelry boxes and stuffed it into his bag without really considering the options. He couldn’t make himself focus, because somehow it didn’t matter. He knew this was actually an essential part of his continued life, this would be important to him, but knowing something was less than half the process in completing it. He did see Verin pass Jester another small jewelry box, which she tucked into a side pocket of the haversack. Verin was still looking out for him even now. Luxon knew why, but he was eternally grateful, Essek certainly was having trouble doing it for himself. Perhaps the distance was a defense mechanism. Perhaps it was all too much.

Just before leaving, when others were already downstairs, Essek stopped in front of his lab door. Not much was left in the room; some books, a hastily prestidigitated chalkboard, models and diagrams too big or clumsy to carry. He wondered what he should do with the remains, the carcass of his lab. Part of him wanted to rub his heresy in the Umavi’s faces when they doubtlessly came to erase him…but he also didn’t want all of this to reflect back on Verin. From this day on into eternity Verin was the oldest child of the Umavi Thelyss of this lifetime. Presently the only one. Now he would take the brunt of not only their mother’s demands, but the scrutiny of the rest of the den and the other dens besides. He had assisted in Essek’s escape and even if the Umavi couldn’t prove it, Essek was sure they all knew it. From now on Verin would be perpetually on the last straw and last nerve. Essek’s behavior in this moment could make life easier or harder for him in the decades and centuries to come.

It didn’t take long for him to decide the best course of action. He used a fang to open a tiny cut on his thumb, while the other hand found his onyx shard in his (no longer spare) component pouch. He combined the two and less than a second later the lab was engulfed in absolute darkness, a huge silent void, and then…

The blackness collapsed, folded in on itself, and disappeared in a blip of unlight. The room it left in its wake was bare, only some scarring on the floor revealed that it had ever even been occupied. Essek stood there for a long time, staring alone into the empty space. He, too, felt empty.

Then he heard Verin calling him from his parlor. Essek replied. He closed the door to what had been his lab, locked it, and used Mage Hand to put the key on a high shelf. Then he joined the others, materializing his stairway as he floated down it.

It felt right to destroy his lab, beyond his concern for his brother. Essek was outlawed, everything he had had would be burned and erased anyway, there was a power in doing it himself. This was his: he built it, he utilized it, he destroyed it. The weight of his ejection was beginning to settle on him, like lead in his stomach, like a Dark Star cast on his heart. He pushed it out of his head as best he could.

But it raised an entirely new sense of existential dread. What did he do now that he had laid waste to the only life he’d known? Where did he go after reducing his home to ash? They were questions to which he could not fathom the answers. He had reached the end of his notes, the conclusion of his experiment…but there was no answer, nothing proven. It continued.

With Essek’s towers tended to, the Mighty Nein moved on to pillaging the Xhorhaus. The majority of them had already put some thought into figuring out exactly what they could keep or steal. Verin was supervising and doing very little to stop Essek’s friends scavenging their poprzedniczka’s belongings. When it was pointed out Verin shrugged and said something about Nadzieja not using them anytime soon. Essek thought there might be more than a little vindictiveness in his usually good-natured brother’s motives. He was, after all, a Thelyss.

Jester made popcorn, Caduceus made tea, Verin supervised, the rest raided, packed, and cleaned in equal measure. Essek had helped move some of the furniture using graviturgy, but he had quickly begged off with some excuse. He was sure Caleb saw through it, but Beau and Veth had wrangled the human wizard into something else, allowing the drow one to escape without comment or further scrutiny. He slipped into the back garden. He sank to the ground with nothing between him and the gravel and dirt; his back up against the brick wall that separated the Thelyss property from the one next door. It was one of the least graceful maneuvers in his life, even going from floating he all but collapsed against the wall from exhaustion. He felt heavy, so heavy all of a sudden. He could have halved his weight three times over and still feel like he was full of lead. He became so acutely aware of the pain cutting through his body that he wondered how he had remained upright as long as he had.

Essek tipped his head back, which took a shocking amount of strength and energy he did not have. Above him was the familiar dark Rosohna sky. He never thought he would see it again.

He was alive. That had been the refrain in his mind for hours now. It was the safest thought to grace his mind in all that time. If he tried to imagine what lay ahead of him he felt as if he was looking into a fog. If he thought about what he lost he would open the emotional wound he was desperately trying to sew shut. If he thought about the rescue his friends’ orchestrated and Caleb’s lips on his own it brought up powerful feelings he didn’t know how to process. With past and future both off limits all he could consider was the present.

And in the present he was alive, he was bare and sore and vulnerable, but he was alive.

For the first time that felt like a comforting thought, or at least something like it. Or maybe it was just his final thought before his eyes slid shut and he let exhaustion engulf him.

Chapter Text

“Hi, Essek,” said Jester’s voice gently, cutting through the darkness behind his eyes, pulling him gently to the surface of consciousness. He had thought he had heard footsteps crunching through the gravel garden, so he was not surprised when he opened his eyes and saw Jester bent over him, hands on her knees.

Seeing her, he was suddenly totally overwhelmed by his fondness for her. She had been the one to change his entire life with the simple gift of a cupcake, and since then they had done so much together from manicures to saving the world. He wanted to tell her she was his best friend, but that was too much, too personal, especially now that he wasn’t going to die anytime soon. It felt like opening his chest cavity and giving her access to his beating heart.

“If you’re sleeping, I can come back later,” she said, and he realized he had been staring silently at her for longer than was couth.

“Hello, Jester,” he said, voice croaky from sleep. “No, now is fine. I was just resting my eyes.”

“You know that usually means sleeping,” she said.

“In this case it doesn’t,” Essek said stubbornly. They both knew the truth, it didn’t matter if he protested but he was going to anyway. “How much time do we have left?” he asked, feeling a sudden cold stab of anxiety. He tried to sit up but his body wouldn’t obey.

Jester shrugged, which was something of a relief in itself. She was not hurried, nor did she seem to have been hurried by someone else. “Like two hours.”

“Are we going to be finished in time?” Essek asked.

“Oh, yeah, definitely! Don’t worry!”

“How long was I—?”

“Napping?” she asked with a sharp tiefling grin.

“Resting. Elves don’t nap,” he said with a soft huff.

“Maybe they should. Molly showed me naps are pretty great and I am passing on that knowledge to you! Maybe you could give it a try,” she said.

“I will take it into consideration,” said Essek, who was certain he wouldn’t. “How long—?”

“Right, um, I’m not really sure. I just got back from setting things up in Nicodranas, but we’ve only been back at the Xhorhaus for like 45 minutes or an hour or something like that,” she said.

“Are you going to Nicodranas?” Essek asked.

“Obviously! We’ve been talking about it all morning!”

“You will have to forgive me, I have not quite been myself,” Essek said.

Jester’s face softened, “yeah, I know.”

“Are you going to your mother’s house then? Or Veth’s?” he asked.

“We’re going to my Momma first. I’m not sure after that, but I’ve already gone over there with some stuff and I told her there were two more people this time, too, so she’ll have rooms ready.”

One of those two was Mollymauk and the other was…

“Am I staying with you?” he asked.

“I mean you can do whatever you want but I want you to stay with us. Really you need to stay with us at least until you’re a little less fucked up. At least. Don’t worry!” Jester added quickly, Essek wondered if he looked as if he was worrying. “You’re going to like my Momma a lot! And she already likes you!”

Essek was still trying to get over the bloom of warmth he felt in his chest from Jester saying she wanted him to be there. “How can she already like me? She doesn’t know me,” Essek pointed out. He and the Ruby of the Sea had only ever been in the same room once: she had been on stage and Essek had been in disguise.

“I told her about you!” said Jester, brightly.

“Oh!” he said, softly, amazed and touched.

“She’s excited to meet you!”

He could scarcely believe that. He was no longer the Shadowhand, or a Thelyss, and it wasn’t as if the Ruby of the Sea was a wizard of any kind. It meant that she was excited to meet Essek; just Essek. That was thrilling and nerve-wracking, he found himself unsure of how to live up to this new set of expectations. “I…thank you? Or thank…thank her, I suppose…” he struggled with the wording for a few moments then thoroughly gave up on sounding anything but awkward.

Jester cocked her head. “You’re getting all dirty.”

Essek shrugged then winced. It sent a rush of pain through his shoulder and along his spine. His legs throbbed as if they didn’t want to be left out. Now that he had allowed himself to sit he didn’t know how he was going to get up again. Even floating would require him to untangle his muscles and straighten his body.

Jester grimaced slightly in sympathy. “If you aren’t worried about getting your fancy clothes dirty then something must really be wrong,” she said, dropping down beside him.

He looked from her to his outfit, “these aren’t fancy.”

“They totally are,” Jester assured him. “Maybe not for you with your shiny silver mantle but take it from me, for everybody else these’re super fancy!” she plucked at his wool cloak, “I've looked at how much wool costs around here! And is this silk?” she asked, yanking on the sleeve of his tunic below it.

“Silk isn’t expensive,” Essek muttered, happy for the distraction. Maybe not happy, but relieved.

“Yeah, but it’s supposed to be!” Jester said.

Essek knew outside of Xhorhas silk was a luxury. It was why it was a huge export, although not the biggest. He knew in the rest of Wildemount people wore things like cotton and wool. That was not true in Xhorhas, indeed, as Jester noted the heavy cloak Essek was the most expensive thing he was wearing. There weren’t a lot of places that could be farmed here and space had to be rationed well. All but the smallest animals and hardiest crops were hard to keep. Wool was the fabric of status in Xhorhas, desired for its warmth and diverse utilities.

Silk, meanwhile, was common and economical. Silkworms and silk moths did not take up much space, millions living on a single farm. They ate mulberry leaves exclusively, leaving the berries to be harvested and consumed by their keepers. The insects themselves were edible at every stage of their lives, doubling their use. Certain silk farms had been not only in hands of the same families, but the hands of the same souls for a close to a millennium. It was such a staple of the Kryn culture that even the Bright Queen had silk farms in her name where she would appear annually to do the pantomime of manufacture; unspool a few cocoons, examine a few fields, bless a few workers.

“Silk is easy to produce here and in times of need we can use Dunamancy to speed up the insects’ metamorphosis process and get the cocoons ready to be boiled.”

“Is that really where silk comes from?” asked Jester, “bugs?”

“Of course,” said Essek with an incredulous little chuckle. “What did you think a silkworm was?”

“I don’t know, I guess I never thought about silkworms. So what, you like, sew the cocoons together? Where do the butterflies go?” Jester mimed sewing in the air.

“I am hardly an expert on the process, but as I understand it, the cocoons are boiled in hot water, unwound, and treated. The butterflies are… nonexistent.”

“But where do they go?!”

“For one, silkworms become moths—”

“Whatever, same difference!”

“Different difference. Now, how to put this delicately…” he said, appreciating the irony of tempering a statement about killing insects shortly after she saw him nearly swatted like a fly that morning. “The moths do not make it. They do not become moths. They are cooked and eaten as… I’m afraid I do not know the Common word for it; the creature inside that is between worm and moth. When the farmers unwind the cocoon they take out the creature and season them and sometimes fry them as well. They sell them by the bag — to eat, of course — they’re very good. Perhaps you have eaten them without knowing it.”

“Maybe. Yasha likes to eat bugs too,” she said.

“I do not ‘like to eat bugs’ as a general concept. I will eat certain bugs that are food and that I like the taste of.”

“They’re like little bug sheep, kinda,” said Jester, seemingly working through this thought.

“Something like that,” Essek said lowly. This conversation had a welcome distraction but Essek was realizing that he would probably never eat them again. He wouldn’t have mulberry wine at the ready. He wouldn’t argue with Verin about the superiority of tart cranberry over the sweeter mulberry in food. Weighed down with these realizations, he slumped down further against the wall. A hard shudder wracked his body from the pain that that slight movement caused. He clamped his jaw shut to avoid calling out.

Jester looked sidelong at him and her face softened in sympathy. She was silent for a long moment and then said, “Don’t tell anybody else I did this, okay?”

“Alright?” Essek said, unsure of what she was about to do. Jester pushed herself onto her knees and faced him. She reached into her pocket and produced a small crystal vial, filled with a shimmery powder that Essek immediately recognized as diamond dust. After uncorking it with her teeth Jester coated her fingers in the shards, first one hand, then the other. She spat the cork aside, while making a fairly obscene-looking gesture with her hands. At the culmination of it her diamond encrusted fingers and the holy symbol at her waist began to emit a pale green light. But even without the glow of magic he would have recognized the action as a spell component, all of her somatic components were vaguely obscene.

“Can I touch you?” Jester asked.

“I believe so, yes,” said Essek.

She reached out and cupped his face. He closed his eyes against the light. Shockingly, the glow barely hurt his sensitive eyes, especially compared to the stark white light of his mother’s magic. Not his mother, he mentally corrected himself with a dull ache in his chest; she was Dierta Thelyss, the Umavi of Den Thelyss, Verin’s mother, the woman-who-had-once-been-his-mother.

He barely noticed the prick of crystals brushing his skin before they vanished, leaving only Jester’s adventure-callused hands on his cheeks. There was a rush of healing warmth which cascaded over him, making him shiver with the contrast to the air around him. When it faded he felt…not better but certainly better than he had, more grounded, less stiff, more awake, less hazy. It was like Jester had removed a piece of fogged glass between Essek and the rest of the world.

She looked expectantly at him, worrying the Traveler gate on her belt. He smiled at her, touched by kindness. “Thank you, Jester. I am not worth the spell slot,” said Essek.

“Yes, you are. Shut up,” said Jester, dropping onto her backside and scooting back so she was again sitting next to him, back flush against the wall.

For a long moment they sat in silence. He was aware of her body beside him, her breathing, he knew her heart was beating in her chest just like his. He felt the silk of his clothing on his body, the slight scratch of his cloak rubbing his chin and neck.

He ran his hands over the gravel, feeling the individual pebbles, their unique shapes and planes. He watched the cloud of dust that rose up from where he disrupted them and how the particles lit up like Faerie Fire when caught the light from the lanterns shining in the windows. The gravel too had been transformed by the lamps’ glow, their mineral deposits glittering like stars, sparkling brighter than precious gems, he and Jester sat in a sea of them, a star-strewn ground. Essek could smell Dunamancy hanging in the air, like ozone heralding a storm, overlaid with the alien flowery smell of Jester’s unique brand of divine magic and the smell of popcorn and perfume that clung to her clothes.

He could hear the gentle sounds from the birds that had nested in Caduceus’s tree and the voices of his friends over them, just as soothing, just as musical even if there seemed to be some kind of growing argument going on. There was the clop clop clop and whirrr of a carriage on the street beyond. Then came a high-pitched screech of a heavy piece of furniture being dragged across a wooden floor, loud and unpleasant enough to pin Essek’s ears back against his head.

There was a curse from Beau, a shrill shout from Fjord, then a triumphant crash from something heavy having reached the culmination of a long fall. A moment of quiet from the house and then…there was laughter. There was Yasha’s soft giggle almost lost in the din, Caduceus’s sensible chuckle, Mollymauk’s loud crow, Caleb’s almost frightened chortle, Veth’s cackling, an embarrassed guffaw from Fjord, Verin’s full-throated joyful laugh, and finally Beau snickered “fuck all of you!” and joined in. Jester began enthusiastically giggling, which was all it took for Essek to crack as well. His laughter seemed to sing through his lungs. For a long time Essek could not stop himself from laughing, he and Jester setting each other off in a mirthful ouroboros.

Had the world always been like this? he wondered. Again Essek was reminded that perception of reality was relative, Essek’s perspective had been forcibly shifted so many times in the last few days, weeks, and months. Maybe this was how Jester saw things, clear and stark and beautiful. Or maybe Mollymauk noticed these details, had this admiration. Maybe it took having died on some level to see things at once so clearly and so distantly, to see the magic in the mundane, the things Essek had always overlooked. At the very least it gave him something to talk to Mollymauk about, although he wondered if he could properly articulate this new outlook.

Essek shifted trying to find comfort. Slowly, painfully, he began to pull a knee to his chest. He hissed and flinched in pain despite himself and gave up before he embarrassed himself further. His leg was not even entirely bent before he tried to ease it back down again. Of course Jester noticed his aborted plan of action, he saw her look at him out of the corner of her eye. She fidgeted and then she said, “you can lean on me if you want.”

Essek had not been expecting that. It wasn’t something one offered at his rank or social standing. It was too soft, too undignified, dangerous if allowed with the wrong company. If Essek leaned on Verin when his legs gave out it had always been subtle, disguised. Openly offering a shoulder was the sort of thing Verin would do and generate a new wave of whispers and gossip about him. Essek was about to turn her down as decorum dictated. But he had nearly been executed today, he had compressed the most lived-in room of his former domicile into nothingness, he had been outlawed and his new den wasn’t bound by those social graces, Dynastic decorum no longer applied to him.

“I think I would like that, yes,” Essek said. He allowed his head to slip onto Jester’s shoulder. A few days earlier he hadn’t been able to lay his head on Caleb’s shoulder, but that might as well have been centuries ago for all that had changed. It was awkward at first but pain and fatigue did not allow him to keep his head on her shoulder with the rest of his body away from her. Instead he gave in and slumped against her. He felt better than he had before his nap and her spell, but two nights in the Dungeon of Penance would take more than an hour of sleep and a Greater Restoration to fix.

“Oh my gods, Essek, you weigh like two pounds!” she said, trying to keep her voice down and doing only a mediocre job of it.

“I have a smaller frame than you,” he said. His mass was halved, but even if it wasn’t he would have weighed substantially less than Jester. They were the same height but she was chubby and muscular and Essek was a twig.

“You’re so cute! I just want to ruffle your hair!” she almost squeaked.

“Please don’t,” he said.

“Okay, okay, fine,” said Jester. Glancing over Essek saw Jester’s hand quickly lowering without touching his head.

“Thank you,” he said for far more than just her giving up on ruffling him.

“You’re welcome.” Then after a few beats of quiet Jester added, “How do you feel?”

Essek opened his eyes, barely having realized he’d closed them. “Your spell helped a great deal. I no longer feel like I may pass out at any moment.” Which was a slight exaggeration, he probably could.

“Yeah, I hope so!” said Jester with a twinge of bitterness, “that spell costs 100 gold in diamonds! It had better make you at least a little better! Otherwise I would complain to Artie about it not working again! ‘Cause first Molly didn’t talk or remember everything after I used it on him and now you’re still hurt!”

Essek chuckled at her annoyance at the failings of her magic. When a cleric of a heathen deity, like Jester, had their magic come up short Dierta Thelyss would snicker behind her sleeve and say that it was proof that an entity like the Traveler (or the Wildmother, or the Archeart, or the what-have-you) was nothing in comparison to the Luxon. Meanwhile, when her own magic disappointed it was the Will of the Luxon. When Essek’s legs stayed small and weak after his battle with paraliż dziecięcy, he was reminded that he was only alive at all because of the Luxon. When Verin’s vision didn’t return to his scarred eye he was told, in graphic detail, how half of his flesh had been torn off his skull and his eye nearly ripped free before his mother imbued him with the Luxon’s healing. In other words, where another god failed the Luxon merely withheld. It was, of course, all an excuse, because a cleric’s magic came from someone else, something beyond elfoid control, another force determined what the mage ‘deserved’.

A Wizard was different. A wizard was as powerful as his intellect was. A wizard didn’t have to worry about appeasing some other entity, he didn’t need to depend on the strength and whims of a god, he owed nothing to an outside force or a quirk of birth. Everything a wizard did came from his own ability to manipulate the universe and command the Weave. His only limitation was his own imagination. It was amazing how many wizards didn’t realize the incredible power they truly had. All they needed to do was study, experiment, learn, and want. Caleb understood. If Caleb had had the same materials that Essek had he would have been unstoppable…that Essek had had. All his life Essek had been stalled at every turn by his superiors and now that he was free of them, he didn’t even have the Thelyss fortune or even his laboratory.

He thought again of the ruins he had left in what had been his towers and his heart ached. It was the perfect metaphor for his life right now: ruins and void. He had been born for Den Thelyss, raised for Den Thelyss, and in the end he had neither served nor destroyed it. In the end he had only robbed the people of Xhorhas of so much and given nothing back. It felt like failure. He didn’t deserve to be here.

“Anything else bothering you?” Jester added in a far gentler tone than her complaints. He wondered if he had made a face when his thoughts turned darker.

“Unfortunately, I am suffering some pain,” Essek admitted. Jester nodded sympathetically. “My arms hurt, my spine hurts, my legs hurt, but it, I suppose it could be worse.”

“Oh, you mean like physically,” said Jester.

“Did you not mean ‘like physically’?” Essek asked.

Jester gave a one-shouldered shrug so as to not disturb him, “well, no, yeah, sure, I guess I did, but I meant more like not physically, like emotionally. But physically too, that’s also really important. Verin said you were hanging from a ceiling for two days so I’m not super surprised that everything hurts. Do you want some ice? Molly can make some ice for you out of his blood.”

“I think I will pass on that,” Essek said immediately. As nice as some numbness would be, the cold would not and he didn’t relish even the idea of rubbing someone else’s blood on his skin, especially since he swore he could still feel the sweat and grime from the Dungeon on Penance on him.

“He won’t mind,” said Jester.

“Be that as it may…I will,” said Essek. Jester giggled. Essek smiled, but this time he felt too heavy to join her. Then he sighed and looked into the dark clouds rolling across the ocean of the sky, watching the calm wind push them along like ships. He breathed in the cool air, it still felt wonderful and strange. He watched as the fog of his exhale climbed up like the breath of a red dragon.

Reality had found him. It was seeping into his mind, like water spilled over paper or a sample on a test strip.

“I am alive,” he said quietly. It was the first time he said it aloud. Somehow it felt almost like a confession.

“Yeah!” said Jester. “Isn’t that great?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “And now you don’t need to worry about getting your head chopped off! Not for this at least, there’s probably some other stuff, but you know, don’t worry about that yet! Or maybe ever, ‘cause we’re leaving Xhorhas!”

Essek didn’t reply. A lot of realizations were coming to him, the test strip changing colors as it reacted. He was free from Den Thelyss and the restraints put on him by it were gone. The Shadowhand’s mantle no longer bore down on his shoulders, he was no hand but his own. The hierarchies by which his life had been dictated for over a century had been torn down like scaffolding and he stood shaky and off-balance. He felt a little queasy.

Jester’s voice was gentle and soft when she asked, “how do you feel but like not-physically?”

Essek let out a loud breath, watched slowly dissipate. “That is a tough question, Jester.”

“Is it?”

“…If I am honest with myself, I cannot say.”

“You don’t know how you feel?” Jester repeated as if for clarification.

“I did not expect to feel anything, but I feel, hm, I feel…as our dear friend Caduceus might say, it is a lot. Far more than I can explain in any language. I did not expect to be here, but I am here.”

“Where did you expect to be?” Jester asked.

“Dead.”

Truly dead, not just erased from Den Thelyss. Soul drifting in the Astral Sea headed for whatever lay beyond. Body unbreathing and in two discrete pieces.

“Why are you always like this?! You always think you’re going to die!”

“Jester, I was at my execution this morning,” Essek reminded her.

“Okay, fine!” admitted Jester. “I guess you were right this one time. But you had to know we were going to save you!”

“How? No one can navigate the Dungeon of Penance without a guide,” said Essek.

“Then how do the guides do it?” Jester asked cheekily.

“And that point aside, I didn’t want you to endanger yourselves.”

“We don’t mind endangering ourselves, especially not when it’s for you, Essek,” Jester said. He was reminded of what Caleb had said. That he was a beloved member of Den Nein. This was how a den was supposed to function, all of its members living and caring for one another, but there was no practiced proprietary, spiritual hierarchy, or thousand-year-old tradition tying this den together. The Nein defended each other out of love, not duty, each supporting the others. A den by choice. Had something like that ever existed before?

“Thank you, but I mind if you endanger yourselves. I wanted you to live so I accepted my fate. I was resigned to it, I was ready for it,” he said.

“Molly said you would probably be feeling something like that. I think Molly knows a lot about that kind of thing, you know?” she said.

“I suppose so,” he said, not sure what ‘this kind of thing’ was.

“And like with Molly we were always going to save you! Even if you did get your head cut off Caduceus and I bought so many diamonds, just in case. That was why I was part of Caleb’s group so we could magic you back to life if we, you know, got held up or whatever.”

“That’s very kind of you.” He swallowed hard over the knot pulled tight in the middle of his throat. There were people who loved, enjoyed, respected their place and their purpose in their den, certainly, but would they choose that same one if given the option? Would they be willing to charge into the hells for its members? Would those people be willing to skewer themself for them?

“Face it, Essek, you’re stuck with us!” said Jester.

His vision blurred with, he realized with a lurch of embarrassment, tears. Jester shifted to look at him, she made a sympathetic little tsk noise, then she reached into the front of her bodice. Essek had no idea what she was doing, but she quickly produced a pink, lacy handkerchief. She reached over and lightly wiped away the tears that had escaped his eyes and slid down his cheeks.

“You can cry, you know,” Jester said gently.

And Essek broke down. All of the emotions he’d had barely contained burst through their bindings and he began to cry harder than he had in his entire life. He had cried more in the last six months than he had in the 121 years before and this time it felt like a century’s worth of tears were escaping him. Jester hugged him tightly, let him use her shoulder and her handkerchief. For a long time he simply sobbed, unable to contain his overwhelming feelings, too many and too contradictory to name. Jester comforted him gently, held him.

He lost his den. He found his den. He escaped death. He deserved death. He was free from the role and social structure he hated. He had no role to fill and no structure to deviate from. Decorum no longer kept him from his research, he would never have the chance to save this blasted country with a system of logic and reason. Death would have been so much easier, but death would have been so much worse. He had faced the sword. He was alive.

“Whenever you need a shoulder or a hanky or something I’ll always be here, all of us will. We’ll always be here for you,” Jester said.

He pressed deeper into her shoulder, she wrapped her arms around him. For a long time he couldn’t say anything. But eventually he managed, “thank you.”

“Did that help?” she asked, releasing Essek as he sat up.

“I think so,” he answered. He wasn’t actually so sure. His head, eyes, throat hurt now from crying, which had been some of the places he had had the least complaints. But there was also a sense of relief, of lightness, that had followed. And a surprising lack of shame.

“Sometimes crying helps,” she said.

“I suppose it does,” said Essek weakly. He separated himself from her, she handed him her handkerchief which he declined, producing his own so as to not dirty hers any more than he had.

“So…what are you going to do after we leave?” she asked after he blew his nose on his handkerchief. Shockingly rude on his part, but she didn’t seem to know that. Or maybe she just didn’t care. “Besides totally make out with Caleb?”

He barely heard the second question for the first. There was that dreaded question. He felt very close to breaking down again.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, the words feeling heavy as stone as they avalanched out of his mouth. He never liked to admit weakness. “I didn’t have this time before. And now I do…”

“You have lots of time!” said Jester joyfully.

Essek allowed himself to thud heavily against the wall, “What do I do now?”

“Whatever you want!” Jester said as if the question hadn’t been rhetorical and directed at the cosmos.

“I don’t…I don’t know what that is anymore,” he replied. “We defeated Lucien. We have come back. I didn’t think we would survive, but we did. Life resumed and I thought of survival again. For so long my utmost desire was to avoid capture, but now I have been not only captured but freed. I am no longer Shadowhand, I have to leave Xhorhas forever. There is no Umavi of our little den to avoid answering to. I must make up for my past but that is not something…” his eyes flitted up as if the words he was looking for were written on the sky, “that is not finite, it is not containable. It is like breathing, so long as I live I shall do it. I have no definitive goals left.”

Jester looked at him placidly as if what he had just said wasn’t terrifying.

“Jester, I have no idea what I should be doing!” Essek said more frantically. He thought if he hadn’t just spent Luxon knew how long crying he might have been reduced to further ruin.

“Maybe there isn’t a ‘should’,” Jester replied with a small shrug.

“What does that even mean?!” Essek asked, incredulous.

Jester was a cleric of chaos, but the idea that there wasn’t a ‘should’ was truly mad. ‘Should’ was something intelligent beings inflicted on the cold randomness of the universe. The elfoid mind created it, defined it, breathed it into existence, it shifted but it was constant and eternal as the worship of the Luxon. There was always something one should be doing. Intervals, small attainable goals, once finished another took its place. This was the shifting ‘should’. There was always another ‘should’, a hierarchy of ‘should’. Sometimes ‘should’ was small, sometimes immense. There was always at least one thing one ‘should’ do to ensure their desired outcome. It was the most basic way to force will onto the universe.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be doing anything. You can just…” she trailed off with an esoteric hand gesture.

“Just what?” asked Essek. Because what she was proposing seemed to be to allow the universe its roll without loading the cosmic dice. To release the mote, unutilized. To allow probability to go unmodified. ‘Should’ vs ‘would’, it was not a fight he had ever considered.

“Just just? Just be, you know?” she said, confirming his wild suspicions.

“I do not,” he said. The idea made no sense to Essek. The universe was terrifying when uncontrolled and uninfluenced. Probability was unkind. ‘Would’ could be anything, whatever the cosmic tide determined, without conscious thought, without consideration. Chaos took no sides, had no sides, saw no sides. What did one do when one just was? What was the reason for anything?

“Really? That’s so sad,” said Jester sympathetically.

“Is it?” he asked, looking over at his dear friend. He wondered now if Jester had ever had a direction, truly. Traveler Con had come and gone without Jester having an existential crisis. She found out her god was as clueless as the rest of them and if anything she seemed more secure for it. Sometimes she said things about owning bakeries or taming unicorns but she had never taken any steps toward achieving these things. Maybe Jester didn’t have a ‘should’. Maybe Jester only had the quantum ‘would’.

Maybe Jester didn’t feel as if she had to rationalize her existence. Maybe Jester didn’t need to master randomness to feel comfortable. Maybe Jester just was.

“Yeah! Who says there even is a ‘should do’?”

“Me,” said Essek, “I do.”

“Then don’t!” said Jester. “Or this time tell yourself to not do stuff!”

Essek stared at her, “I would not even know how to begin ‘not doing stuff.’”

“I can teach you! If you want you can stay with me even after we un-fuck you up, maybe all of us, I don’t know what everybody is doing. But we’ll stick together, you and me. You can hang out with my Momma, and you can make cookies, and paint with watercolors, and build a sand castle, and have sex with Caleb, and go swimming—”

“I don’t know how to swim,” he said vaguely, barely following what Jester was saying.

“Then we can teach you that too!” she said.

“It will be nice to explore Nicodranas as myself,” he said, still sounding dull to his own ears. “No disguises, no Cerberus Assembly, no Bright Queen, no fear of death.”

“It’s a really great city when you aren’t scared of dying the whole time,” Jester nodded.

“It’s not so bad even when you are,” Essek said. She grinned at him.

He could start over again; Caleb had, once upon a time. From the ashes of a scourger rose a hero, the most incredible man and mage Essek had ever met. Maybe he could do something similar. The body of the Shadowhand giving way to…

…to what?

Everything was different now. Everything. No single facet of his life in the Lucid Bastion or as the Queen’s Shadowhand remained. Here he stood alive but unmade, unsure, and dismantled. All he knew was he had to make up for the evil he had done. Everything else was blank. Maybe that redemption was the start. But there was still no set of rules, no process, no goalpost, no end. How did he know if he succeeded?

“I have never…I have never imagined life like that…”

He thought of letting go of a mote of possibility, letting it dissipate. He thought of the infinity of Esseks he had seen so many times in the depths of the Beacon. He had never paid them much mind before. He had always had a future Essek in mind already. He manipulated fate and rewrote timelines to actualize that specific Essek. But now each of those Esseks was as real as he was. So many pathways lit up before him. So many realities could be made and unmade from this moment. It was terrifying but there was a strange sublime beauty to it.

“Then don’t imagine it!” said Jester, “just do it!”

Essek laughed bitterly, “you say that like it’s easy.”

Jester shrugged again. It was now very obvious that this was easy for her. Then Jester said, “hey how about this…how about your goal is to figure out what your goal is? Like how you can help people, and where you want to go, and what you want to learn, and when you’re going to marry Caleb…”

“Hm,” said Essek. But that was a helpful start. He felt as if she had stoked a fire that had been dying inside of him. He didn’t know what emerged from the severed throat of the Shadowhand. He didn’t know who or what this new life would bring. But he could find out. He could find out and shape reality from there. Something would come to him in time, because now he had time. He had time to find his new ‘should’. The first stage of his new experiment began.

“Yes,” said Essek, finally, “yes, I will stay with you, Jester, if you will have me.”

Staying with Jester only made sense, just as it made sense that she was the one to propose the solution. Members of the same den were bound by their souls and thus supposed to help each other, support each other, guide each other. Essek rarely had either offered or accepted aid, but maybe, in his new den, bound by love, it was time to start.

Jester squealed and pounced on him, pulling him into a tight hug. For a moment he tensed, instinct told him to pull away, but he loosened and hugged her back.

It was the end of something.

It was the beginning of something.

It was both.

Chapter Text

As their last hour in Xhorhas ticked away Essek went back to helping the Mighty Nein. He found himself sticking close to Caleb like a skittish cat. Caleb didn’t seem to mind, showing Essek a warm kindness. It didn’t alleviate his anxiety, but at least made him feel wanted and warm. Some of that warmth may have been embarrassment, however, since Jester and Mollymauk kept looking at them and grinning mischievously. If he caught Jester’s eye she would wink at him, Mollymauk would tap the side of his nose, either of them might suggestively waggle their eyebrows. Essek didn’t know if it made it better or worse that Caleb pinkened from his cheeks to the round tips of his ears when he saw what the tieflings were doing.

Essek noticed that, probably at some point while he was far from himself, Verin had changed into normal clothing and jewelry rather than the ceremonial ones marking him as a Kryn executioner. He had gone from the very distinct and ominous uniform to extreme innocuousness. If one didn’t know him, Verin was now all but invisible; his rank and den were rendered intentionally indiscernible.

Verin was still upbeat. He seemed to have already befriended the rest of the Nein. He spoke to them all with his earnest, casual affability. What took Essek months, Verin could do in days. He laughed with Jester about the dick-graffiti she had left around the Xhorhaus. He told Caleb all about his six rescue moorbounders waiting for his return in Bazzoxan. With Yasha he discussed music. He talked about funerary practices with Caduceus and chemistry with Veth, even though (as far as Essek knew) neither of those topics had ever particularly interested him. Verin was interested because they were interested. It was just so easy for Verin to be friendly and personable, a fact that had always amazed Essek.

Essek was infinitely glad to bring the last shred of his old family, the only part of it that he had ever truly loved out of anything other than obligation, into this, his new family. However, Essek could do without his brother flirting with Mollymauk. Mollymauk enthusiastically doubling what Verin was dishing out made it especially upsetting. The only positive was that the suggestive back-and-forth did break up the pair of tieflings’ making Caleb and him their objects of study.

But as the time wound down and Essek came increasingly close to leaving Xhorhas forever Verin became quieter and more distant. Essek didn’t ask about it, Verin didn’t offer any insight. Essek knew, however, as much as they wanted to hide, the inevitable was coming upon them like a speeding moorbounder.

There had been several trips to the Menagerie Coast already, mostly captained by Jester and occasionally Fjord to transport their ill-gotten gains and prepare Marion Lavorre for the incoming party of nine. Caleb explained that they had managed the Teleports and Teleportation Circles used so far thanks to the help of Yussa Erranis. The trips became increasingly infrequent as time and spell slots went on, pushing their luck as to what they could get through with one spell. Essek had offered his help, but understood why he was turned down in his current state of exhaustion. He may have felt more awake, but his consciousness was fragile and razor-sharp. He hadn’t needed the reminder from several of his friends that the last time he attempted to Teleport somewhere he hadn’t been they ended up in a mountain. So finally Caleb informed them they had come to the last applicable spell slot for either Erranis or himself.

Essek may have been banished but he had always been good at skirting rules. He was a talented teleporter (contrary to popular opinion amongst the ungrateful fucks he spent months hauling from location to location across Wildemount) and he could create a Teleportation Circle so easily the hardest part of the spell was finding the chalk among his components. Despite all of that, this exit felt undeniably final. Essek could, theoretically, return, but he would not. As frightening as the great unknown beyond his native country was, he wouldn’t come back to Xhorhas because he didn’t want to come back to Xhorhas. He had lived in Rosohna for all but a few skant weeks for the last 122 years, but he did not plan on returning in the next 600.

Verin probably knew that. Essek hoped his brother knew he would take him with them if he could. But they both knew Verin couldn’t, shouldn’t, and wouldn’t come; he was both repelled by Essek’s crimes (or he should be) and bound to the Dynasty by the chain of Den Thelyss. As much as Essek had rejected his duty, Verin had always taken to it. Den Thelyss and the system that built it had held Essek back and infuriated him, but Verin had somehow found strength and pride there.

Beau closed the front door to the Xhorhaus and locked the door, “we’re good in the house.” She had just finished her “final-final check” to make sure they hadn’t forgotten to steal anything they wanted. She tossed the keys to Verin who caught them, but at the last moment and clumsily, probably because they came at him unannounced from his blind side. Verin probably didn’t notice what Essek did, that Beau gave Caleb a very deliberate look, which Caleb, as was often the case, did not meet, but be nodded slightly. Verin had been and seemed to remain silently lost in his own thoughts.

Essek had done his own tour of the interior. The state of the former Xhorhaus, once again vacant and waiting, wasn’t as bad as he feared it would be. Most of the things belonging to Nadzieja Thelyss were left behind, with a few exceptions that she would certainly notice when she finally returned. If she returned. One being the spell book in which Delayed Blast Fireball had been found, another was a very shiny Luxon necklace, although Essek was certain he knew which two people had those. The Mighty Nein had taken their furniture, or at least what they hadn’t broken in moving incidents. He was sure they took all of the accutremont they’d accumulated. Certainly everything even remotely edible had been removed from the house. With a lot of scuff marks and some very strange stains aside, the house was, by all appearances, only a little worse for wear. Essek was certain it was worse than it looked (he had only found two instances of Jester’s genital-based vandalism, for example). He wondered if the other members of the Mighty Nein had intentionally hidden their handiwork for Verin’s sake or if it was just a sneaky reflex.

“Then we’re good to go, I think,” said Fjord, looking around to see if anyone objected.

Verin nodded once and walked over to Essek. “Does anybody mind if I have a word with my brother alone?” he asked, taking Essek by the arm.

“Sure, go ahead!” said Jester.

“It’s up to Essek, dude,” said Beau.

Caleb looked doubtful, but Essek smiled reassuringly. “I’ll be back shortly,” he said.

“If you are sure,” said Caleb.

“I am. Perhaps you should begin drawing the circle, I won’t be long.”

“Ja, I will do so,” said Caleb, digging a hand into the component pouch strapped to his thigh. He probably assumed starting the circle would speed up the proceedings, but Essek was really depending on Caleb being able to hold the spell and for that to keep him busy enough that he didn’t worry too much. This conversation was bound to take some time. Maybe Caleb knew Essek was trying to keep him occupied and was going to wait to draw the circle so he was ready to leap into action should he think it necessary. Or maybe he was seeing Essek’s wager and raising him, would Essek really allow Caleb to potentially hurt himself or lose the spell by keeping it held so long? The answer to that was yes, he would. Not only did he believe Caleb could maintain the spell, he also was going to allow Verin all the time he needed.

Essek allowed Verin to drag him around the side of the house and out of sight of the rest of the Mighty Nein, but not close enough to the border wall that any unseen Kryn eavesdroppers on the other side could hear. There were bound to be eavesdroppers; the state and occupants of the Xhorhaus only became slightly less novel with time and every single Noble Den wanted as much dirt on Den Thelyss as possible. It would be foolish to pass up on listening in on the two youngest Thelysses having a hushed personal conversation. But Verin and Essek had been spied on for at least the entirety of their adult lives, they knew how to keep people out. Verin was taking all those precautions now.

Essek knew what was coming. He had been dreading it, he had selfishly hoped he could sneak away without giving Verin the closure he needed. But that wasn’t fair, the least Verin deserved was answers. He knew personally how maddening unresolved questions could be.

“So,” said Verin once they were out of earshot of anyone. He spoke in Common. There were a handful of people in the Firmaments who never bothered to learn the international language of trade. It showed Essek that Verin would much rather be understood by the Nein than by their neighbors, which he agreed with.

“So,” said Essek.

“You’re going to stay with them?”

“Yes, I am. For now at least.” Essek waited tentatively for the question they both knew was coming. It hovered unspoken between them, but it seemed Verin was willing to ignore it a little longer.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Oh, ah, the Lavish Chateau in Nicodranas. It’s—”

“I know what it is!” Verin said with a shadow of a grin. “I wouldn’t think you’d be interested in—”

“For the Luxon’s—! I was going to say it’s owned by Jester’s mother, Verin!” said Essek.

“Oh, I see. Interesting! I hadn’t realized. Her ‘Momma’,” he approximated Jester’s accent as he said the word, “is very famous. A lot of navy officers speak highly of her. And not just for her being ‘the best lay ever’ or even her voice. She’s supposedly very kind.”

“Jester certainly is kind. She must have learned it somewhere.” Essek huffed a breath, “Thar said, you are proof that not everyone takes after their family. Den Thelyss has never taught kindness.”

“I had a kind member of my family, Essek,” Verin said in a soft voice. “I had you for many, many years.” He fidgeted uncomfortably. Then spoke again, more light-heartedly, as if to ease that heavy blow, “and leaving home forever while still in my 90s helped a great deal.”

Essek didn’t bother with the second part. He was too focused on the past tense of the first. Because Essek was past tense to Verin. The Essek he knew had been gone for years, probably lost not long after his childhood name, replaced piece-by-piece by the Shadowhand, unknowable, cruel, and wreathed in darkness. Then Verin had met the latest, truest Essek, the Essek the Mighty Nein had found in and pulled from that darkness. The brothers had reconnected, they were friends again, and then almost in the same breath Verin learned of the horrible things Essek had done.

“Well, I’m glad you’re staying together. You’re going to need them now.”

“I have needed them for a long time, even before I knew that I did,” said Essek.

“Yes, it seems that way,” Verin said, but he looked away, a look of deep sadness on his face. Essek thought he might be hurt by that as well, that the Mighty Nein had done what Verin could not. Essek wanted to reassure him, but at this point he didn’t know if anything he said could actually be believed or if Essek would succeed only in making things worse. Verin finally looked back at Essek with eyes so sad that just a glance broke what was left of Essek’s heart. “I have one last question.”

“I know,” said Essek, bracing for it.

“Why did you do it, Essek?” he asked.

There it was. Even though he had been long expecting it, the question still shot his heart into his throat then sent it plummeting down through his leaden guts.

“I need you to tell me. I need you to tell me the truth,” Verin said, planting his hands on Essek’s shoulders so he could not escape. Essek stiffened. “And I need you to tell me now.”

For what felt like a long time Essek said nothing, squirming like the worm he was under Verin’s gaze and fingers.

“It was…important…” Essek said quietly; so quietly he noted that Verin’s ears perked and shifted to try to pick it up.

“What did you say?” asked Verin.

Essek used the question to try again. “I sup—” but he stopped himself from saying ‘suppose’ remembering a conversation that might as well have happened in another life. The truth, ugly, bare, and blunt. “I was frustrated and fed up. Yet another Luxon research proposal, already neutered to the point of near uselessness, had been blocked before it began. Scoffed at. Laughed off. Looked on with dismay. Utterly rejected at every turn.” Essek’s hands balled into fists at his sides, frustrated at just the memory, the echo of 40 years of rejection. “I needed answers and I thought I could find them in a country where, unlike Xhorhas, there was not an absolute monarch, but instead a king balanced by a group of talented mages. I thought it showed a dedication to logic and reason. I thought those wizards would be…kindred spirits…” he winced at how stupid he had been. “I knew Luxon worship is outlawed in the Dwendalian Empire, and I assumed they would view the Beacons as artifacts, the way I do. It seemed…well, it seemed perfect.”

“‘Perfect,’” Verin repeated, unable to keep the dismay and touch of disgust from his voice.

“A poor choice of words,” croaked Essek, feeling his ears droop. He looked away from Verin, as if that would make this easier. “I know now that I made…it was a mistake. One mistake among hundreds. They showed me that time and again. They are perhaps worse than the Umavi warned us, not savages but keenly intelligent and cunning. Lean, hungry and without scruples…so in some sense I suppose we are kindred spirits.” Essek felt sick with self-hatred. He’d fallen into their trap so easily. In the end he had killed innocent people and no answers had come from it. He had destroyed so much for nothing. For less than nothing.

“The Cerberus Assembly?” Verin clarified.

“Yes. They used my naïvité and my greed for knowledge against me. They flattered me, manipulated me, used me, lied…” he swallowed around the knot in his throat and admitted, “but they did not convince me to steal the Beacons…”

“I hadn’t thought they had. I wanted to think they did, but I knew they didn’t. That was you.”

“Yes, I admit it was all my own doing,” Essek said, voice soft and hoarse. As he continued his voice rose with emotion despite himself, “I couldn’t take it anymore! I wanted answers. I needed answers! We needed ans—!”

Verin’s face darkened, his working eye flashed dangerously, and he grabbed Essek roughly by the collar with one hand, hauling him farther off his feet. Verin was not a violent man by nature, but he was by training. Essek has never seen these wires cross before. Something like this was as unexpected as the Umavi having used offensive magic on him. It stunned Essek into silence.

Verin used that silence. “Fuck you! Don’t pretend this was altruistic! Nobody asked for this! ‘We’ didn’t need anything! This was about you!” he jabbed Essek in the chest. “You’ve always thought you needed answers!” He mimicked Essek’s tone, “‘I couldn’t take anymore!’ Please! You could have taken more! Everyone else does! We all live without knowing! We live without knowing every single day! But you’ve never taken ‘no’ for an answer, have you?!”

“No,” Essek whispered, loose and limp in Verin’s grip.

“Do you really think you’re the first person ever to have doubts?! I bet you do! I bet you’re that self-absorbed! You’ve always been special, you’ve always thought you were something better than the rest of us! You’ve never thought about anybody else! It’s always been about you and your damned research no matter who or what you sacrifice along the way!” There were angry tears welling in Verin’s eyes, but he furiously blinked them back. He released Essek and pushed him away.

Essek said nothing, he allowed himself to be tossed, limp as a doll, inertia bringing him hard into the side of the house. He barely noticed the strike against his back because he was overwhelmed by the realization that Verin himself was one of those people he’d sacrificed. He had hurt Verin long ago, years before today.

Verin had always been the opposite of Essek: he put his interests last, behind those of the Dynasty, the den, and his friends. He was loyal. He was relentlessly kind. He was true. He had given so much of himself away that Essek didn’t know how there was anything left to give. And yet he still did it. He had given so much to Essek since childhood, almost least of which being the vision in one eye, and what had Essek ever done in exchange?

The tragedy of Verin struck Essek with much more force than interia could ever muster, more force than a mace swung by a hill giant. Verin didn’t necessarily believe in the divinity of the Luxon either. What he believed in was his den, his Queen, and perhaps most of all he believed in his nation; the nation that Essek had nearly crushed to dust with scarcely a thought.

Verin defended the country against the darkness beyond the Umbra Gates. He risked his life constantly and was so rarely recognized for it. He led a city on the edge of the world under constant attack. He often lived in the shadow of their father, a man inferior to Verin in every way. He was dedicated to the Umavi, a woman who would never appreciate him because he wasn’t spectacular. He had loved Essek, truly loved him, as both his brother and his friend, and Essek had stabbed him in the back. And now Verin would never be trusted again by the powers he most respected and served so well. He had thrown that away when he helped Essek. He would now be branded as a potential threat or traitor, not just now but forever, lifetime to lifetime, from his first onward. Long after the reason was forgotten the mark would remain.

“I-I’m sor— I know and I am learning!” Essek said. He wanted to assure Verin that some good would come from this, some sliver of hope. “Sorry” was too empty a word. He pushed off the wall tentatively back toward Verin. Verin didn’t stop him. “I’m trying! I’ve learned a lot already…now I understand that the lives of others are more important than my intellectual whims. I have been shown that other people are, well, people. They are more than just numbers on a page.” As he spoke the razor-keen glint faded from Verin’s eye. By the end of his speech Verin’s hand rested loosely on his shoulder.

Meanwhile Essek’s voice continued to get weaker as he spoke, croaky and warbling with unshed tears. He was all but choking by his conclusion. Verin squeezed his shoulder gently and Essek reached up and put his hand over Verin’s. He took a deep breath and found some of the strength his brother had always had. “If—” no, he wouldn’t lie. “When I continue my research I will use only what I have found in Aeor. No one else undeserving shall be harmed by my hand so long as I live. I cannot express the regret I feel for all I have done. There is no excuse for what I did, only an explanation, and a poor one at that. There are no words that can ever make up for the atrocities I committed, nor will I waste your time trying to find them.”

“Thank you for that at least. You are correct, there is nothing you can possibly say,” Verin said, he looked more serious than Essek had ever seen him, not quite sad or angry, but stern, set. He wiped his eyes with the back of his free hand, although Essek wasn’t sure if he was crying or not. When he spoke again his voice was strong but shaking with emotion. “I saw a lot of good people go to war and never come back. You and I both lost family. Friends. Neighbors. The casualties of war are horrific enough, but many soldiers marched into battle knowing that if they died they would not be saved by the Luxon, even if they were consecuted. They still fought and died. As with the civilian lives lost when the Beacon was gone they are not coming back. But unlike the civilians who died, at least we know how many soldiers died and who we must mourn. With the casualties off the battlefield we will never know how many were lost or who they were. Rosohna – Xhorhas is unlikely to ever fully recover from what you did, the panic and pain you caused, the sorrow you sewed. You stole the heart of our country, our home, Essek, you ripped its soul apart. You realize that, don’t you?”

“I do,” Essek said quietly.

“There is nothing you can say that can undo that,” Verin repeated. He shook his head. “I didn’t want you to die, obviously. I still don’t. Partly that’s because I will always, always love you, but partly it’s because I realize that dying is too easy. You don’t get to die, you have to live. You owe it to them, the people whose lives you took, so do it and do it right.”

“I will,” said Essek.

“Good. Perhaps the maddest part is I actually believe you.”

Essek looked up at Verin in his dismay.

Verin let out a sound that was either a chuckle or a sob or perhaps both. “Don’t look so shocked. Beau pulled me aside and told me what happened with ‘Lucien.’ I’m not sure how much of that I actually believe, but if any of it is true, well, you’re on the right track at least.”

Essek felt a sting of something like embarrassment and he instinctually floated a little higher, the way he always did when he felt that way, like an animal trying to make himself look bigger. He had to will himself back down, close enough to the ground that his toes almost touched the gravel to compensate for the reflex. “I don’t know what she told you, but I was scarcely an accessory in—”

“Fuck off,” Verin said, his tone somehow both sharp and gentle at once, “I’ve seen enough of you these past few days to know something’s changed. Just promise me you will keep at it.”

“I will,” Essek promised. “So long as I breathe, I will.”

Verin nodded, then he sighed. “I’m happy to know you’re going to be safe. I love you. And remember that regardless of what Den Thelyss and Dynastic law say you are my brother, always and forever...But…” a breath “I want you to stay with your friends.”

Essek nodded and sniffled hard, he tried to stop himself, but it was no use, he started to cry. Verin remained serious, even as his eyes shone with tears. He didn’t pause or leave room for Essek to respond. Nor did he look away from Essek’s eyes when he said, “I don’t want to see you.”

Essek tried to say something, but the only sound that came out was a wet sob. It hurt to hear Verin say it, even if Essek knew this goodbye was coming. Verin should not have stayed as loyal to Essek as he had or as long as he did. Essek should have been abandoned to die. But Verin had saved his life even if that had ruined Verin’s. This was a kinder goodbye than Essek deserved.

“This isn’t forever,” said Verin, although Essek doubted that. “I promise it isn’t forever. I just need to…I don’t know, to think about all of this and I don’t want to see you or hear from you while I do…I need a little time. I just need time.”

Essek didn’t expect forgiveness. He thought Verin would probably need at least a lifetime. And since Essek would only live once, he knew this was their final goodbye, even if Verin wouldn’t admit it.

“Do you understand?” Verin asked.

“Yes, I do,” Essek finally managed.

“One day we will meet again,” said Verin with a sad smile.

Essek weakly returned it, “yes, I hope so.”

They wouldn’t, he was certain of that. He wouldn’t fault Verin if he spat in his face and pushed him away forever. He didn’t, but he didn’t pull Essek in for a hug either.

He let go of Essek’s shoulder and said, “we’re running out of time, let’s rejoin the others.”

“Yes, let’s,” said Essek, struggling to regain his composure. They were both painfully well-skilled at concealing their true feelings and quickly wiped the tears and traces of emotion off their faces. Verin, however, ducked his head down and lagged behind as they crossed the yard again. This time Essek knew he was crying.

When they came back to the front of the house Caleb had drawn his circle on the dirt and was a single rune away from finishing it. Essek didn’t know how long he had waited before drawing the damn thing, but he was holding the magic at bay so tightly his arms glowed with it. His breathing was a little labored with the effort of keeping the magic from dissipating and losing the incomplete spell. The smell of Conjuration was thick in the air. Caleb looked at the brothers. “Is everything alright?” he asked with applied nonchalance, the effect weakened by the sweat on his forehead and forearms.

“Absolutely not,” said Verin with a Thelyss fake smile, “but it’s about as alright as you could expect.” He patted Essek on the back affectionately but hard enough to send him sprawling, Verin knew how to send him bobbing like a buoy without actually hurting him. A show of fraternity Essek did not deserve.

“Close enough,” said Beau. “Get your ass in here, Essek, let’s roll.”

Essek nodded, but before he could float forward the equivalent of a step Verin caught him and manually turned him around. Essek didn’t know what to expect but Verin spoke gently in their native tongue, “Uważaj na siebie, dobrze?” (“Take care of yourself, alright?”)

“Ty też,” Essek said. “Kocham cię bracie mój.” (“you as well. I love you, brother.”)

“Ja ciebie też. Naprawdę. Ja tylko…” (“I love you too. I do. I just need…”)

“Rozumiem,” said Essek. (“I understand.”)

“Do zobaczenia, bracie. Bo spotkamy się ponownie, tego jestem pewien,” (“Until we meet again, brother, and we will meet again.”) said Verin. Essek nodded, accepting the lie that Verin needed to tell himself. Then in Common Verin said, “it seems I will need to find someone else to annoy.”

“You’ll manage,” Essek replied.

Verin gave him a half-hearted noogie. “Don’t let my brother do anything stupid in Nicodranas,” he called out to the others as he ruined Essek’s hair.

“No promises,” said Fjord warmly.

“Ahem,” said a familiar voice. Essek and Verin froze and they turned almost as one to see Zokol Omrifar standing inside the Xhorhaus gate. They must have slipped through while the group was distracted. They looked very different from when they were last seen. The color had returned to their face after being threatened by two very strong women, fear replaced by a smug smirk, and their residuum jewelry had been removed except for their earrings, or perhaps the rest had disappeared below their new robes of state. They wore the black robe and silver mantle of the Shadowhand. Essek’s shoulders ached just looking at it again. That was, at the very least, something he would never miss. Verin let go of Essek.

“You’ve been promoted,” Essek said, trying to discreetly fix his hair.

“I have,” they answered. “I suppose I should thank you for vacating the post you never deserved.”

“Fuck off!” snapped Verin.

“You’re on private property!” shouted Veth.

“I am the Shadowhand, all the Kryn Dynasty is open to me,” said Zokol smugly.

“That doesn’t seem fair,” said Veth.

“Look, Shadowhand, we’re headed out,” Fjord coldy said. Cold enough that Essek turned to look at him. Fjord was leaning casually across the Star Razor, and behind him all of the Mighty Nein seemed ready to fight, besides Caleb, of course, still holding his spell, his breath getting short. “By my count there are fifteen minutes to spare. We haven’t broken any rules or conditions, have we?”

“Well, no. But I am here to make sure you do what you are meant to,” Zokol said.

“The Taskhand is handling that,” said Fjord, nodding to Verin.

“The Taskhand is unreliable,” said Zokol.

“The Taskhand is doing his job,” said Verin.

“Is he, though?” asked Zokol.

“I am! You have no reason to believe I’m not!”

“We do. We, Her Majesty, the Bright Queen and I, have plenty of reasons. But unfortunately we do not have the ability to prove it. Her Eternal Majesty suspects you were helping your brother from the start, even if Deirta denies it,” said Zokol. Both Essek and Verin stiffened, Zokol calling the Umavi by her first name was a show of power that neither of them liked. “There may not be much we can do within the confines of law and this,” they snarled the next word, “agreement the accursed Zemnian arranged.” They said ‘Zemnian’ like it was an insult in itself, face twisted with hate. Then their expression softened, though their eyes did not, and they smiled coldly, “however, I assure you the Bright Queen will have you punished, Verin.”

“What?!” Essek snapped. He tried to storm Zokol, but Verin grabbed him by the shoulder and held him back as easily as if he was a kitten.

“How so?” Verin asked before Essek could even think of a spell to cast.

“She doesn’t want you in her court. Nowhere near it, in fact. Another will take Adeen Tashitar’s vacant seat and you will go back to the Wastes,” said Zokol smugly.

“Oh, thank the Light!” said Verin, releasing Essek, the hand went to his forehead as he leaned his head back in a show of relief. “For a moment I thought you were about to say something bad was going to happen to me.”

“I just did! It did happen!” Zokol said, a picture of confusion.

“Not from where I’m standing,” said Verin with his handsome smile.

“You’ve lost your seat in court! You’ve lost your chance at having actual power and sway over the country! The chance to be close to the Luxon and its Voice! You’re being sent back to the literal mouth of Abyss like a common soldier!” said Zokol, increasingly loudly, somewhere between incredulity and horror as their victory became defeat.

“Yeah and I can’t wait,” said Verin.

“You’re both insane! You’re all insane!” Zokol shouted helplessly. Verin shrugged, unoffended and undaunted. Essek kept his expression neutral.

“Why don’t we just go?” said Caduceus, “before something ugly happens to the new Shadowhand. It’s their first day, after all.”

“Yes, I would so hate to dirty their costume,” agreed Fjord. “Shall we, Essek?”

“Very well,” said Essek, moving toward the circle. He stopped however – which earned a groan from Caleb – and turned back to Zokol, who had been rendered speechless and slack-jawed. “If I may offer some career advice: that mantle is very heavy and the Bright Queen does not give a single shit about what you think. You are an advisor who cannot advise.”

Zokol scowled and raised their hand from below their robes, as if they would respond, but a voice from the circle cut them off.

“Hey Verin,” said Beau, “catch.”

Essek turned in time to see she had tossed Caleb’s Beacon at his brother. Zokol sucked in a breath, reaching out with that same arm, but Verin deftly snatched it out of the air (this time she was throwing head on so Verin’s blind eye was less of an impediment). He stared at the Beacon in his hand with fascination, and Essek couldn’t blame him. The things were marvelous after having beheld them up close dozens of times and Verin could not have been near one since he was Consecuted. Even then Essek doubted he actually touched one, this was his first time getting the full effect.

“Bye Verin! Bye Shadowhand!” said Jester, using her spooky voice to say the title as Essek finished floating to the circle and took his place among the Mighty Nein.

“Good luck, Zokol,” called Essek. Caleb finished the circle and it lit up with magic. The human’s body slackened, relaxed, no longer holding more focused magic than it could properly contain. As the symbol was completed, as the amber energy engulfed him, Essek grinned toothily at Zokol and added, “you’re going to need it.”

If there was a response he never heard it because an instant later Essek of Den Nein’s final view of Xhorhas was replaced by a jet of amber light.

Chapter Text

Jester and Caleb remembered the Coast’s burning sun, even if Essek hadn’t. Essek had tried the nictitating membrane trick that the men serving in Eiselcross taught him, using it to keep the harshest rays of the sun from blinding him. His ancestors had evolved them to keep the dirt and debris from their eyes below ground and it was extremely gauche for the social elite to even acknowledge they existed. However, those drow without daylight shields found that the membranes’ slight dark tint was useful when interacting with the diurnal world. The trick kept Essek from being blinded and confused, but it wasn’t enough to keep his head from eventually aching. The membranes themselves were not completely transparent, giving the world a very slight fuzziness when viewed through them, not enough to be detrimental, just enough to be obnoxious.

Thankfully, Jester came armed with the parasol, or it may have been a new and equally pink one. She handed it to him as he glared into the daylit streets from Errenis’s doorway. Almost at the same moment Caleb passed a pair of dark glasses to Essek from the opposite side. He recognized them as his own, purchased when he’d been shuttling these mostly-lovable ingrates across the continent. Caleb must have taken them from Essek’s room before they left his towers. Perhaps Verin had given them to Caleb. Or maybe Essek even thought to pack them for himself. The morning was a cold and distant blur, the hours between then and now feeling like decades.

Veth parted ways with them here, headed to see her husband and son with the promise to reunite with the others the next day. Privately Essek was glad that Veth was going to her family and her family was not coming to join the Mighty Nein; after the events of this morning he didn’t know if he could handle seeing the man he had starved and tortured without having a complete nervous collapse. Or another nervous collapse. He’d lost count of how many he’d had so far today.

Before she left Caleb lifted Veth to give her a warm hug. After putting her back on the ground Veth gestured for Caleb to bow down to her level. When he obeyed she immediately whispered something directly into Caleb’s ear, but her brown eyes locked on Essek. It wasn’t until Caleb spluttered at whatever he was hearing that she turned back to him. Caleb’s pale face was rapidly turning ruby red, from his ears to his neck.

“Veth Brenatto!” he choked.

“Yes, Caleb Widogast?” she asked with fake innocence.

“You are—,” and here Caleb’s quiet voice dipped down so low that Essek couldn’t hear the last word.

“—in the morning.” This time Essek only caught the end of the sentence, but Veth said it with a wicked smirk.

“We shall see,” Caleb said, straightening and dusting himself off.

“We shall, shan’t we?” Veth reached up and pinched his arm. Somehow she was grinning even more broadly than she had when she was a goblin. She shot Essek a brief look full of meaning he did not understand, like flipping through a book in a foreign language. Then with a final wave and goodbye to the group she set off.

The trip between Errenis’s pretentious tower and the Lavish Chateau was short, but unfortunately so were the attention spans of much of the group. The distance may not have been long, but the diversions were many. Once or twice Jester needed to pop into a shop. Fjord double checked the map, then stood lost in his own thoughts. Caduceus eyed a café menu that they might want to try out later. Yasha had to peek into a sweltering smithery and a musician’s workshop. Mollymauk wanted to watch the buskers they passed.

The Menagerie Coast was far enough south that the concept of winter was not a concern and with the constant stopping under the bright sun Essek ended up sweating even when carrying his cloak rather than wearing it. It was becoming cumbersome when coupled with his parasol.

Nicodranas was an agonizingly bright but undeniably beautiful port city. The architecture was a unique combination of the gothic spires popular in the Empire, the lower, more open white buildings popular on the modern Menagerie Coast, and the domes and columns of the quintessential and classical Coastal architecture.

There were gaps between buildings that Essek thought were designed to let in the light and the sea air and display a surprisingly high number of public art installations. Often these gaps formed side roads, some large enough for a carriage or huge iron sculpture, some narrow enough that two elfoid beings could only walk side by side with some difficulty. It made the city a hillside maze. The streets themselves were cobble and clay and packed with every manner of meeting place from cafés to studios to parks, all bustling with life, like an oasis in a desert. The shopping was plentiful and the products diverse, but that only made sense in a Clovis Concord city.

As was true of his previous visit Essek found himself very aware of the population around him. There were halflings everywhere, or at least they seemed to be. He knew halflings lived beyond Xhorhas, but he had never imagined them as common. There were some diurnal elves, a handful of dragonborn and gnomes, and a tiefling or two amongst the hoard of humans, halflings, dwarves, and those born of their mixed blood. He didn’t see any bugbears or druegar and Wensforth was the only goblin he’d encountered thus far. However, looking closely he saw many people of more unique mixed lineages and rare races like genasi and tabaxi. There were tortles, who Essek had never encountered anywhere else, and even here were in a small supply. There were still people in Rosohna who thought tortles were a myth. But wasn’t that just typical of Rosohna? Willful ignorance.

There seemed to be dozens of languages among the Common, some he could not identify. He deduced some were Coastal creoles and others he quickly realized were accented Common laced with unfamiliar slang. Once or twice he swore he heard Undercommon. However he didn’t see another drow, even when he looked. There were dark-skinned members of other races, but he and Mollymauk were the only two beings he had seen of any shade of purple. He supposed the absence of his people made sense, it was so bright here the only reason any drow would be here was because they had no other place to go. Like Essek.

As he was last time, Essek found himself charmed by the rainbow of a population. That was the beauty of a port city, he supposed. The tide of
elfoids was transient and washed ashore from places unknown. Despite the diversity, being the only visible Drow made Essek nervous. Unconsciously his mind ran through the countless stories he heard about the persecution of drow beyond the borders of Xhorhas. He distantly realized that those tales may have been just that: tall tales exaggerated and used as an excuse, like the Luxon. Yes, the Empire was definitely and unapologetically deeply racist, he’d experienced that in the company of Ikithon, Derogna, and Da’leth, but maybe Xhorhas was not the only haven for drow in the wide world.

He certainly didn’t draw as much attention as he thought he would. There were some people who stared at him or whispered, but they were always rebuked. If not by their colleagues, then by Beau and Caleb. The humans walked on either side of him, seemingly always ready to fight on his behalf. They were certainly always ready to throw dirty looks, cracked knuckles, and sparks at the offender’s. But for others his elaborate parasol was more unusual than his visage. He had met scholars from Marquet who had come to the Marble Tomes Conservatory, drow, but also half- and quarter-drow, which certainly implied there was some kind of cultural acceptance.

Thanks to the manners of the Coastal population and the protection of his den, Essek’s fear refocused on the brutal sun. He knew there were creams that could help keep sensitive skin from burning and he wondered if Jester knew where he could purchase a barrelful.

Mollymauk had scrambled up onto Yasha’s back at Erranis’s and was now riding on her shoulders as if she was a throne made specifically for him. But he seemed just as at ease hanging upside down along her back when he saw something that interested him that passed by too quickly, or dangling off her arm almost like a snake so he could point out something “exciting” in the throng. Sometimes he stiffened, claws digging into Yasha’s shoulders although she hardly seemed to notice, Essek was still working out the trigger. It was partially the Zhalezo, but there was something else, similar reactions without people in uniforms, the impetus unknown.

Mollymauk seemed to be in awe of the place, close to mystified. It was times like this that Essek remembered Mollymauk was essentially a particularly dexterous toddler, he could not be farther from the cold and calculating Lucien. Instead he was warm and eager and impulsive. Mollymauk was bewildered by Erranis’s disappearing tower, enchanted by the Melora shaped lighthouse, delighted by the ill-placed and ostentatious Opal Archways, and tried to pay every busker they came upon, but, not having money of his own, he ended up begging Yasha, Jester, Beau, or Caleb to varying degrees of success from most to least. Curious but also sticking close, he made no attempts to join the crowd or even leave his perch. Mollymauk was a puzzle, but Essek would figure him out yet.

At one point the party came to a junction, one of the crossed roads cut straight down through the city and to the beach. High above the sea’s level they got a near perfect view of the Lucidian. It was lovely, even Essek with his growing discomfort had to admit that, but Mollymauk’s reaction struck Essek…and, it seemed, the rest of the group as well. The tiefling let out an audible gasp as they rounded some buildings and into a square, in the distance the ocean opened up in front of them. Mollymauk leaned over Yasha’s shoulder.

“Is that the ocean?!” he asked, pointing out at the crystal blue expanse. His question brought the party to a stop.

“Oh, yes,” said Fjord. “That’s the Lucidian Ocean.”

“Fuck me, it’s huge! It goes on forever! All of that is water?!” Molly asked.

“That’s what an ocean is,” said Beau. “A whole lotta water.”

“The poetry of your soul is unparalleled,” said Mollymauk, without looking at her.

Beau said, “what did you say that was so—?” at the same time Mollymauk said, “It’s incredible, yeah?” in a quiet and awed voice.

Beau’s voice became more gentle in response. “Knew you’d like it,” she muttered so softly Essek wasn’t sure the tiefling even heard her. He certainly didn’t respond.

“It is very big and very pretty,” said Yasha. “We’ll have to go there later.”

“You can go to it?!” Mollymauk asked excitedly.

It was at this point Essek groaned and asked Jester in which direction they were headed. Mollymauk tipped so far backward he was holding onto Yasha by only his legs to scowl at Essek upside-down. However, his expression softened when he found Essek’s eyes. Essek hoped he didn’t look that pathetic, but at the very least something about him coaxed Mollymauk back into motion. With a small grunt of effort and much clinking of jewelry Mollymauk pulled himself back up, arms hanging limply and body moving like a wave through a wire. Once he was upright Mollymauk asked Yasha “Promise we’ll go back later?”

“I promise,” said Yasha. She held up one broad hand, all of her fingers but her pinky folded. Mollymauk glanced at her hand, seemed to immediately understand this gesture and linked his pinky with hers.

Blessedly soon after that they reached the Lavish Chateau. Essek had never been before, although upon laying eyes on it he remembered passing it last time without realizing it was Jester’s childhood home. It was intensely picturesque.

The Chateau was one of the enormous sprawling limestone buildings rather than the smaller stucco ones, but the roof was terracotta, more the style of the Coast than the Empire. It had a decently sized garden seemingly on all sides. The compound was surrounded by iron fencing made at once more inviting and mostly opaque by the gardens beyond them. The plant life grew so high only part of the highest storey and the roof were completely unblocked by hedge and vine. Essek thought from above it would make a rather strange shape. From what he could tell there were two large buildings on either side of the property. One was topped in a dome that stood maybe a storey or two high the other was a three storey manor. There was a narrow structure connecting this dome to the manor on the opposite side so that it must have made a sort of serifed L shape, the sight of it just peeking through the garden.

The lushness of the Menagerie Coast had struck Essek the last time he was here. The natural vegetation was beautiful and plentiful even in the urban environment and as diverse as the city’s population. Xhorhas was mostly desert with its only natural flora being stubborn and bare, mostly sharp grasses and twisted trees. There were no flowers, too delicate and tender for the gods-blighted wasteland. The more Essek saw flowers the more he loved them. The bushes Jester’s mother had had planted were in full bloom, enormous blue blossoms the width of Essek’s hand peeking through the fence and the hint of what he could see beyond was enticing.

Although the Chateau’s property sat on one of the busiest roads in Nicodranas the entrance gate to the main house was along a smaller and older street. It had a huge elaborate gate where a sign hung with the words Lavish Chateau carved in. It was only in Common rather than the standard three languages of Xhorhas, but the extra sign space was filled with a border pattern of musical notes, flowers, and — unless his eyes were mistaking him — breasts. The elegant gates opened smoothly into the lush yard. Before it even closed behind them the large doorway at the end of the stone path was thrown open by the Ruby of the Sea herself. She stood in the entryway with arms opened wide, “welcome home my little Sapphire and her Mighty Nein!”

Essek wondered if Jester had told her what happened to him and that was why she chose the word ‘home’ and if it was to make him feel welcome or isolated. He was pondering this as Jester, with a shout of “Momma!”, ran straight into her mother’s embrace.

The Ruby wrapped her daughter in a tight hug, smiling as if she had never been happier in her life than holding her child. That visible affection was another confounding detail of the day. He could not imagine the Umavi Thelyss ever doing something like that, even when she had most approved of him.

In person the Ruby of the Sea seemed less intimidating than she had on stage. At the infamous party she had seemed larger-than-life (much like her voice). He had thought she was very tall and sculptural, but now seeing her up close she was only a little taller than Jester and Essek. The Ruby’s features were distinctly closer to an ordinary tiefling than divine. She was still very beautiful, even Essek could recognize that and he had no particular admiration of the female form. However when she wasn’t singing she was a person and not some kind of mystic entity beyond elfoid. She wore a lacy white dress that ended below her knees and was held up on her chest seemingly by luck. She had on no jewelry besides metal caps on the tips of her impressive horns. She kissed her daughter on both cheeks as they greeted each other.

Then she turned to the group and gestured grandly with one arm, the other still wrapped around Jester’s shoulder. “Come in, come in, all of you!”

The musical jingling of Mollymauk’s horn chains and earrings caught Essek’s attention and he glanced up. Mollymauk was regarding the Ruby of the Sea, his head cocked hard to the side like a curious dog. This was, by Jester’s admission, Mollymauk’s first time meeting (most likely even seeing) the Ruby of the Sea. Judging from his sharp, full smile he was impressed. Yasha bent down and Mollymauk vaulted off her shoulders, quickly following the Ruby’s kind request.

“Thanks, Marion,” said Beau as she walked in. Essek realized he was the only one stationary on the garden path and floated more swiftly than usual in hopes of catching up.

“You are very welcome, of course,” said the Ruby. She smiled at Essek as he passed her and through the doors.

Essek found himself in a large front chamber with a shining wood floor and an enormous chandelier hanging from the ceiling by strangely elegant metal chains. There were large doors on either side, both thrown open, one appeared to be a salon and the other was a reception area. There were three floors on all; the second connected to the ground by a large elaborate staircase. The dark shape of the staircase from second to third broke their view of the complicated mosaic set in the ceiling.

They were not alone. A hotel room door closed somewhere overhead. There were some anonymous figures chatting in the salon. A human checking in at the reception desk, a maroon tiefling handing off a set of keys. A large brown furred minotaur stood just behind The Ruby—Essek kept thinking of her as ‘the Ruby of the Sea’, but should he call her that? It seemed almost disrespectful, too impersonal. As Essek scrambled for the appropriate etiquette the minotaur patted Jester on the head and she hugged him around the middle. Essek realized how comforting it was that The Ru—Jester’s mother and her servant were both races Essek thought of as belonging to and in Xhorhas.

“Is...Jester’s dad here?” Beau glanced around, entering the front hall as if looking for the Gentleman left unnamed. Essek knew very little about Jester’s father, only what Jester had told him, which was still almost certainly more than a crime boss would want the then Shadowhand of the Kryn Dynasty to know. Jester was lucky that they were friends and Essek had always cared very little about his job.

“Not at the moment,” Jester’s mother said with a hint of melancholy, “but this time he will actually be back.”

“I-if he isn’t, we’ll find him for you if you want,” said Yasha, punching her fist for effect.

Mollymauk stood beside her, taking in the bright and busy luxury of Jester’s home. He tipped his head back and back and back as his jaw fell open proportionally. It was understandable. In decoration and decor the house certainly lived up to its name, nearly everything that could be sculpted was and the colors were as diverse as those of the garden outside. It was more than slightly overwhelming, an ostentatiousness very different from the sort he grew up surrounded by.

“That won’t be necessary,” said…he couldn’t just call her ‘Jester’s mother’ either. He would have to say her name aloud at some point and calling her somebody’s mother was perhaps even ruder than referring to her by her stage name. Marion? No, absolutely not! That went too far in the other direction. That was far too personal. It made him uncomfortable. His brain settled on Ms Lavorre. Yes, that seemed the best choice. “If he doesn’t return I now know where he lives. Besides, he left some of his employees for my protection,” said Ms. Lavorre.

She gestured to the first landing where some kind of giant-kin — a Goliath Essek believed or at least part such — was sitting against the wall on a comically small stool, drinking out of a comically small tea cup and saucer. They waved almost lazily. “Greetings from the Gentleman!”

“Greetings back,” said Mollymauk cheerfully as if they weren’t casually discussing a crime boss.

“And, girl, Jester,” the goliath added, pointing at her, “a special hello to you.”

“I’ll send him a Sending,” said Jester from under her mother’s arm. “I have to update him on everything!”

“Have you had any trouble?” Caleb asked Ms Lavorre quietly as Jester sent her father what was probably the most confusing series of 25 words he’d gotten since…well, Jester’s last Sending.

“No, my dear,” she said with a gentle smile. “I think we are in the clear.”

“So it seems,” muttered Caleb. Then he added, “please, do not let your guard down.”

“I won’t, I promise,” said Ms. Lavorre, pressing her free hand to her chest in solemn oath.

“Your old throuple sucks, Caleb,” Beau said.

Caleb did not seem willing to consent to that and instead silently handed off his pack to the minotaur valet. Caleb’s expression was flat, but Essek was close enough to see his eyes were haunted by his familiar specters.

Before Essek could think of what to say to Caleb, Jester had finished her message to her father and grabbed Essek by the arm. She tugged him back so he was facing the minotaur. “Bluud, this is Essek and this is Mollymauk!”

“Molly to my friends, and we’re friends now, aren’t we?” Mollymauk said. Essek was sure the tiefling had used that line before. He was fairly certain that he’d said that to Essek himself. Just as he was sure Jester had never called Mollymauk by his full name.

“All friends of Jester are my friends as well,” said Bluud in a deep rumbling voice.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” said Essek with a short courtly bow.

“The pleasure is all mine,” replied Bluud. When Essek came upright again Bluud held out a large hand to take his bag. Essek had no plans of handing it over. He floated back a bit, holding the shoulder strap with both hands.

“I think I will keep this on me, thank you,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound too panicked. Essek didn’t relish the idea of being separated from his components and treasured artifacts from a life now lost. Not even in a house owned by, arguably, a friend.

“As you wish,” said Bluud with a shrug of his broad shoulders. That was easier than Essek expected. As his body relaxed, he realized he had been ready for a fight. He felt profoundly embarrassed and muttered a hasty apology.

“Come now,” said Ms. Lavorre, clapping her hands together for attention, “there are drinks and treats in the parlor!”

“You don’t need to tell me twice,” said Beau. “I’m starving.”

“I told you to eat at the Xhorhaus,” said Caduceus.

“We were on a deadline!” Beau said defensively.

“I am sorry you went hungry for my sake,” said Essek solemnly.

“Come on, man! It’s not your fault that my time management sucks,” said Beau, her tone gentle as was the affectionate punch to his arm. He knew that that was how many jock types showed affection, but it still hurt his sore and scholarly bicep.

Jester said, “Last one does the dishes!” and broke out from under her mother’s arm to run to a door about half way down the hall. Essek was stalled for a moment, watching the others, but Caleb stopped after a few steps, looked back, and offered Essek his hand. Essek looked from it to Caleb’s kind smile, then he pried his own hand off the strap of his bag and took up Caleb’s offer. Their fingers laced together like they were designed for it, like they were pieces of one puzzle. He wondered stupidly what sort of picture they made.

“These are all for us?” asked Fjord, poking his head out of the doorway of what must have been the parlor. Judging from the muffled sound of his voice and poor diction Fjord hadn’t waited to ask the question before indulging in whatever foods had been waiting there.

“Yes, of course!” said Ms Lavorre from behind them.

Caduceus was last to come in, having stood in the hallway until their hostess entered. Which seemed to rouse grousing from some members of the group.

“It’s no fun to make Caduceus wash the dishes,” pouted Jester.

“Why?” the firbolg asked. He pulled the door closed behind him. Although Caduceus had to duck the doorframe on entry, Ms. Lavorre had a chair large enough for someone firbolg sized — or larger, Essek noted when Caduceus sat down — he wondered if it was for Caduceus’s benefit or Bluud’s. Or possibly for her unique range of clientele, that thought made his stomach lurch despite himself. “I don’t mind doing them,” Caduceus added, leaning across the table to snatch up a cookie from the plate.

“That’s why it’s not fun,” said Beau.

“I can do them,” said Yasha.

“Same problem, babe,” Beau said. “You want some cake?”

“Yes!” said Yasha excitedly. Then added a quieter more contained, “please.” While Beau was getting Yasha a piece Mollymauk stole the one she had just finished cutting for herself, which started a bit of their usual repartee.

There was an impressive spread across the table. A frosted cake and an array of cookies around it. Many of them he didn’t recognize and looked far too sweet, but then his eyes fell on the little, slightly misshapen, seed covered balls. He knew immediately what they were: jiandui, dumplings made of fried dough, filled with bean paste, with the finished result covered in small seeds. They came from the Kryn Dynasty.

His eyes welled up with tears he thought he had expended. He pressed a hand over his mouth to stop himself gasping or crying, he didn’t know which, nor did he know which would be more embarrassing.

“Jester told me you don’t like things that are too sweet,” said Ms Lavorre, clearly catching onto his plight despite his (subpar) efforts.

Essek removed his shaking hand from his mouth to thank her but instead said, “how?” Then he swallowed and tried again, “How did you know to make jiandui?”

“Momma has clients from aaaaall over,” said Jester. “She probably got a Xhorhasian cookbook at some point.”

“Only after you moved to Xhorhas,” said her mother, kissing the top of her daughter’s head. Then to Essek she said, “I hope I made them right. We don’t have Xhorhasian rice here either, so I did my best with the flour I had. I have never used bean paste before and I used less honey than the recipe said so they aren’t very sweet at all. I have always had a sweet tooth so they did not suit my tastes, so you will need to tell me if I have made them correctly.”

Essek nodded, trying to blink away tears, then managed, “I am certain they are wonderful, thank you.”

And they were. Although maybe in his emotional state he was grading on a curve. It wasn’t even a particularly treasured food, well, not until this point. Ms. Lavorre’s version was…strange. They were close enough to be recognizable but different enough to remind him of what he lost. But they were for him. And they were from home.

“I will say making bean paste was easier than getting moths or beetles that were in some of the other recipes,” said Ms. Lavorre.

“I never see any outside of Xhorhas,” said Yasha. “It’s strange, I don’t understand it.”

“I know you don’t, dear,” said Molly, patting her arm gently.

“You can’t make silk from beans, though! Momma, Essek told me how they make silk! Do you know?” Jester asked. And she began her version of the process, Essek, blessedly dragged from his thoughts, offered annotations.

It turned out that much of the catalog of cookies had come from the Lavish Chateau’s own kitchens and Ms. Lavorre’s own hands. She had spent all morning up to her elbows in dough, sweating over a sweltering oven, just for Jester and her friends, for him. Essek had thought it doubtful until he noticed she still had some flour clinging to the underside of her forearms and beds of her claws.

It seemed so strange. It was so far below her station to cook, especially for someone as lowly as they. In the hierarchy he could not help but construct, Marion Lavorre was the senior most member of this gaggle. No, Marion Lavorre was not an Umavi, not even close, and her professions would both be looked down upon in traditional Dynastic culture and among the Dynastic elite, but she was a matriarch of great wealth and importance, she should have at least one chef to do all of this for her.

Deirta Thelyss had never been in a kitchen in all the years Essek had known her. Nor had she ever smiled outside of a threat or pious condescension, which Ms. Lavorre had been doing freely and happily since they arrived. The Umavi had never hugged Essek, which Ms. Lavorre had done within the first ten minutes of meeting him. He didn’t think the Umavi knew the taste preferences of any of her children in any lifetime, she certainly didn’t arrange dishes on their behalf. Meanwhile Jester’s mother had gone out of her way to accommodate a stranger and was allowing him to stay in her home based on nothing but her daughter’s reassurances.

Marion Lavorre was the polar opposite of Deirta Thelyss in so many ways. She was the warped mirror of the Umavi and that only added to the strange unreality Essek thought he had escaped. Both were held in reverence but the Ruby of the Sea was warm and welcoming in the face of the frozen superiority of the Umavi. They both dressed extremely well and carried themselves with pride. But the Ruby of the Sea had no fear of showing her feelings, whether they were the pure love she had for her daughter, her fear when given the abridged version of the fight against Lucien, or her anger at Essek’s exile (his crimes had been artfully eluded to but completely redacted). So different from the porcelain mask the Umavi had made her face.

Before getting to know the Mighty Nein he would have thought Ms. Lavorre’s entire demeanor was fake. An artful fake, well acted, well crafted, but still ultimately fake; a show for whatever served as the Noble Dens in the lands ruled by the Clovis Concord. But having known Jester as long as he had he believed Marion Lavorre meant every word she said. She was just…kind. And that fact affected him more than any cold cruelty or show of wealth ever had. It was incredible what a warm, genuine heart could do to his own icy, shriveled one.

The tea party took some time with a lot of stories offered by both sides. Essek did not offer much, but that seemed to be acceptable. Instead he sat close to Caleb, listened, and ate his jiandui. Caleb casually draped an arm over Essek’s shoulder. Then he tensed and looked in Essek’s direction as if for permission. Essek didn’t say anything — he didn’t know if there was anything to say that wasn’t awkward. Instead, he cuddled closer to the other wizard, cautiously leaning his head on Caleb’s chest. Caleb gasped, Essek hummed contently, and all at once he felt Caleb relax, which made Essek’s chest as warm as a hearth and full as a book. Caleb leaned back and Essek settled comfortably on him. Caleb’s arm slipped down his side and draped across him. Essek felt safe for the first time in hours. Months. Maybe years. He could stay like this forever, where the world beyond the Chateau ceased to exist and it was just this.

Conversation drifted from current events to the usual Mighty Nein nonsense. Given the setting it shouldn’t have been surprising how quickly it came to the inevitable dick talk. And again the tieflings looked at him and Caleb.

This time Caleb verbally responded, “keep your noses to yourselves, both of you.” He used the hand not resting across Essek to make a sort of shooing motion. The tieflings exchanged a look and Jester launched herself across the room from where she was sitting beside Fjord to where Molly was sprawled lengthways in an armchair. She whispered something animatedly in Mollymauk’s ear and he nodded emphatically. Essek pretended he wasn’t paying attention.

Eventually Fjord and Caduceus became the first two to start taking dishes into the kitchen. Mollymauk discretely stuffed cookies into the newly finished pockets of his unfinished black coat before scrambling after them. Essek was easing himself from the sofa to join, but moving made his legs shriek with new agony, unhelpful and obnoxious as it was painful. It seemed there were limits to the power of love.

Caleb who had no such handicap was already on his feet. He glanced back at Essek with a gentle sympathetic look that had Essek ready to melt and also ready to magically toss him across the room.

“You can stay in here,” said Caleb softly.

“I am perfectly capable of assisting!” Essek snapped.

“You have had a very difficult few days,” said Caleb, lightly, his fingers skimming Essek’s cheek before settling on his shoulder. “No one will blame you for not soaking yourself in dirty water.”

“It’s,” here Essek pushed off the couch and took a sharp breath at the pain the movement caused, “no trouble.”

“Have you ever washed a dish in your life?” Beau inquired, leaning on the doorframe, eyebrow raised.

“I have,” Essek said immediately, but then he settled on honesty, “not. No, I have never ‘done the dishes’. But I can cast Prestidigitation.”

“With that in mind, there’re already going to be at least six of our asses squeezed into the kitchen, you can really sit this one out,” said Beau. “Kitchen’s big, but not that big.”

Essek was again about to protest, citing the simplicity of the cantrip, but he was not given the time to do so.

“I’ll—We’ll be right back,” said Caleb.

Essek screwed up his face in annoyance but as Caleb’s hand left his shoulder Yasha’s took its place. He looked up at her in surprise. He hadn’t realized she had hung back too. “Is this okay?” Yasha asked. “Can I do this with my hand? Caleb does this, but you and Caleb are…” she trailed off, “should I not touch you? I just didn’t want you to leave.”

“It is alright,” said Essek. He wondered if Beau had put her up to this or if there was something on Yasha’s mind. The door closed and they were alone now in the large parlor. Yasha’s hand moved from his arm and she sat down on a couch perpendicular to the one Essek now occupied.

“What can I do for you, Yasha?” he asked, leaning back.

“I am glad you’re not dead!” she said, almost nervously.

“I am too,” he replied, realizing that he meant it.

“I wanted to talk to you earlier but you seemed sort of…not there.” She waved a hand in front of her face to help articulate that she meant he had been absent.

“Loathe as I am to admit it, I was not in my proper mind for much of this day,” Essek said.

“Are you in it now?” she wasn’t meeting his eyes, but like Caleb, she often didn’t. He thought there might be more behavioral traits Caleb shared with Yasha than he shared with Beau, despite the former being a Xhorhasian Aasimar and the latter being another Imperial human. Somehow the presence of Caleb’s tics had become comforting in his present state.

“I am,” but then he rephrased, again to be more honest, “I believe that I am, but I would not actually be able to tell because I am inside my mind, my body, and my thoughts. But as far as I can objectively tell, I have returned to a state of relative normality.”

She nodded silently then said, “it’s been a weird day, huh?”

‘That would be a substantial understatement,’ he thought, but aloud he simply said, “yes.” He paused, waiting for her to continue. She didn’t. “Yasha is there—?”

“Yes, there is something I want to say. I am just not good at this um…gooey stuff. Molly is. Beau is if she tries hard. I only know how to say things one way and not everybody likes that way.”

“I will not be offended, Yasha, please tell me.”

She twisted her hands together awkwardly and waited a few moments more before saying, “I know what it is like to lose—to have your home and family taken from you and taken from you by your family. I do not know what you call it in the Dynasty.”

His heart wrenched painfully. He had not expected this, although now that she said it he didn’t know how he hadn’t.

“Ah, ‘to be outlawed,’ would be the translation,” Essek supplied.

“That sounds more exciting,” said Yasha. “We just said ‘disowned’. Maybe your mother said it, but I don’t remember. There was a lot going on and I was trying to stop the Gloom? Blade? Should I call them that? I was trying to stop them from squirming too much.”

“I cannot recall her exact words, I’m afraid,” he lied. Much of her speech had burned itself into his brain like a brand. That was why the uncommon word ‘outlaw’ came to him so quickly. “And she is not my mother any longer.” Essek smiled tightly, but he knew he couldn’t hide his true feelings.

“I didn’t mean to—your ears went down. I didn’t mean to do that,” she said. “I just wanted to…to help if I can, however that is.”

Essek intentionally and pointedly perked his ears up again, “you’ve done nothing wrong, Yasha. You simply…surprised me with that observation. But you are correct, it seems we are two of a kind.”

“We always sort of have been, right?” she asked. When he furrowed his brow in thought she added, “we’re both from Xhorhas.”

He had never considered that before. He knew Yasha was Xhorhasian, but in Essek’s mind the Waste Folk were as far from the Dynasty they shunned as Emonians were. Suddenly the scale shifted, the cultural distance between Kryn and Waste were great, but much smaller than the distance of either of them to the Menagerie Coast or the Dwendalian Empire. Outside of Xhorhas the differences between them became miniscule, they were both Xhorhasians. Why not seek companionship and solace there.

“You know, she is still your mother, no matter what she says,” said Yasha. Then she added more quickly, “But! But only literally! What I mean is you don’t owe her anything, but also she cannot unmake you.”

Essek was struck by that too. He was trying to untangle his feelings about what she said word by word when Yasha began speaking again.

“So,” Yasha said in the silence he hardly realized he had smothered them in. “Um, how-how are you?”

Essek stared at her. He struggled to even gather his thoughts about what had happened and how he felt, having abandoned translating them altogether. “I’ve been better,” he managed.

“Yeah, that makes sense…” Yasha said.

“...So…” said Essek without anything further planned for this sentence. Then the silence stretched on and on, loud in Essek’s ears.

“F-for me it was very, uh, it was very different,” Yasha was the one to break it and Essek felt his whole body slump, no longer tense under the weight of carrying the conversation and free from the prying eye of introspection. “The circumstances, I mean. They were very different. All of them. What happened before and what happened— obviously what happened after.”

“I suppose I am missing the circus portion,” said Essek, glad for that.

“Oh, yes, I had meant the other—you know what, nevermind.” She finished in a mutter and stared at the ground. He knew he must have been missing some pieces to this puzzle, but he was too weary to search for them at the moment. “What I really wanted to say is that I know how weird and uncomfortable and sad it is. When I left Xhorhas…it was like the world ended. I lost everything I ever had and everyone I ever knew.” Essek froze, then settled back. This was not just about him. He realized Yasha had been alone in her situation for years. “I did not like all of them, I did not like any of them besides my wife, but they were the only people I knew. It was the only place I knew. It was the only way I knew how to be. And I had lost…I had lost the only person I loved. Obviously Zuala was different from Verin, and Verin is not dead, but…”

“But I love him dearly, and I will not see him again,” said Essek. “I am very sorry you went through that.”

Yasha shook her head. “That’s not—I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad for me. It still hurts, missing Zuala — and it will always hurt, forever, you should know that. But mine is old, yours isn’t. I wanted to say that I understand better than the others.”

Essek realized she was waiting for him to reply. “Very much so.”

“A-and there are a lot of good things about getting away! You’re free now! Like you can go wherever you want with whoever you want. They don’t tell you what’s right or wrong anymore, you don’t have to follow their laws and rules. They can’t control you at all ever again. Your mom says she isn’t your mom anymore, but isn’t that a good thing? She seems awful,” said Yasha.

“She is awful in every way imaginable,” Essek said. He was smiling bitterly thinking about how the Umavi would react to being called his “mom”.

“Oh yeah?” Yasha asked cautiously; so cautiously Essek wasn’t entirely sure it was a question. He treated it as one anyway. Besides the one recent incident Essek had only admitted his disdain for her to Verin before and even then it had to be tempered lest Verin sigh and change the subject. He had told the Umavi so to her face, but that had resulted in injury and imprisonment. There was not even the possibility of that here.

“Yes. She is controlling, cold, selfish to the utmost degree, a zealot,” he froze, “zealous in a terrible way. Not like you.”

Yasha shrugged to show she had not taken offense.

He felt encouraged and empowered being able to say these words aloud without fear. He was indeed free to say whatever he wanted. He wondered for a moment how Yasha knew just what subject to hit, but then even if the Umavi were not figures of significance across Xhorhas she had been at his would-be execution this morning. “Deirta Thelyss never loved me or Verin. I don’t know if she loved anyone but herself, the Luxon, and perhaps, I will concede only ‘perhaps’, my father,” Essek said.

“Will you miss her?” asked Yasha.

Essek paused. He swallowed hard over the lump forming in his throat. Honesty was not easy, and this admission was harder than most. “I think I might,” he said, looking down at his hands and blinking back the tears in his eyes. “I think I might.”

“I missed mine too,” said Yasha. “My mother was also awful. I hate her now and I hated her then, but I missed her, too.”

“You don’t anymore?” Essek asked.

“No! Not at all! I don’t usually think much about her. Or any of them, really! I made a new family!” she smiled. “It took time to heal and some other stuff, but I found them, or they found me. Molly found me and then the rest of them too, actually. So I guess Molly is my new mom.” She frowned at that, “forget that, it doesn’t work. The point is, I have a better family than that one ever was.”

“You do,” Essek agreed.

“And so do you,” said Yasha.

“And so do I,” said Essek.

Chapter Text

Dinner was large but not elaborate, at least by Lucid Bastion standards. There were only two courses, but they were full of food. The first was based around a chilled yogurt and cucumber soup. Essek thought it, like the jiandui, may have been for his benefit; in this case the dish was unfamiliar, but Jester had gotten him to admit plain soups were his favorite foods. Now she watched him eat it a little too intently and asked if he liked it at least three times. She was very pleased when he said he did.

The second course was focused around some kind of fish dish, baked and whole. Nobody said what he assumed they were all thinking, thank whatever powers that be that they weren’t served meat. After the Cognoza Essek doubted any of them could stomach it. At least the white flesh of fish could not be mistaken for something elfoid.

The fish was wonderfully filling, but strange on all accounts. Essek thought only he and Yasha were ambivalent about the main dish, again bound together as Xhorhasians. The flavor was very odd, as was picking bones out of the animal and from between his teeth, which tipped the whole dish into unpleasant. The tieflings did not bother and ate it, bones and all. But that was typical for tieflings; they were, after all, a race that could chew into and digest rocks. In Xhorhas tieflings had entire dishes based around bone (the drow did too, but they stopped with the marrow, tieflings didn’t; they left nothing behind).

Even if he had been at non-Kryn dinner tables before, most often with the people around him, it was different this time. This was his first meal outside of Xhorhas after being outlawed and banished, he knew it was setting a theme. He had taken note of the cutlery, what he had long been taught were the tools of the uncivilized, weapons to stab and slice at ill-prepared meals or to easily be turned on people. There was not a single set of chopsticks in sight at the table. The spoons were shallow. There were small glasses of strong plum brandy rather than berry tea in metal cups. Something as horrifically alcoholic as this plum rakia was not found among the elite, certainly not with a meal, most alcohol was meant to be consumed afterward. How savage they would look to Den Thelyss.

No praise was said to the Luxon before the meal, obviously, but that was always a relief after over a century of hearing it whenever he was forced to dine with other people. Of course the matriarch present, Ms Lavorre, had no server or poison-taster and did not sit so she could see the door. She did not have to be served first, then around the table by rank, as would, of course, happen at any meal in the Lucid Bastion. He had been surprised how little pomp and circumstance came before meals with the Mighty Nein. As soon as there was food they ate. It was no different at the table of the Lavish Chateau than that Caleb’s Tower.

There were leftover cookies for dessert but Essek was far too full to even consider it. This may have been the most he had ever eaten in his life. Ms. Lavorre had been very insistent on filling his plate with the various side dishes. Now that his fear had been truly vanquished, the exhaustion he had been battling all day was inevitably moving in, and with the aid of a full stomach it was marching to victory. The sun had set and Essek decided going to bed would probably be the best course of action. He had the vague anxiety that without concentrated effort his drow biology would naturally incline itself toward being nocturnal. Living in Rosohna it had never been a concern, because in Rosohna there wasn’t a natural day/night cycle. Living in Eiselcross he hadn’t kept a regular trancing cycle and avoided the sun whenever he could. Exhaustion helped during the explorations of Aeor

He entertained the idea of going for a walk and looking up at the real night sky, perhaps from the beach; it was appealing, always so strikingly different from and more beautiful than the artificial sky over the Kryn capital. Ultimately Essek decided stargazing could wait. There would be other nights. He had time, after all.

He had time. That didn’t seem so ominous anymore. And if he could spend even another moment of his centuries in the company he was in now, well, that was a wonderful thought.

Essek asked Ms. Lavorre if there was a room he had been assigned. She briefly disappeared and returned with a set of keys and some quick directions. Essek thanked her and was about to head upstairs but his ears twitched toward the sounds of rustling and indistinct heated whispering coming from the dining room he had just left. He floated back a few paces so he could look through the doorway.

About half the Nein had dissipated but Beau, Mollymauk and Caleb were straggling at the dinner table. Judging by the tone, the former two seemed to be bullying the latter but, Essek bitterly noted, they were speaking too quietly for him to eavesdrop. As he watched, Beau casually shoved Caleb. He seemed to take this as a rather obvious hint; he pushed his chair back from the table and got to his feet.

Caleb rounded the head of the table then cast a look back at the other two. Mollymauk was now draped over Caleb’s chair, as if to prevent Caleb’s return, seemingly ignoring the table could hold eleven and most of the chairs were now empty. Mollymauk propped himself up on his elbow and gave Caleb a cheery little wave, wriggling his fingers and eyebrows. Beau gave Caleb a firm nod.

Caleb stopped in front of Essek, eyes averted. “I’ll, ah, show you to your room, if I may…” he said, sounding less sure of himself as the sentence went on, looking at the wall just to the left of Essek’s ear. His cheeks were very pink and only went pinker when Essek’s eyes found his.

“I am perfectly capable—” but Essek stopped, looking at Caleb’s face. This was not an action made out of assumed weakness. This was…he wasn’t sure, he thought he knew, or he hoped he knew, or he thought he hoped he knew, but he wasn’t sure. His feelings were extremely confused and confusing; numbness and fear and warmth and love ebbing and flowing like the tides of the nearby ocean.

Or something like that.

It was all too complicated. Before now he hadn’t thought he would ever consider anything ‘too complicated’. Complicated was fine, often it was good. Dunamancy was complicated. Magic in general was complicated. He had always considered himself to be brilliantly intelligent, but this was certainly not an area in which he felt any sense of academic confidence. He might have found the one rare field in which he wasn’t a prodigy, one which was so far from a speciality of his that Essek could not name what it was.

“I would like to speak with you in private,” Caleb said, head bowed, voice lowered.

“...Then lead the way,” Essek said.

A smile teased at the corners of Caleb’s mouth, but still he kept his head down. He was curled in on himself, one hand fidgeting with the little clay cat he used when he cast his Tower.

It was not hard to find the room, while the Chateau had two buildings the hotel rooms only existed in one of them. The room was two floors up, on a short hallway with five other rooms along it, one floor directly below Jester’s, the top floor being entirely for the Lavorre’s private rooms. Caleb uncurled as they walked, still fidgety, but no longer staring at his own feet. He stopped in front of Essek’s door and Essek opened the door. Caleb took it, gesturing for his companion to go inside, “after you, Essek of Den Nein.”

“Thank you, Caleb of Den Nein,” Essek said, taking the invitation.

The room beyond was spotless, beautiful, elegant. There was a small balcony, its double doors thrown open to let in the sea air, lacy curtains blowing in a gentle salty wind. The damned sun had set, leaving the sky a welcoming indigo, thick with stars and two bright moons. Below them the sky was mirrored in city lights. Nicodranas was alive with music and laughter. Beyond it was the sea, calm and dark to the horizon. The room was lit by oil lamps, just enough to cast a friendly glow over the interior. The bed had a thin canopy of netting, tousled lightly by the sea breeze, it rippled like waves. The furniture was made of light brown wood and expertly carved, if without most of the intricate patterns often found on that in the Dynasty.

“This is very nice,” Essek said as Caleb followed him in. There was a palpable tension in the air and Essek tried to alleviate it.

“Ja,” Caleb said, closing the door. “Jester’s mother has very good taste.”

“A woman of many talents,” said Essek.

“Yes,” said Caleb, fidgeting on the spot. There was a pause, a pregnant awkwardness that Essek could feel to his teeth. Caleb rarely looked anyone in the eye unless he was making a point, but right now his eyes were perhaps as averted as was possible. Then Caleb broke the silence. “So…” he began, stopped immediately, then started again, “I, rather you, or we?…Scheiße, I am fucking this up!” Essek waited, unsure of what he wanted to say or how to help the poor man. Caleb let out an aborted sound that was almost a word, cleared his throat, and began a third time. “I apologize for being so agog and tripping over my own tongue. There are a great number of things I want to say to you, and I do not know where or how to start…but perhaps I am going about this all wrong.” His eyes flicked momentarily to Essek’s eyes, then his mouth, and then away again, “forgive me for my forwardness, but may I kiss you?”

Essek’s heart swelled, large enough to knock the wind from his lungs. His lips tingled with the memory of Caleb’s in the Dungeon of Penance, “Oh, Caleb…” Essek whispered, “yes! Plea—!”

Caleb’s mouth cut him off and Essek’s heart sung in his chest. The first kiss was short, soft, gentle, and so tender Essek nearly cried. The second was a little longer, a little more heated, a little more hungry in a way Essek felt in the pit of his stomach. Caleb held him close by the waist. Essek closed his eyes and leaned up into it. He clung to the front of Caleb’s shirt like one might a life raft, as if his survival depended on Caleb’s touch. He felt like a flower growing toward the sun, reaching up, seeking warmth, hungry for light; or a salamander seeking shelter in flames. He needed him, his lips, his hands, his heart. He needed Caleb.

Essek had only tried kissing a few times in the years before meeting Caleb — largely to appease the betrothal of the week before it was broken off — and uniformly loathed it. It had been a boring waste of his valuable time at best, sloppy and disgusting at worst. But somehow this was different. Or maybe it wasn’t the kiss itself, maybe it was the nature of their relationship, their indefinable connection, maybe it was feelings they shared culminating in this kiss, maybe it was Caleb. But whatever the difference was, this was as easy as breathing, bright and warm as the Luxon was supposed to be.

The affection he had for and was receiving from Caleb was so intense, so bright, and filled him so completely it must be visible under his skin, shining through him, head to chest to fingers to toes, bright as a nova, as undeniable as gravity. All he was was feeling, champagne in his veins, a star in his chest, and a rosy haze settled over his mind, chasing away any dark thoughts. Only this moment existed in all time. Only his heart beating with Caleb’s. Only the two of them in all the universe.

Caleb chuckled gently against his lips. Essek felt himself smiling softly and whether it was from the sound, the feeling, or the kiss he did not know.

“Whatever is so funny?” Essek asked, quietly, barely pulling back, their breathing still mingling.

“You are drifting a little,” said Caleb.

“What?” Essek asked, pushing away just enough to look into Caleb’s face. For a moment he was sure Caleb meant Essek’s thoughts were drifting from their usual subjects, and how could he know? But obviously he couldn’t mean that, Caleb must have kissed him stupid, but somehow Essek didn’t mind.

“Your levitation is not so strictly controlled as it usually is. You are drifting into me,” Caleb explained.

Essek realized he and the other wizard had shifted a foot or so toward the door. Clearly Caleb had had to step back at Essek’s unconscious insistence.

“Oh, ah, so I am. I apologize,” Essek felt his cheeks warm a little. It was very rare that he unintentionally moved while hovering. It had happened much more often when he was younger, embarrassing at best and dangerous at worst. But he had long since conquered, or, more truly befriended gravity. He could easily anchor himself against the whims of magic and his mind, no longer drawn like a magnet toward sources of power and want. Caleb was both. And this was the first time in eons that any distraction had been enough to cause him to forget himself. In any other situation he probably would have denied this humiliating fact, but right now with Caleb supporting most of his weight he couldn’t deny the shift. Instead, he felt himself smiling sheepishly and tucked his head into Caleb’s shoulder to hide his face.

“You have me distracted,” he muttered. It was much easier to say it than he expected. He found himself feeling more open, even to embarrassment, which was shocking even in a day of shocking events. Caleb wouldn’t mind. It was Caleb’s fault after all.

“There is no need to apologize. It’s, ah, it’s cute,” Caleb said, momentarily burying his face in Essek’s hair.

It was Essek’s turn to laugh lightly into his shoulder.

“And whatever do you find so funny?” Caleb asked, grinning like a handsome loon when Essek raised his head.

“No one has ever called me ‘cute’ before.”

“Unlikely,” Caleb replied with an amused huff. “Maybe they have not said it to your face, but you are, if I may say, inexcusably cute and there is no way it has gone unnoticed. I hope you do not mind hearing it. I don’t think I can stop myself any longer.”

“I don’t mind,” Essek said, “so long as I may reciprocate.” Essek had never said that sort of thing aloud. And his tongue still would not let the words get past his mind. He managed to get out, “I find myself thinking of how favorable I find your appearance often. Very often. I am nearly as taken with your face as your mind.”

He didn’t know if he was glad Caleb let him push his way through that awkwardness or if it would have been better if he cut him off. But for how embarrassed Essek was at his own inability to say the words “you are handsome” Caleb didn’t seem to mind. At least judging by how he was looking at Essek with a gaze so tender, so fond, and full of sentiment Essek could read whole treatises in his eyes.

“That means a lot coming from you,” said Caleb. The hand on Essek’s back slid up his side and took one of Essek’s hands, loosening his death grip on Caleb’s shirt. He held Essek’s hand in one of his own scarred ones, gently; everything in their interaction was so soft and gentle it made Essek’s very being ache, a wonderful ache, in the face of all his bad ones.

“Oh?” Essek managed.

“Ja, of course. I have told you before I have nothing but respect for your opinions,” Caleb replied. Then his grin broadened and he added, “besides, as the resident Hot Boi this is one of your specialties.”

“For some reason I don’t hate the nickname as much when you say it.”

“Is that so, Hot Boi?”

“Don’t push it,” Essek said, cuddling into Caleb’s shoulder to hide his further blush.

“Then while you are feeling charitable I should tell you you are the hottest, most wondrous mind and man I have ever met,” Caleb said, “truly, a remarkable—”

“What are we?” Essek asked, cutting him off. He lifted his head to look into Caleb’s face. He didn’t need to hear false praise, but he needed to know this. He had no answer in his mind, but Caleb had never failed to find a solution before. That was part of why they worked so well, when one drew a blank the other filled it in.

“Ah,” Caleb said flatly. He pulled away slightly, releasing Essek’s hand. Essek thought he had committed some faux pas and was about to try to correct himself, to greedily make a grab for Caleb’s utter attention again. But there was no need, Caleb wasn’t going anywhere, his hand remained at Essek’s waist, fingers nervously drumming as the gears to the magnificent machine behind his eyes turned. “I have done many things in my life that I regret, many, many things. But…” he swallowed, “when I thought I would lose you there was nothing I regretted more than never having done this,” Caleb kissed his lips again, briefly, softly, cupping Essek’s face with his free hand. He pulled back just enough to speak. “Never having kissed you, or held you, or having told you that I am…in love with you, Essek Thelyss. I am very much in love with you.”

Essek’s heart had gone on an impossible journey in the last few sentences and for a moment he found himself breathless and at a loss for words as his body and mind struggled to catch up. His thoughts were both running wild and laser focused on the man holding him.

“Caleb Widogast,” he managed. He swallowed and found his voice. “I do not really know what love feels like, not like this. I have never experienced it before…” But maybe. Maybe those feelings he had been grappling with, that warmth, light, that desire to be near him, with him, maybe this was what he had so long shunned as silly. Maybe… “I fear I may be similarly afflicted. I believe I am in love with you.”

That was it! Saying those words aloud struck him like a spell, as sure as he had been for years he would never become a victim to it he was now sure that he had fallen madly in love with the Imperial human, Caleb Widogast. “Yes, I do! I am! I love you!” It felt so good to say, to share, to feel. This time it was Essek who pulled Caleb down into a kiss, one arm around his neck, the other on his shoulder.

They came apart, stood holding one another, foreheads pressed together, breathing one another, basking in each other’s warmth and contact, an emotional and intellectual connection made physical. Love was overflowing from them as if they had been about to burst with it when the admissions came.

“I have been dreaming of this for a long time,” Caleb said scarcely above a whisper, making Essek’s stomach swoop.

“Have you?” Essek asked, trying to sound coy.

“When we first met I was…intrigued by you,” said Caleb. “I will not insult your intelligence by claiming it was love at first sight but I was very much attracted to you. Even when I feared you would be the actual death of me I still wanted you and soon I wanted to know you.”

“When we first met I wanted to kill you,” said Essek. Caleb laughed, and Essek felt sheepish again. When Caleb did not seem offended he added, “you are very lucky to still be breathing, Widogast.”

“To what do I owe that honor?” Caleb asked.

“Not your charms and masculine wiles, certainly, I had yet to see those. The Queen’s eyes followed you too closely.”

“I am very lucky that I had a chance to prove myself.”

“And prove yourself you did. At first I wanted to manipulate you, then I saw something in you and I took a chance, you could say I gambled on you. I have always liked risks and you proved a risk worth taking. You have become a greater ally than I had dared to imagine. Still, you frightened me for quite some time.”

“Frightened you?” Caleb repeated, “surely the Shadowhand was not afraid of a lowly, scruffy dirt-wizard from some backwater corner of the Empire.”

“When you say it like that it sounds almost mad. But you did, because you are so much more than some lowly, scruffy dirt-wizard.”

“But I am from a backwater corner of the Empire.”

“Your words, not mine.”

“How could I possibly frighten you?”

“I thought you were too smart, too cunning, too driven. I worried first that you would get in my way, then that you would figure me out and loathe me; I had become, I cannot think of a word besides ‘addicted’ to our time together. Simply put, I respected you, I feared you, I admired you, and I came to love you.”

“That sentiment was shared.”

“Did I frighten you, then?”

“I think you know you did,” said Caleb, “because you were trying to frighten me.”

Essek grinned and flashed his fangs, “I do and I was.”

“You have a truly awe-inspiring amount of power, the neverending curiosity to gain more, and the sublime creativity to use it. It is simultaneously dangerous, admirable, enviable, and hot as the nine hells,” he said. “I love you.”

He had a hard time believing Caleb, who had already done so much to right his wrongs, could feel those ways about someone as vile as he, but somehow from the fondness in his eyes, the way he held Essek, the fact that he had not let go of him since this conversation started, so many things going all the way back to that gentle kiss on the forehead in the hold of a ship a lifetime ago, somehow Essek knew the confession was true.

“I would say the same about you. It is why I lacked the self-control to stay away from you, even when I felt I should. I was, shall we say, hungry for your brilliance and companionship. Still I feared we would be like black holes, inescapably and inevitably pulling against one another until we rent each other into absolute nothingness. The violence of our magic and passion would destroy the very fabric of our beings and reality with it.”

Caleb let out a shaky appreciative breath; it sent an electric thrill through Essek. “And now?” Caleb asked.

“Now? Now, I think we are binary stars, each of us a bright and cosmic force on his own, but together we are oh so much greater. We hold one another, we influence and enhance each other by magnitudes untold.”

The kiss that followed was intense, fiery. It felt like a reward. A very much appreciated one. When they came apart it was with a wet sound that Essek still found unpleasant, but any loss of momentum was quickly regained by the awed breathlessness in Caleb’s voice, “you have quite a way with words.”

“I know,” Essek said.

“I am afraid I am not so eloquent, at least in Common. No matter what I say it always feels a bit scrowdy-row. There is a sentiment I wish to express, but I am unsure of how successful I will be.”

“Would you try?” Essek asked.

“For you, I would try anything. I would burn the world for you if it came to it,” Caleb said softly. That shot twin sensations through Essek, fire and ice, deep in him. “We should never have met, you and I. The odds of our even catching the most fleeting glance of the other is so infinitely teeny tiny as to be almost nonexistent. But we have defied our fates so many times, we have taken our lives back for ourselves from those who misused us, but perhaps our greatest triumph over gods and man is this unity, this contact, this relationship…” Caleb wound their fingers together. “We never should have met, but we did, and now, now I would like to continue to spite the powers that be for as long as my heart beats…if you will have me I would very much like to call myself your, ah, boyfriend…?”

“I will have you, though I cannot believe you will have me,” Essek said, his heart skipping in his chest, breath shaky.

“I can think of nothing that would make me happier, Essek,” Caleb answered. He gently held Essek’s face in his hands and brought their lips together again.

The kiss this time was tender. The tears Essek had been fighting all night flooded freely. When they came apart Caleb looked into his face, concerned, wiping the tears away from Essek’s cheek with his thumbs. “Have I hurt you?”

“No, far from it,” Essek answered. “I never imagined I could feel like this about anyone. That I would ever want or even could to feel this love.”

“Not so bad, is it?” Caleb asked.

“Not bad at all. I think I am enjoying it. You should be very proud of yourself, many have vied for the heart of Essek Thelyss and most would-be suitors left crying. Now I seem to be the one moved to tears.”

“They are happy tears?”

“Certainly not sad ones,” said Essek.

“Then I am very proud,” said Caleb. “And I love you.”

Essek didn’t think he could ever get sick of hearing those words. He wondered if they would always fill him with light. “I love you too.”

They stood together, bodies close, holding one another, comfortable in the silence with only the distant sounds of music drifting in from the windows.

“Stay with me tonight,” Essek finally said. Caleb jolted upright, untangling himself slightly, face red to his ears and spreading.

Essek was unsure of why until Caleb asked, “In what, ah, capacity?”

His meaning struck Essek like a mace, hard enough to make him dizzy. That was not something he had considered. Not with anyone outside of his own company. But it was…something to reconsider now. Something that may be more inviting than he previously thought. Now Essek felt himself blush, his ears rising slightly, suddenly very warm. He slipped that thought into the back of his mind to be further inspected later. “Tonight I would like you to sleep in my bed beside me.”

“I would like it too,” Caleb assured him, relaxing a little.

“In the other sense…we can, we should, we will discuss it at a later date.”

Caleb’s eyes widened again. Human pupils were not as powerful as a drow’s, they had fewer shapes and did not let in as much light. But Caleb’s seemed to swell. He let out a high wordless sound. Then he cleared his throat, looked away, and after some clear effort regained his composure. “Yes, I would like it very much if we pursued that course of action,” he said with the pretense of formality if not for the slight quiver in his voice. Essek found himself giggling again and pulled Caleb down to him and kissed him.

“Calm down, young man,” Essek said when he released Caleb again.

“You make it very hard to do so.” Caleb said as he pulled back, grinning in something like embarrassment, fiddling with his ponytail. “I will get my pack. Is there anything from the Xhorhaus you need?”

“I think I have clothing somewhere,” Essek said.

“You do. We made sure you do. I will find your night clothes for you,” said Caleb.

“Thank you,” said Essek. He dropped down onto the edge of the bed.

Caleb bent and kissed him on the forehead. “You are very welcome. I will return shortly.”

Once he left Essek removed his shoes and gingerly lay down on the bed. After a moment he sighed and starfished against the sinfully soft sheets. He realized he was still grinning with tears in his eyes, like a madman. So much had happened since the world did not end and the Nein did not die. So much more had happened in the last 15 hours. It was almost too much to process.

He knew only a handful of things for certain:

He was alive.

He was no longer a member of Den Thelyss.

For all the evil he had done he was still a member of Den Nein.

He was in love with Caleb.

And Caleb was in love with him.

It took a little longer than Essek expected for Caleb to return. When he did, with his arms full of familiar clothing, Essek had been drifting somewhere just short of a trance. He sat up as the door closed.

“I hope I am not waking you,” said Caleb.

“No, even if you had I always trance better in my night clothing,” said Essek. He noticed that his clothes were unfolded — which he distantly knew was his own fault.

“Ah, well, that may prove to be a problem. We could not find anything resembling night clothing,” said Caleb, holding out the pile of cloth in his arms. Essek didn’t see a single set of night clothing in the stack.

He slid over to the edge of the bed, feet dangling over the side and felt his face burn at the word “we.” How many of his friends had seen his underclothing in the last few minutes?

As if he could read Essek’s mind (but was probably only reading his face) Caleb said, “it was only Jester and I looting your possessions, which I hope is allowed.”

It could have been far worse. Jester was his closest friend that he wasn’t now dating and she had never been one for privacy. He already knew more about Fjord and Jester than he ever wanted to, perhaps it was only fair to reciprocate. “Well, it is too late to stop it anyway,” said Essek.

“Unless you turned back time to do so,” said Caleb with a mirthless smirk.

“Do not tempt me, Caleb,” said Essek dryly. But for the first time since he’d conceived of the idea he didn’t actually want it. There was nothing he wanted less than to change the fragile timeline that brought him to this moment, to his family, to his boyfriend. “Did Jester…say anything?” he asked nervously as Caleb deposited the pile of clothes on the bed.

“If you really want to know, she says she likes your underwear, but I think she would say that regardless of what it looked like, because Jester is Jester,” Caleb answered as Essek rifled through the pile.

“Yes, very likely,” said Essek. He thought his underclothes were fairly unremarkable. He also considered that in the Empire it seemed to be the style to leave them out entirely. He pushed that thought from his mind as he gave the pile another quick look over. Then he sighed and gave up. “You are correct, it seems in my earlier state I did not bring any of my night clothing. More fool I.”

“You were not in your right mind, it is understandable,” said Caleb with another little kiss on his cheek.

Essek made a noncommittal noise as he considered which of the assembled outfits would be most comfortable to sleep in (he had had some practice in Eiselcross after all). Caleb unslung his pack from his back.

“I do not mind sharing,” Caleb said as he opened his bag.

Essek looked up in surprise. “Sharing?” he repeated.

Caleb produced a white shirt, long-sleeved and long-trunked, from the depths of his bag. Essek knew it well, Caleb usually wore it to bed, this shirt plus a pair of baggy cotton trousers that had also seen better days.

Essek blushed and stammered and nearly dropped the clothing his Mage Hand was moving across the room to the dresser. Essek knew very well that Caleb sometimes went shirtless under his dressing gown, he had also seen Caleb naked before, but somehow this was different. No, not ‘somehow’, it was different because Caleb was offering to go partially disrobed for him, Essek, Caleb’s boyfriend.

“So long as it does not offend your sensibilities,” Caleb added in a rush. Essek realized he had not answered.

It did offend Essek’s Kryn sensibilities, but he was pointedly ignoring those. Not only was something like this far too sexual to be allowed outside the confines of a marriage or similar agreement, but sharing clothing would be frowned upon in any context. Wearing someone else’s clothing in a Noble Den would be seen as a show of poverty and dependence rather than affection. Besides, one’s clothing and fashion were one’s own and spoke volumes. This shirt said nothing good about its owner, let alone its borrower.

But even with all that, Essek very much wanted to wear Caleb’s shirt.

Somehow he couldn’t say those words to his boyfriend (such a wonderful and miraculous thing to be able to call Caleb Widogast). Instead he said, “no, that will do.” He reached out a shaking hand to take the shirt.

“Are you alright?” Caleb asked, neither retracting it nor passing it off.

“Yes, of course!” said Essek, snatching the shirt from Caleb. But holding it in both hands he looked from the shirt to Caleb again. “I may be out of my element, Caleb.”

“You are far from home—”

“That is not what I meant,” he looked down again. “I hate to admit any lack of knowledge, but I have very little experience with conventional ‘dating’ as you would say. Even if I had not been disinterested before you, in the Noble and especially the Ruling Dens of the Kryn Dynasty it is frowned upon and replaced by formal courtship, arranged by the Umavi, the union is political rather than personal and diplomatic rather than emotional. Meetings are public spectacles until marriage. Something like this,” he gestured between them with Caleb’s loaned shirt, “would be forbidden. Sharing clothing is offensive. Sleeping in the same bed outside of a marriage created under the Luxon’s Light is taboo. So I am…at a loss.”

Verin often broke the rules, but Essek never paid much attention to Verin’s many lovestruck romances. He seemed to trade through boyfriends often, even though he claimed to love each one with all his heart. Verin’s boyfriends were arguably secret, although so long as Verin didn’t embarrass Den Thelyss no one was terribly concerned about what the spare son did. Essek, the heir, was another story. It was lucky he had never been terribly interested in dating, because he was expressly forbidden from it.

“Gods, I hate everything I hear about these Dens. I am glad you are free of that of Thelyss, even if the mechanism of your release was not ideal,” Caleb replied.

“In some ways it was,” said Essek quietly.

“You nearly lost your head,” said Caleb.

“Yes, but you freed me from six or so centuries on the run. And you told off my mother, which I have wanted to see for decades.”

“I only told her the truth. She deserved to hear every word I said,” Caleb muttered.

“You did lie, just not about her. I do not believe you changed your mind about my theories in two short days.”

“I may have stretched my own belief,” he said. “As I said the other day, I do not disbelieve it, I want to see all the information first.”

“Good, I look forward to fully convincing you.”

“I look forward to solving this mystery with you,” said Caleb. He looked over at Essek still holding his shirt. “You do not need to wear it if you do not want—”

“I very much want to,” Essek said.

“Oh!” said Caleb with something bright and pleased in his voice. “Then please do!”

Essek nodded without looking up.

“If it will help, I can cover my eyes,” Caleb said.

“No, that is ridiculous,” snapped Essek.

Caleb frowned, taken aback, “is it?”

“Yes, you have seen me without a shirt before,” Essek pointed out.

“But our social circumstances were different,” said Caleb. “You have said so yourself.”

“Ah, yes, another shift in perspective,” said Essek to himself.

“May I inquire further?” Caleb asked.

“I have been having many epiphanies lately,” said Essek. “Time and space are relative and I keep being reminded of that fact.” He quickly pulled off his tunic before he could think any more about it, exposing his torso to the air and Caleb’s gaze, although he didn’t know if Caleb was looking, too nervous to glance up. He pulled Caleb’s shirt over his bare skin, like a cocoon over a fragile silkworm. It was worn soft, gentle on his skin, and it smelled comfortingly like Caleb: woodsmoke, expensive ink, herbal soap, and something unplaceable, something just Caleb. It smelled like home. He might never take it off.

“Alright?” Caleb asked when Essek emerged from the shirt.

“Very,” said Essek. The shirt covered far more of him than it did Caleb given their difference in height. This meant his hands were completely engulfed by the sleeves, and it took a moment for Essek to roll them up so he had any use of them whatsoever. The size of the shirt also gave him a little more courage when he tugged his socks, leggings, and trousers down off his scrawny legs. The shirt’s length meant he felt less exposed than he thought would, even if he was only wearing his smallclothes below it. Caleb was the first person to see his unclothed legs, beside a medical doctor, since he was a child. He tried to push away the anxiety coursing through him at the thought of Caleb’s judgment. For all Caleb spoke of the beauty of his body and mind he hadn’t actually seen the part of him illness had ruined. When he looked up Caleb was already in his sleep trousers, laces tied and all.

“That was fast,” said Essek.

Caleb shrugged. But Essek supposed it made sense that Caleb could disrobe and dress quickly since he’d been spending the last Luxon knew how many years on the run; a fate he’d so kindly saved Essek from. Caleb was now standing in front of him shirtless and for the first time Essek didn’t feel like he had to look away.

Caleb huffed a laugh and too late Essek realized he had been openly and obviously staring. Essek was about to apologize for his rudeness but Caleb did not seem offended. He seemed…amused? Flattered, perhaps? He asked, “do you see something you like?”

“I do,” Essek said and then laughed at his own shamelessness. “Forgive me.”

Caleb leaned over and kissed Essek’s cheek, “there is nothing to forgive. I do too.” Essek’s heart leapt. He stood before Caleb with nearly all his fragility on display and Caleb seemed to think no less of him. The near complete picture of Essek Thelyss was one Caleb still took pleasure in beholding. It was an incredibly freeing moment. He wondered now how much Caleb would enjoy the whole of him.

Caleb distracted him from that perhaps dangerous thought by sitting beside Essek on the bed and then dropped unceremoniously sideways onto the pillow. “Come, you must be exhausted.”

“It has been a very long day,” Essek agreed. “Long enough to blame Chronurgy.”

“It certainly feels that way, and I was not hanging in a dungeon,” Caleb agreed. He yawned and then patted the bed beside him. “Would you lie down?”

“Gladly,” said Essek, “thank you.”

“My pleasure,” said Caleb, moving his hand.

Essek took his place beside him, both under the blanket. They rolled over in the same moment to face each other. They lay beside one another, eye to eye. It was the most intimate Essek had ever been with another person, the most vulnerable. Caleb reached out and took Essek’s hand. For a moment Essek startled.

“Is this acceptable?” Caleb asked, pulling his hand away.

“More than acceptable,” said Essek, taking it back again.

Caleb scooched up close to Essek and wrapped his other arm around Essek’s body, “and this?”

“Likewise favorable,” Essek replied.

“Good, I’m glad,” said Caleb.

Essek found himself wanting to be closer, so he shimmied a little over almost nervously. Caleb smiled and leaned forward so he could kiss Essek’s forehead. Essek caught Caleb’s lips with his own as he pulled back. Caleb smiled into what Essek hoped would be the first of many goodnight kisses. Almost in unison they cast to turn out the lanterns, and Essek chuckled at how in sync they were.

“Gute Nacht,” Caleb said in the dim.

“Dobranoc,” Essek said.

As a general rule Essek did not like sleeping. He did it perhaps more than any other adult elf he had heard of, increasingly often as his illness came back and ravaged his stupid body with unnatural exhaustion. But even before that became a problem, if he went too many nights without trancing Essek would pay for it and wake up the next day drooling on his latest project. Elf children slept because they were still growing, elf adults tranced rather than slept because they’d grown out of it.

A trancing elf was aware enough of his surroundings that he could jump to an early attention should he be attacked. Sleeping made Essek feel weak, vulnerable, undignified, and childish. But tonight it didn’t seem so bad. For once he did not dread unconsciousness. If he was weak he could find strength from the man beside him. If he was vulnerable he would be protected by Den Nein. If he was undignified or childish then so was the rest of his den. For once he would accept sleep and not deny how much better he would feel afterward.

Even so, it was Caleb who drifted off first. Essek watched as Caleb’s breathing evened out and the circles his thumb had been tracing on Essek’s hip slowed and finally stopped entirely. Essek had never seen Caleb look so peaceful or so young as when he slept. He wondered what dreams were being conjured by that brilliant mind. Essek loved him. Truly and completely.

Essek could spend forever with this man in this bed. He could spend forever with the Mighty Nein. With his friends, his den, his real and true family. This was what a den was supposed to be. He belonged here and always would.

This was his den, their den, one made by choice, joined by love, unbreakably bonded.

This was his boyfriend, Caleb Widogast, and nothing could make Essek stop loving him.

Verin wasn’t wrong in saying they brought out the best in him, nor in telling him to stay with them. Essek hoped that maybe he brought out something in them too as they took him in with open arms. He could never articulate exactly how the Mighty Nein made him feel, certainly not in Common. He felt warm and weightless in a way that had nothing to do with gravity. The best he could do was love. They made him feel loved and he loved them all just as dearly back.

At 122 years old, Essek Thelyss finally understood what home was.

And with that thought he fell into the most peaceful sleep he had ever had.

Essek barely registered the sound of quick padding footfalls in the hallway. Indeed he assumed they were concocted by his own paranoia or left over from a fading dream. He was drifting off again when there was an urgent knock on the door. Essek pried his eyes open. For a moment the room was unfamiliar, but quickly his mind cleared and the whole of yesterday came back to him. Caleb, with his arm over Essek’s midsection, groaned next to him and curled up adorably and more tightly in on himself.

The knock returned and this time was accompanied by Jester’s voice, “Essek! Momma is having Bluud get breakfast for everyone and me and Veth were trying to think of what you would—”

Essek hadn’t thought to stop her from opening the door. He hadn’t considered she would want to. And hadn’t considered that it would be a very bad idea to let her in.

Jester threw open the door and for a moment quietly took in the scene before her. Caleb was awake now, eyes barely open, hair tangled and tousled, lying shirtless in Essek’s bed. Essek knew he could not look much better. It was impossible to wake up from sleep with any kind of grace. Essek raised his head and saw Jester’s face, her expression quickly morphing from shock to unbridled glee.

“Oh, nein…” rumbled Caleb, pulling the blanket over his head.

Almost at the same moment Jester gasped and shouted, “Oh! My! Gosh! Essek! Caleb! Did you guys have sex?! Are you having sex right now?!”

“Did they fuck?!” demanded Veth’s shrill voice from somewhere behind Jester.

“Totally!” Jester said.

“Fuck! That! Elf!” Veth chanted. “Way to go, Cay-Cay!” she added, appearing in the doorway.

Jester and Veth were still shouting about their perceived affair, both beaming with pride. Caleb groaned, a single discordant note from his blanket lair.

Essek heard the doors open in the hall. Footfalls.

“What are you yelling about?” grumbled Beau.

“Is everyone up?” asked Caduceus, sounding considerably more awake than Beau did or Essek felt.

“Who’s having sex?!” Mollymauk asked curiously.

“It’s too early for this,” said Fjord.

“‘Morning, Essek,” said Caduceus.

“Let me see!” said Mollymauk.

“What are we doing?” asked Yasha.

Faces were quickly materializing in the doorway and Essek thought Caleb might have had the right idea by hiding. Essek pulled the blankets over his head. He looked at Caleb and they shared an awkward grin, then burst out laughing. Essek buried his face in Caleb’s chest and wondered if he escaped execution only to die of embarrassment 24 hours later.

Chapter Text

Mollymauk surfaced from under the water with a triumphant splash, soaking Jester. She giggled and shrieked and used both arms to splash him back. Together they had swum a decent way out from shore, but not so far that Jester couldn’t touch bottom. Recently Fjord and Jester taught Molly that you didn’t go further out into the ocean than you could stand because of the undertow, Molly was not entirely sure what The Undertow was, but it sounded impressive enough to heed their advice. He had only just discovered the ocean, he did not plan on drowning in it.

Molly now understood why Fjord loved the ocean as much as he did. When they first met he assumed Fjord’s obsession with being a sailor and the sea was some kind of homesickness, but now Molly couldn’t blame his old roommate. As in awe of it as Molly had been when he first spotted the Lucidian Ocean, he liked it up close far more. He liked the beach; the sand between his toes and under his fingers, the smell of salt and sea life, he liked the sound and shape of the waves, the cunning gulls, the fish and crabs and molluscs that darted through the crystalline blue. There were so many colors here but they were against stable canvases of sand, sky, and sea. They felt safe again. He had already collected an array of shells, foggy sea-glass, and worn smooth stones to make into art and jewelry. He liked being in the water with its great unknown below and beyond; it was nice to know some things were unknown not only to him but to everyone. It was a mystery nobody could solve, so it couldn’t be taken away from him and turned to something ugly and true. He loved the way the surface of the water distorted and colored everything below it, like a good storyteller.

Lucien had never seen this place, his only experience with open water was that between Wildemount and Eiselcross, Molly knew that without knowing it. It was a fact that meant that the Lucidian was his and his alone. Another thing he liked very much.

Perhaps most of all Molly liked the blue-green eternity of it, expansive water as far as the eye could see, ending not in any sort of concrete finality but a bright horizon, the promise of more. The ocean might have been just about the most calming place he had ever experienced, in large part because it could not be contained even by the humanoid eye or mind. All of his fractured life he had been afraid of being enclosed, being locked away, being trapped. He had spent far too much time in cells, in graves, behind city walls, in the twisted mind of a madman wearing his face (or whose face he wore…).

When they were packing up to leave Rosohna Molly had been reluctant to leave behind the home of his people, Yasha had told him he would like the sea even more and, of course, she was right. Yasha knew his heart. Yasha was his heart.

And that thought gave him an idea.

“I need to go draw something before I forget,” he told Jester.

“Is this just a trick so you can dunk me again?” Jester asked.

“No!” Molly said. “Besides, my dear, you started the dunking,” he added, flicking his tail and a spray of water at her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jester sniffed haughtily, turning up her nose. Then in one quick motion she threw herself at Molly. He caught her and dragged them both underwater. Jester was able to get a hold of him and when she rose out of the water again she threw him back into the sea, roaring proudly, as he weighed nothing at all. That was another familiar thing, Jester was stronger than the gods themselves. Certainly stronger than her god and Luci the Wannabe.

As he surfaced Molly grabbed Jester and flipped them both over. He realized too late that he threw them both into a patch of deep green seaweed. The sea was clear as a window, so Jester must have known before Molly did that she was going face first into a glob, he only found out when he was in it.

Molly clawed through the kelp and popped back out of the water. He could feel a long piece of seaweed had gotten tangled around his horn and was now dangling down to sit atop his head like a wet noodle. Molly picked experimentally at it, but ultimately decided it was going to be part of the look for now.

Jester emerged a moment after he did, coughing. Her horns were still much smaller than Molly’s ramlike ones, however, they did corkscrew more than his, and she, too, had gotten some organic headgear in their underwater struggle. Molly cocked his head at her as she blew hard through her nose, eyes screwed shut.

“You got sea water in my nose,” she said hoarsely, as way of explanation.

“And seaweed in your horns,” said Molly as she started picking at it. Although some of it tore free some of it stuck fast and or had managed to evade her. It would require at least a mirror and a second pair of hands to get it all off.

“Aw, man,” said Jester.

“Don’t be so hard on it,” said Molly as Jester felt for seaweed along the curve of her horn.

“What do you mean?” Jester asked, as her claws slid on the slick kelp.

“It’s the latest tiefling fashion trend,” said Molly, throwing his head and the seaweed back like a ponytail. “All the rage on the Menagerie Coast.”

Jester giggled, “oh yeah! Chains and bells and tips are sooooo lame! Everybody who’s anybody is wearing seaweed! And live sea urchins!”

“Of course!” said Molly, although he had none to demonstrate. When he first spotted a whole hoard of them among the rocks by the shore Beau told him not to touch them because they were venomous. Molly hadn’t had the desire to touch something that seemed to be made of needles until Beau told him not to. But his better judgment had won out against his petulence. He may have been a fool, but he wasn’t an idiot.

“And you add, hmm…” Jester scrunched up her face trying to think of what to add.

“Coral, live, of course. You make more horns out of it,” provided Molly, using his fingers to mime where they might go.

“Only for the most discerning tieflings,” said Jester with mock importance.

“Oh, yes,” Molly replied in the same snooty tone. Then, in his normal voice, he added, “And we will need to continue this artistry when I get back.”

“Are you really going to draw something?!” Jester excitedly asked. “Can I see?!”

“When it’s finished!” Molly insisted.

“Then hurry up!” said Jester, hands on hips.

“Yes, ma’am!” said Molly with a showy bow deep enough to submerge him again and make Jester giggle. With that he raced back to shore.

He used his tail, one hand, and running legs to intentionally soak Beau as he passed her. She was slowly working her way into the water, shivering slightly from the combination of cold water and hot air. Really, she was presenting an invitation impossible to resist.

Beau yelped and then yelled after him, “Hey!” Molly just waved at her as he continued to the beach. “Fuck you, Molly!” Beau shouted.

“Fuck you, Beau!” Molly shouted back, over his shoulder. Once on the shore he quickly gave himself a once over with the violet and gold towel Marion had given him (she was another thing he loved about Nicodranas. Marion Lavorre was a treasure and a queen).

“Hi, welcome back, Molly,” said Yasha, “I was just about to join you and Beau.”

“He wasn’t with me, he was just being an asshole!” Beau shouted from the water’s edge.

Molly made a dismissive sound at Beau’s complaint, then said to Yasha, “I’ll be right back, I just want to draw something before I forget it.”

“Come on, babe,” said Beau, looking at Yasha as if she not only hung the moons in the sky but all the stars as well.

It was very sweet how much Beau and Yasha loved each other, how dedicated they were. However much Molly teased Beau, in truth, he was very glad Yasha was able to find the love she had been missing since losing Zuala. He knew almost from the first time he saw them speak that Yasha and Beau were going to be together, even if he didn’t know how intensely they would fall for each other. If Yasha asked, however, he would lie and say that he did, rather than assuming it would end up being a fling.

He didn’t know she would then, but was glad now, that Beau filled that void that Molly could not. He was grateful Beau loved Yasha as much as Molly did and Yasha seemed to love Beau the same. But that was another thing he would never let Beau know.

“Do you want me to wait?” Yasha asked, looking at Molly where he’d plopped down onto his towel. She knew better than anyone that he didn’t trust his memory, even less now than he had the first time around. There was too much Lucien and too much Something Else that had stuck to it like sand, too many blurry or missing pictures, too much, too tangled up. Safer just to call the whole thing unreliable — easier too!

“If you want to, but you don’t have to,” said Molly as he groped around in his bag for the scant art supplies he’d brought with him.

“I want to,” Yasha replied, sitting down on her towel. She began to run her hands through the sand, seeking the texture under her fingers. Molly felt a welling of fondness, gently headbutting her. Yasha smiled.

He regretted not wrapping himself up in the towel. He hadn’t had the patience to completely dry himself and now he was getting very cold. As Yasha had recently taught him, it was because he was a tiefling; his bloodline meant that he never really noticed the heat, but the cold was a nightmare.

Beau stomped out of the water and sullenly wrapped herself in her towel. “You suck and you have seaweed on your horn,” said Beau, trying to pick it off.

“It’s called fashion,” said Molly, moving his head out of her reach.

“Gross,” said Beau. “C’mon, Yash, let’s ditch him.”

“In a minute,” said Yasha.

Molly began to draw, forked tongue held between his teeth. He was focused on the page when Yasha stood up from her towel, shook it off, and draped it around Molly’s shoulders. She must have noticed his little shivers, goosebumps, or maybe something else that only Yasha would notice. He purred appreciatively as she sat beside him on his towel. He automatically shifted to make more room for her. Still, she was broad enough that when she sat cross-legged beside him one leg was sitting in the sand. Yasha didn’t mind, the two of them were used to sharing too cramped conditions.

“What are you drawing?” she asked, looking over his shoulder.

“You,” he said, looking up at her from his page. .

“Oh, let me move!” she said, moving to sit on the bare sand putting enough distance between them that he could see all of her. “Better?”

“That’ll do,” he said.

Molly had been blessedly busy lately. He dyed a couple of shirts black. He finished his new coat last night, or rather the canvas of it. It was still blank, waiting for his embroidery. He had started his new tarot deck and he found he didn’t mind starting again. It was fitting that he did, actually. He was starting everything else again, after all.

He knew what his first nine cards would be, one for every member of the Mighty Nein with each half displaying a different aspect of the subject. The backs of all nine waiting cards were painted with black gauche he mixed with glittery material so that it shone like stars. When he was finished he would use embroidery thread to create a diamond pattern through the black field. He had found some suitable pieces of driftwood that he was going to carve into small stamps; images of Catha and the sun. He’d stamp them onto the diamonds in gold and red and silver. He had considered doing the back in a complicated fractal but decided it would be too difficult to carve into the worn wood and still a little too fine for his hands to handle just yet. Soon, but not yet. So he stuck to the sun and moons and glittery black field.

Of course the backs were far less important than the fronts, the cards themselves. As he had told Jester, she was his first inspiration. He had sketched out Jester’s card and begun to color it using the paints she had bought him. The first of his infinite deck. He was quite proud of the card and its image, which was now held in his sketchbook (the first sketchbook he’d ever had) by a barrette.

The drawing was, in the simplest terms, a double sided Jester. It looked much like a face-card from a deck of playing cards, complete with her two halves facing in opposite directions. Molly’s “style” (as Jester called it) was blockier than Jester’s, more angular and less smooth. He thought in this case it was a positive trait.

One of the Jester heads/sides, the one facing to the right, showed her with her hand raised and cupped, holding a dick statue that would be painted sparkly pink. Her head was bowed reverently and she wore a green cloak. Taking up much of the card’s right side was another green robed figure. The hood of the cloak was thrown back, revealing a sharp smile, green eyes, and pointed chin and ears. His flowing red hair hung in wild locks, a few of which crossed into the left side of the frame. The careful viewer would realize that the Traveler’s cloak and Jester’s cloak were connected. The traveler had an arm held open to her, the other holding the chest of his cloak closed. Written across the top of the image in block letters were the words ‘The Maker of Gods.’

The other Jester, the opposite side of the card, facing left, had her head held high and her hands over her head, both of them wrapped around a pink sparkly spiky lollipop. The happy stoicism of the previous drawing was replaced by fire and fury. Perfectly mirroring “Artie” in position and pose was Lucien as he had been as the Neosomnovum (or as best as Molly could remember it). The Traveler’s hair was replaced by Lucien’s eyestalks. Where Artagen was reaching out a praising or blessing hand, palm open and flat, Lucien’s was tense and twisted and clawing at Jester. He was bloodied, a black crack already formed in his chest and where Artie had his hand on his robe, Lucien’s held the wall of his chest cavity. The mirrored title read ‘The Breaker of Gods.’

He also had a rough version of Caduceus’s card in his sketchbook, ready to be put onto its card now that Molly was happy with it.

Cad wasn’t double headed like Jester, instead the card showed the firbolg standing above a tiefling as they lay somewhere between life and death in a field of flowers. He looked like Molly remembered seeing him that first time, tall as a lighthouse, shining with bright light, staff in one hand and, here Molly took some creative liberty, the other high above his head. In real life Caduceus was not quite so dramatic and more exhausted and battered; although Molly only realized that after Jester’s Greater Restoration cleared his head a bit. Molly hadn’t made the possible corpse himself. Just another tiefling, pointedly with no scars, jewelry, or even much of a face. Caduceus’s calm expression was much more important: eyes looking down at his patient with his mouth kind but not quite smiling.

Where that image ended, overlaying the legs and tail of the tiefling, was the whole image again, upside down and…different. It was the same scene, only both figures were skeletons and the flowers were mushrooms. The fleshed side of the card was labeled ‘Life’, and, because every deck, like every life, needed (at least) one, the skeletal side was ‘Death’. Caduceus had been the calmest about Molly’s return and somehow been the most understanding about the whole thing, even if Molly would never ever take him up on the invitation to discuss it.

For Yasha it was going to highlight both how strong she was and how loving. How kind. The Yasha that strangers never saw, fooled her muscles and quiet demeanor. ‘Sinew’ and ‘Heart’.

He had a few ideas, which he was drawing now. One idea was a double-sided Yasha using the same muscles to flex as to hug. Another thought was to have her holding out a biological heart vs holding a symbolic one to her chest. Or he could have her armed with her sword and then with her harp. Or maybe a full Yasha split on the vertical axis rather than the horizontal, one skeletal wing with clinging muscle, one feathered, with a heart big in the center of her chest, half anatomical, half symbol. He just wanted to get it all down as quickly as he could so he could get back to bothering Jester and Beau.

“Do you need me to pose?” Yasha asked.

“No need, my dear,” said Molly, “just stay there and keep being perfect.”

“I can do that,” she said.

The other two members of their beach party — the Wizard Boyfriends — did not look up from where they were sitting. Not even as Beau plopped down on the corner of Caleb’s towel so she was now between Yasha and the Zemnian. Caleb and Essek were sitting below an enormous tasseled umbrella loaned to them by Jester’s mother. Essek was entirely clothed, wearing round glasses with dark lenses, with his parasol waiting folded beside him should he dare to leave the safety of the larger umbrella. He still had a rogue splotch of suncream on his cute little nose. Molly suspected he had not been made aware of it because Caleb was too charmed to tell him and risk Essek ruining the effect. Caleb himself was down to just his trousers, the cuffs rolled up above the ankle.

Both of the Wizard Boyfriends were leaning together over a book far too fat for the beach, muttering about Moonweaver-knew-what, but probably something very boring. To allow Essek to be completely shrouded by the umbrella, Caleb was partly in the sun and Molly could see that his exposed back and shoulder were already reddening.

“You look so hot,” Beau said to Yasha, admiring her as Molly drew.

“I know, but bless you for noticing all the same,” said Molly, pausing to bat his eyelashes at her.

“As if there is any reality where I meant you,” said Beau, rolling her eyes. “Draw faster. I want to kiss my girlfriend!”

Yasha leaned over and kissed Beau. The kiss was very chaste and brief, but that did not stop Molly from exaggeratedly faux-gagging. Yasha giggled softly as they came apart, eyes shining with joy as she looked at Beau and then Molly. “Sorry, Molly,” she said.

“No, you aren’t, but you’re both forgiven anyway,” Molly replied. He didn’t want her to actually think he was upset with her for being happy; facial expressions were not always enough for Yasha so he told her flat-out. For further proof he wasn’t actually cross, he wrapped his tail around her ankle, snug without being uncomfortable.

“You’re gonna have to suffer, Molly, I can’t help it,” said Beau, kissing Yasha on the cheek several times in rapid succession.

“This bathing suit is really working, huh?” Yasha flexed dramatically.

“Stay like that for a moment!” Molly said excitedly, cutting off whatever Beau was about to say. He had already sketched this pose, but seeing it in front of him allowed him to fill it out a bit, correct his mistakes. Jester said it was best to work from life.

“Okay?” she said, striking the pose, “like this?”

“Perfect, darling!”

“This is taking forever!” Beau groaned.

“Shush!” said Molly.

“Are you doing a whole-ass painting?!” Beau demanded.

“Shush, I say!” said Molly again before adding, “and no, just a drawing. A sketch, I’d bet Jester would call it.”

Beau didn’t complain again and for a short while there was only the scratching of graphite, muttered conversation amongst the two couples, and the sound of pages turning so frequently Molly would say the Wizard Boyfriends were only pretending to read if he hadn’t seen Caleb and now Essek speed through immense tomes and then turn around and repeat the nonsense inside.

When Molly was satisfied with the musculature he went to carefully write the name as it would eventually appear on the card. Caleb had taught him how to read and write Common his first time around. He was a very good teacher, but Molly was still very new to written language. He held his tongue between his teeth as he puzzled out the words he needed to write. He worked carefully to make sure the letters actually looked good. He wrote in block capitals not just because they were easiest but because he liked how they looked best. His first cards — what were now Jester’s cards — had had their titles written by Gustav and then by Yasha, with only the last three in his own inexact handwriting. This time he was in control of the words from the start. That felt powerful. That felt right. These were his.

T

H

E

He paused and tapped the pencil on the page.

“You got a problem?” Beau asked.

“I don’t know how to spell ‘heart’,” he said.

“I could tell you,” said Beau.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Molly. Then he cleared his throat and raised his voice, “Oh, Caleb!”

“Ja, how can I help, Mollymauk?” Caleb asked, without looking up from the page where Essek was dramatically pointing at something printed on it.

“How do you spell ‘heart’?”

“Did you sound it out?” Caleb asked.

“Yeah,” Molly lied.

“And?”

“And how do you spell ‘heart’?”

“Do you want to give it a try,” he asked without asking.

Molly thought for a moment, lips twisted. “H-A-R-R-T?” Molly tried.

“You are very close!” said Caleb.

“If you’re done talking down to me, Mr. Sunburn,” Molly said, flicking Caleb’s reddened shoulder with his tail.

Caleb winced and rubbed the spot, which made him wince again. “I am not trying to talk down to you! I apologize. You were genuinely very close. Much better than this time last year. H-E-A-R-T. That is the answer.”

“Oh,” Molly cocked his head, considering, “I was pretty close, wasn’t I?”

“H-A-R-T is how you spell the word for a deer,” said Caleb, one hand miming an antler, probably to indicate which sort of deer he meant. “It is the more logical spelling, I agree, but you can see how H-E-A-R-T spells it as well,” said Caleb.

“I’m going to disagree with you there,” said Beau. “Spelling is the fucking worst. H-E-A-R-T should spell Hee-rt. Two vowels go walking, you know?”

Everyone looked at her blankly, including the two Wizard Boyfriends, Caleb breaking his no eye contact habit and Essek looking up from the book for the first time in, Molly assumed, hours.

“Okay, maybe you don’t,” said Beau, glancing around at the sea of clueless faces.

“What happens when vowels go walking?” asked Yasha with obvious interest.

“‘The first one does the talking’,” said Beau.

“What the sweet fuck are you on about?” Molly asked.

Beau made a dismissive gesture, “it’s a rhyme they teach kids. It means that the first one gets voiced and the second one is just there. Like, you know…” she trailed off clearly struggling to think of an example.

“I do not,” said Molly.

Beau ignored him, “Like soul! Soul. S-O-U-L, you only say the O.”

“S-O-U-L could also be sool,” Caleb pointed out.

“Yeah! That’s why I’m saying spelling is the worst! Words can be spelled any fucking way some old dead academic decided they should be. It’s goddamn ivory tower bullshit,” said Beau. “That’s the point I was trying to get to. You can’t sound anything out in Common. Not reliably. It’s crazy to tell somebody to ‘sound it out’ because the rules never apply.”

“Ja, that is fair, I think. When it comes to spelling Common is very...hmm…” Caleb seemed to be searching for the right word.

“‘Stupid?’” Essek supplied, looking up from the book again, raising his eyebrows and grinning his fanged grin.

“I was trying to say it more delicately, but, yes, stupid is a good word for it.”

“Fair enough,” said Molly, who had found spelling counterintuitive.

“Is spelling easier in Undercommon?” asked Yasha.

“Undercommon and Zemnian both have the decency to be phonetic,” Essek replied.

“The way I see it, if your writing can be understood then it’s fine,” said Beau. “Anything else is snobbery and gatekeeping.”

“You get annoyed if an author misplaces a semicolon,” Caleb reminded her.

“Sure, but I shouldn’t,” said Beau.

“They’re your cards, Molly, are they not?” Essek asked.

“Yeah, ’course they are,” he replied.

“Then spell it however you like or write it in Infernal, they belong to you, after all,” said Essek.

Molly considered that, tail thrashing up sand. Having it in Infernal, a language only not all of the population understood, would have the advantage when doing a reading, he could pretend it said whatever he wanted at that moment. But the titles also called things to people’s minds. And, well, they were for the Mighty Nein. They all shared Common. Besides, he put effort into the names, they wouldn’t sound the same in Infernal. They were his cards, so Common it would be.

“No, I would like it in Common,” he said.

“Suit yourself,” Essek shrugged.

“Am I the heart?” Yasha asked Molly, peering over his sketchbook. “I know I was ‘Love’ last time.”

“This time you’re the heart,” Molly said. He leaned up and kissed her cheek, “because you are full of love and I couldn’t live without you.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I can live without you, but it is very sad and very difficult. So don’t die again.”

“I’ll try my damndest,” said Molly.

Molly looked over his sketches and the blank pages that followed. They were empty, but they didn’t feel Empty. They felt…hopeful. For now they were blank, and Molly had no idea what to do with them, but maybe that was okay. He had a whole new lifetime with his family to fill them.

Beginnings were good, he decided. They were full of energy and promise. His coat and cards were blank, waiting to be filled, just like the future. And for the first time that emptiness was not frightening. They would be filled, because he would fill them.

For the first time in a long time, perhaps the first time ever, Mollymauk Tealeaf was excited about the future.