The dead had gotten worse.
That was saying something.
Oisdara still hung at the hollow edge of the First Universe, where galaxies frayed into silver threads and dying stars collapsed without anyone left alive to mourn them.
The Ossuary Stage remained exactly where it had always been.
Crooked.
Half-ruined.
Beautiful in the way graves sometimes were.
Its balconies leaned over the void like broken ribs.
Lanterns filled with bottled final breaths burned along the aisles, each flame trembling whenever something far beyond the theater died.
And the audience...
Well.
They had been waiting.
Again.
One corpse sat perfectly upright in the front row with its own skull resting politely in its lap.
Every few seconds, the skull's jaw clicked open.
Then shut.
Open.
Shut.
As though practicing applause.
Beside it, another dead god had apparently grown bored enough to gnaw thoughtfully on something long and red that had probably belonged inside someone else's chest.
Two seats down, a headless body kept turning toward the stage whenever the others moved.
It had no reason to.
Hela appreciated the commitment.
A wet cough came from the upper balcony.
Something fell over.
Nobody checked.
Then—
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Heels against bone.
Several dead heads turned.
One rolled off its shoulders entirely.
It hit the floor.
Bounced twice.
Stopped facing the aisle.
A woman stepped over it without looking down.
Hela Grimm had returned.
Not summoned.
Not announced.
No explosion of cosmic fire.
No dramatic birth from shadow.
She simply walked in like the theater belonged to her.
Because it did.
Black silk whispered around her legs.
Bone ornaments clicked softly against one another as she moved.
Long dark hair spilled over her shoulders like smoke that had forgotten how to rise.
The cracked raven-skull mask covered the upper half of her face, its pale bone scarred and threaded with old gold.
Behind it—
two violet eyes burned with unmistakable amusement.
She paused beside the corpse chewing on the organ.
Looked down.
The corpse slowly stopped chewing.
Hela tilted her head.
"...Really?"
The corpse looked at what it was holding.
Then toward the corpse beside it.
Then back at Hela.
Very slowly...
It lowered the organ.
"Good."
She continued walking.
The audience rustled.
Bones shifted.
Something clapped once.
The arm fell off.
Hela reached the center of the stage.
Stopped.
Turned.
And smiled directly at the reader.
"Well, well."
Her voice rolled through the theater like velvet dragged across a knife.
"There you are."
A corpse in the third row waved.
Hela stared at it.
"Not you."
The corpse lowered its hand.
"Honestly."
She sighed.
"You leave the dead unattended for a few volumes and suddenly they develop personalities."
A jaw dropped somewhere in the audience.
Literally.
Hela ignored it.
She drifted toward her throne of interlocked bones and lowered herself into it with practiced elegance.
One leg crossed over the other.
Her chin settled against two pale fingers.
She studied the darkness beyond the stage.
Studied us.
Then smiled wider.
"It has been quite some time since we last met here, hasn't it?"
A few corpses shifted.
Hela lifted one finger.
"No."
"Don't answer."
"I know."
She tapped one long nail against the arm of her throne.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
"Much has happened."
The lantern flames dimmed.
Behind her, the darkness rippled.
Not like a curtain.
Like memory being skinned open.
Hela glanced back.
"Where did we leave him?"
She hummed thoughtfully.
"The God of Nothing..."
A shadow formed.
Qaritas.
Younger.
Exhausted.
Still uncertain of his own power.
"...dragged through universes."
Another image.
The Hellbound.
Blood.
Chains.
The arena.
Ayla.
Hela's smile thinned.
"...learning that family can be considerably more dangerous than enemies."
The memory changed.
The Third Universe.
Vorakhyrn.
Yzer.
The silver cloak.
A nine-year-old girl trembling beneath blankets.
Black hair.
One pink eye.
One red.
Always looking toward exits.
Always calculating.
Always ready to run.
The woman in the throne watched the image for a moment longer than the others.
Her amusement faded.
Only slightly.
Then she flicked two fingers.
The memory shattered.
"Then came the Labyrinth."
Another image.
White flames.
Lava.
Fungal colonies.
Wisper exploding into blood.
Goro rising from an abyss.
Yrtana.
A birthday cake.
A child laughing.
A serpent kneeling.
A Book floating over a feast.
Letters burning themselves onto parchment.
TEN YEARS.
Hela leaned back.
"Ah."
"There it is."
One corpse clapped enthusiastically.
Its other arm fell off.
Hela glanced toward it.
"...You should really conserve those."
The corpse looked at its remaining shoulder.
Then stopped moving.
"Much better."
Her violet gaze returned to us.
"Ten years."
She let the words breathe.
"Such a terribly dramatic number to mortals."
A shrug.
"To creatures like us?"
She clicked her tongue.
"Hardly enough time to finish a good grudge."
The dead murmured.
Something hissed.
Hela smiled.
"But..."
One finger rose.
"...ten years can be cruelly efficient."
Behind her—
Nine-year-old Xheavend appeared.
Small.
Cake on her face.
Holding Goro's gift.
Laughing.
The image blurred.
Stretched.
Changed.
Longer limbs.
Older face.
Warrior's posture.
The child's softness sharpened.
The laughter faded.
Hela watched.
"Children grow."
Another image appeared.
Qaritas.
Scarred less.
Still relying on Eon's warnings.
Still learning.
Ten years that's all it took.
For a body to be mapped in scars.
A gaze no longer searching for permission.
Darkness moving around him as though it had finally remembered who owned it.
"Monsters learn."
A third image.
Goro.
Smiling.
Watching both of them.
Training them.
Breaking them.
Teaching them.
Making them stand again.
Hela's grin returned.
"And gods..."
The lanterns guttered.
"...become very dangerous things."
The images vanished.
The stage darkened again.
Hela leaned forward in her throne.
"Qaritas entered the Third Universe believing he was learning how to survive it."
She tapped one finger against the bone beneath her.
"He wasn't."
"He was learning how to belong to it."
A pause.
"And that..."
Her voice softened.
"...may prove considerably harder to survive."
The theater fell silent.
Even the organ-eater stopped chewing.
Hela tilted her head.
"Shall we see what ten years did to our little nightmare?"
A grin.
"No?"
She waved dismissively.
"Too bad."
Her finger curled.
The entire Ossuary Stage folded inward.
Bone.
Lanterns.
Dead gods.
Stars.
Everything collapsed into the pupil of her violet eye.
Then—
blackness.
Nothing moved.
Nothing breathed.
Nothing existed except darkness.
Then—
click.
A small sound.
Far away.
Another.
click.
Closer.
Then—
skittering.
Rapid.
Wet.
Twenty claws scraped against stone.
Something crawled through the cavern.
Long.
Low.
Reptilian.
Its narrow body stretched nearly twelve feet from snout to tail, suspended upon ten legs on either side.
Twenty limbs moved in synchronized waves.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
Its translucent hide glowed from within.
Not beautifully.
Sickly.
Blue-green luminescence crawled through branching veins beneath the skin, illuminating black organs contracting within its chest.
Its spine shone like a row of submerged lanterns.
Every breath exposed the movement of its lungs.
Every heartbeat flashed beneath its ribs.
Its head remained low.
Searching.
A forked tongue slid between rows of needle teeth.
Tasting.
Listening.
Hunting.
Something had entered its territory.
It knew.
It simply couldn't find it.
The creature stopped.
All twenty legs froze.
Its head lifted.
The glowing eyes along its jawline opened one by one.
Two.
Four.
Eight.
Sixteen.
They searched every corner of the cavern.
Nothing.
The creature hissed.
Silence answered.
Then—
SHNK.
Five legs hit the ground.
Perfectly severed.
No warning.
No visible blade.
One moment they were attached.
The next—
they weren't.
Black blood sprayed across the cavern wall.
The creature screamed.
Its body collapsed sideways.
Remaining claws scraped desperately across stone.
It spun toward the attack.
Nothing stood there.
Only darkness.
The darkness shifted.
Barely.
Not a shadow cast by the creature's glow.
Something beneath the shadow.
Something using it.
The beast lunged.
Its jaws snapped shut.
Nothing.
Then—
SHNK.
Another leg fell.
The creature twisted.
SHNK.
Another.
It shrieked.
Its luminescent organs flashed wildly beneath translucent skin.
The darkness slid behind it.
The creature whipped its tail.
Stone shattered.
Nothing was struck.
Then a man appeared.
Not gradually.
Not dramatically.
He simply...
was.
Standing beside the creature's exposed ribs.
Older.
Scarred.
Calm.
Qaritas.
The silver cloak still rested across his shoulders, though he barely seemed to need it anymore.
Darkness curled around his boots like smoke beneath water.
His weapon rested loosely in one hand.
He looked at the creature.
Tilted his head.
Then—
swung.
One clean movement.
The blade entered beneath the ribs.
Turned.
Cut upward.
Like filleting a fish.
The creature screamed.
Qaritas vanished.
Reappeared above it.
Another slash.
A section of glowing spine separated cleanly.
Gone again.
Behind it.
Slice.
Turn.
Step.
Disappear.
The creature spun uselessly, snapping at places he no longer occupied.
Qaritas appeared beneath its jaw.
"You're very loud."
The creature lunged.
He leaned aside.
Barely.
The teeth missed his cheek by less than an inch.
His blade moved once.
The head separated.
For a moment—
the body remained standing.
Then all fifteen remaining legs buckled.
The creature collapsed.
Black blood spread across the stone.
Its inner glow flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Out.
Silence returned.
Qaritas stood over it.
No heavy breathing.
No shaking.
No relief.
He simply flicked the blood from his weapon.
"...Better."
THUNK.
A stone struck the back of his skull.
"Ow!"
Qaritas lurched forward.
His hand immediately flew to his head.
"What in—"
A gravelly voice came from somewhere behind him.
"Sloppy."
Qaritas froze.
Slowly...
He turned.
"I killed it."
"Ugly."
"It's dead."
"Still ugly."
Qaritas stared into the darkness.
"...Are you criticizing the murder?"
"No."
A cane tapped against stone.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
"I am criticizing the performance."
A figure emerged from the cavern.
Five feet six inches tall.
Covered in thick black-and-white fur.
Ratlike.
Old.
Golden eyes shone beneath heavy brows.
One ear bore several old tears along its edge.
His whiskers had gone silver with age.
A crooked wooden cane rested in one hand, its surface carved with hundreds of tiny symbols Qaritas still hadn't managed to decipher despite four years of asking.
The fur along his left leg was uneven.
Large patches simply...
missing.
Old scar tissue showed beneath.
Qaritas had asked what happened.
Once.
Twice.
At least twenty-seven times.
Master Cino had given him twenty-seven different answers.
None believable.
Once—
he claimed a moon ate it.
Another time—
he blamed aggressive soup.
Qaritas had stopped asking.
Mostly.
Cino stopped beside the dead creature.
Looked down.
Poked it with his cane.
Then poked Qaritas's boot.
"Your third cut was unnecessary."
"It was still moving."
"So were you."
"That's generally helpful during combat."
"Not the way you do it."
Qaritas folded his arms.
"You threw a rock at me."
"You noticed."
"With my skull."
"Your skull required instruction."
Qaritas closed his eyes.
Counted to three.
Didn't help.
"I hate training with you."
Cino nodded.
"Good."
A tiny sound came from somewhere on Cino's shoulder.
"Mrrrp."
Qaritas's eyes narrowed.
"Oh, no."
Something climbed out from behind Cino's collar.
Small.
Ridiculously small.
A catlike creature no larger than two and a half inches stretched atop the old master's shoulder.
Four tiny paws.
Dark gray fur.
Large silver eyes.
A tail nearly twice the length of its body.
Mr. M.
The creature stared directly at Qaritas.
Qaritas stared back.
"...Don't."
Mr. M yawned.
Then jumped.
"Absolutely not."
The tiny animal landed on Qaritas's chest.
Climbed his tunic.
Settled on his shoulder.
Curled into a ball.
And immediately began purring.
Qaritas looked offended.
"I thought we agreed we hated each other."
Mr. M's eyes closed.
Cino continued walking.
"He agreed to nothing."
"He bites me."
"You deserve it."
"He stole half my dinner yesterday."
"You were eating too slowly."
Qaritas followed.
"He's been the same size for four years."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Cino walked faster.
"What is he?"
Cino tapped his cane against the stone.
"Cat."
"That is not a cat."
"Mrrrp."
Qaritas pointed at the tiny creature currently asleep against his neck.
"Look at him."
"I am."
"That is suspicious."
"Everything is suspicious to you."
"Because everything here tries to kill me."
Cino stopped.
Turned.
His golden eyes narrowed.
"Not everything."
Qaritas raised one brow.
Four years earlier...
He had made the mistake of saying—
Maybe Goro should eat you.
Three minutes later...
He was lying face-down in the dirt.
Cino standing on his back.
Cane pressed against the base of his skull.
Goro had been nearby.
Watching.
Smiling.
Doing absolutely nothing.
Qaritas remained convinced Goro had mouthed—
Hit him again.
Neither of them ever admitted it.
Qaritas pointed accusingly at Cino.
"You tried."
"I taught."
"You broke three ribs."
"You had too many."
"That's not how ribs work."
"You're alive."
"...Unfortunately."
Cino turned away.
"Then the lesson succeeded."
Qaritas followed him into the dark.
Mr. M purred against his shoulder.
The dead creature slowly disappeared behind them.
And for the first time in ten years—
there was no voice inside Qaritas telling him which direction to move.
No—
Left.
No—
Duck.
No—
Jump.
Eon had not spoken in a decade.
Yet Qaritas walked forward anyway.
Qaritas followed Cino deeper through the cavern.
Mr. M remained curled against his shoulder as if he had paid rent there.
Which was offensive.
Mostly because the tiny creature was warm.
Comfortable.
And purring directly against one of the uglier scars near Qaritas's collarbone.
Cino's cane struck the stone in a steady rhythm.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Every sound echoed through the dark.
Qaritas rolled one shoulder, feeling old scar tissue pull beneath his shirt.
Ten years.
He still couldn't decide whether that sounded impossibly long...
or not nearly long enough.
The Qaritas who had first entered the Third Universe would barely recognize him now.
That Qaritas had been younger.
Softer.
Not weak.
Never weak.
But unfinished.
He had depended upon Eon constantly.
Directions.
Warnings.
Corrections.
A second voice behind every decision.
Left.
Duck.
Jump.
Run.
That version of himself had once clung desperately to Goro's enormous serpent form while trying very hard not to fall into an abyss.
Now...
Qaritas walked through darkness without looking at the floor.
He didn't need to.
His steps knew where stone ended.
His body knew where danger breathed.
And every inch of him carried proof of how he had learned.
A pale burn scar crossed the underside of his jaw.
Narath fire.
Month nineteen.
He'd discovered that "fire resistant" and "fireproof" were not remotely the same thing.
A curved bite mark wrapped around his left shoulder.
A subterranean predator whose name Qaritas still refused to pronounce because Cino kept correcting him.
Three thin blade scars crossed his ribs.
Mistress Sra.
She claimed they had been "educational."
Qaritas maintained that she had simply been irritated.
A cluster of puncture scars dotted one thigh.
Poison needles.
A long white claw mark ran from his right hip toward his spine.
One of Yrtana's hunters had apologized afterward.
Very politely.
Then there were the scars Goro had given him.
Those were different.
Deeper.
Cleaner.
Deliberate.
A line across his abdomen where a poisoned fang had opened him nearly to the muscle.
A circular burn over one shoulder blade from venom so corrosive it had eaten through armor before touching skin.
Four narrow marks across his chest from something Goro had released into a training chamber without explaining what it was.
Qaritas still did not know what it was.
Goro continued to refuse to tell him.
Apparently mystery built character.
According to Goro, almost everything built character.
Near death.
Poison.
Starvation.
Broken bones.
Falling.
Being buried alive.
Qaritas suspected Goro simply enjoyed watching him suffer.
Not maliciously.
Educationally.
Which somehow made it worse.
Cino stopped.
Qaritas nearly walked into him.
The old rat looked up.
His golden eyes narrowed.
"Your fourth movement was too heavy."
Qaritas sighed.
"We are still discussing that?"
"We will continue discussing it until you stop doing it."
"I killed the creature."
"Power is not your problem."
Qaritas's head fell backward.
He already knew what was coming.
"Grace."
"Yes."
"Goro says the same thing."
Cino tapped his cane against the floor.
"Then perhaps someday you will listen."
Qaritas stared.
"Do all ancient masters take lessons in being irritating?"
"Only the gifted ones."
Mr. M chirped approvingly.
Qaritas looked toward the tiny creature on his shoulder.
"You stay out of this."
Mr. M closed his eyes.
Traitor.
Cino continued walking.
Qaritas followed.
"You know," Qaritas muttered, "ten years ago I would have thought killing something without being seen was impressive."
"Ten years ago you were an idiot."
Qaritas almost smiled.
Almost.
Then—
he did.
Because unfortunately...
Cino was right.
The cavern gradually widened.
Natural stone gave way to old carved pathways.
Small markers appeared along the walls.
Names.
Symbols.
Training houses.
Shrines.
Workshops.
Every path leading toward Yrtana seemed connected to someone who had taught Qaritas something.
That realization still stunned him sometimes.
More than a thousand masters.
Not soldiers.
Not warriors.
Teachers.
That distinction had taken Qaritas years to understand.
At first...
he assumed Goro was creating a fighter.
Then he assumed they were preparing a commander.
Eventually—
he realized they were preparing something much more annoying.
A king.
He hated thinking about that.
Mostly because kings apparently needed to know everything.
Everything.
Qaritas could now roast meat without setting the kitchen on fire.
Usually.
He could stitch torn clothing.
Repair leather.
Build a shelter capable of surviving volcanic rain.
Sharpen tools.
Forge basic weapons.
Identify twenty-seven varieties of poisonous moss.
Only nineteen of which had personally poisoned him.
He could track animals across stone.
Hunt.
Fish.
Butcher.
Preserve food.
Plant crops.
Recognize diseased soil.
Manage irrigation.
Negotiate trade prices.
Read supply ledgers.
Calculate taxation.
Manage grain reserves.
Identify corruption in administrative records.
Draft treaties.
Break treaties.
Recognize when someone else intended to break one first.
He knew military formations used by cultures whose bodies had four legs.
Six legs.
Wings.
No legs whatsoever.
He could give orders underwater.
In total darkness.
In languages he had never known existed before arriving.
He had studied architecture.
Medicine.
Economics.
Law.
Politics.
Etiquette.
Religious customs.
Funeral rites.
Marriage customs.
Diplomacy.
Poison.
Antidotes.
Monster anatomy.
Navigation.
Engineering.
Metalworking.
Music.
Carpentry.
Construction.
Weapon repair.
How to address emperors.
How to address farmers.
And, according to one particularly aggressive grandmother...
how to properly fold napkins.
Qaritas had protested.
She beat him with a wooden spoon.
Goro watched that too.
Naturally.
At some point during year six, Qaritas had finally asked him:
"Why?"
Goro's response had been simple.
A ruler who only understands armies eventually rules a graveyard.
That ended the argument.
Mostly.
Qaritas still believed napkin folding was excessive.
Cino glanced back.
"You are thinking."
"Dangerous, I know."
"Rare."
"Very funny."
"What are you thinking about?"
Qaritas looked at the countless paths ahead.
"My teachers."
Cino grunted.
"All of us?"
"There are too many of you."
"There are never too many teachers."
"There are when they all assign work."
Cino's whiskers twitched.
"You survived."
"Barely."
"Then the curriculum was appropriate."
Qaritas groaned.
Cino's cane struck the stone again.
"Goro did not gather a thousand warriors to teach you."
Qaritas looked over.
"No?"
"He gathered a thousand lives."
The words slowed him.
Cino continued.
"You must understand what people build before you decide what deserves destruction."
A pause.
"You must understand hunger before commanding harvest."
"Pain before commanding soldiers."
"Trade before demanding tax."
"Grief before asking sacrifice."
"Labor before expecting loyalty."
Qaritas said nothing.
Cino finally looked toward him.
"A conqueror learns how civilizations fall."
"A king learns why they stand."
That one stayed with him.
Qaritas nodded.
"Fine."
Cino raised one brow.
"Fine?"
"That was actually good."
"Of course it was."
"You ruined it."
"Good."
They continued toward Yrtana.
The first familiar voice reached him before the person did.
"You are late."
Qaritas stopped.
"Oh no."
Cino smiled.
Not kindly.
Qaritas slowly turned.
Mistress Sra stood beneath a hanging arch of crystal roots.
Ancient.
Elegant.
Dangerous.
Jewel-like brilliance flashed beneath her golden-brown skin whenever nearby gemstones reacted to her presence.
Her eyes resembled polished amber cut through with shards of emerald.
Around her neck hung enough enchanted stones to purchase several kingdoms.
None were decorative.
Qaritas had learned that lesson painfully.
Once.
She wore layered robes of deep crimson and black woven through with fine metallic thread.
At least twelve hidden storage charms hung somewhere inside those folds.
Possibly fifty.
Nobody knew.
Sra definitely knew.
She simply enjoyed refusing to answer.
She looked Qaritas up and down.
Then at the blood on his clothing.
"You made a mess."
"I killed something."
"That does not explain your inability to avoid stains."
Cino nodded.
"Grace."
Qaritas pointed between them.
"Absolutely not."
Sra ignored him.
Her gaze landed on Mr. M.
"Hello, darling."
Mr. M immediately lifted his head.
Purred.
Qaritas looked offended.
"You like her?"
"Everyone likes me."
"That is objectively false."
Sra smiled.
"Only unpleasant people dislike me."
"Exactly."
She stepped closer.
Then held something out.
A tiny spool.
Almost unimpressive.
Gray thread wrapped around a black spindle.
Qaritas stared.
His eyes narrowed.
"No."
Sra's expression remained innocent.
"What?"
"Is that—"
"Vaeshir."
Qaritas looked at her.
Then the spool.
Then her again.
"Where did you get that?"
"My house."
Silence.
"You had some?"
"Yes."
"For how long?"
Sra thought.
"Several centuries."
Qaritas's face went blank.
"I spent three weeks looking for Vaeshir Thread."
"I remember."
"I nearly got eaten twice."
"Three times."
"You knew?"
"Yes."
"And you had this?"
Sra slipped one hand into her robes.
Pulled out another spool.
Then another.
Then four more.
"I have several."
Qaritas stared at the collection.
"Several?"
"Yes."
"I nearly died looking for this!"
Sra looked genuinely puzzled.
"That sounds like poor planning."
Cino coughed.
Suspiciously similar to laughter.
Qaritas looked toward him.
"Do not encourage her."
Sra tucked the thread away.
"You needed to learn how to recognize it."
"You could have shown me one!"
"And deprived you of experience?"
"Yes!"
"Unacceptable."
Qaritas rubbed his face.
Rhazeth.
He would never understand them.
Sra had taught him that treasure rarely meant gold.
Sometimes treasure was a weapon.
Sometimes a book.
Sometimes a map.
Sometimes a secret.
Sometimes a broken object worth nothing to everyone except the civilization that had made it.
She had taught him how to listen to relics.
How to sense magic stored in gemstones.
How to recognize enchantments by the way nearby materials reacted.
How to determine whether an artifact was sleeping...
or pretending.
Most importantly—
she had taught him the first rule of ancient treasure.
Do not touch it.
The second rule:
Seriously.
Do not touch it.
Qaritas had broken both rules frequently.
Sra tapped his chest with one finger.
"You still owe me an appraisal."
"For what?"
She produced a tiny black box.
It whispered.
Qaritas immediately stepped backward.
"No."
"You haven't opened it."
"It whispered my childhood nickname."
Cino stopped.
Sra tilted her head.
"Interesting."
"No."
"That makes it more interesting."
"That makes it cursed."
"Sometimes those are the same thing."
Qaritas continued walking.
"Find another student."
"I have."
"Good."
"They all died."
Qaritas stopped.
Sra smiled.
"Tomorrow?"
"Absolutely not."
"Excellent. Tomorrow."
A few streets later...
Someone stood waiting beneath a pale mushroom canopy.
Qaritas recognized him immediately.
Master Inemio.
Calling him humanoid was generous.
His body resembled a nervous system removed from something enormous and taught how to walk.
Bundles of luminous nerves twisted together into arms and legs.
There was no skin.
No traditional muscle.
No blood.
Only branching networks of fiber through which light pulsed like thought made visible.
Tiny sparks jumped between exposed synapses.
Blue.
Gold.
White.
Every few seconds—
one flashed crimson.
Inemio turned toward Qaritas.
No mouth.
No eyes.
Yet Qaritas felt seen.
A hand lifted.
Qaritas immediately raised both of his.
"No."
Inemio tilted his head.
Cino kept walking.
Coward.
Qaritas shook his head.
"You are not touching me today."
Inemio extended one finger.
"No."
Another step.
"I said no."
The fingertip touched Qaritas's wrist.
The world shattered.
Pain.
Not Qaritas's.
Someone else's.
Birth.
Heat.
Hunger.
A broken leg at age six.
A mother's death.
Falling from a cliff.
First love.
First battle.
Three broken ribs.
A son being born.
A daughter dying.
War.
Peace.
Old age.
Regret.
Joy.
Everything.
An entire life crushed into less than a heartbeat.
Qaritas ripped his arm away.
Gasped.
Stone rushed back beneath his feet.
Inemio remained perfectly still.
Qaritas breathed once.
Twice.
"You could say hello normally."
Light flickered along Inemio's nerves.
Qaritas had learned enough of his language to recognize amusement.
"You did that on purpose."
Another flicker.
Definitely amusement.
Inemio had taught him pain.
Not how to endure it.
Qaritas had already known endurance.
Goro made certain of that.
Inemio taught him something harder.
Understanding it.
Pain changed decisions.
Fear narrowed thought.
Injury altered balance.
Trauma changed reactions long after wounds healed.
And torture...
was often useless.
People would say almost anything to make suffering stop.
Truth became secondary to relief.
Inemio had once told Qaritas through shared sensation:
If you want truth, give someone a reason to speak.
If you want obedience, hurt them.
Do not mistake the two.
Qaritas never forgot it.
Neither did he forget another lesson.
Some suffering never announced itself.
Some people smiled while drowning.
Inemio taught him to notice.
Qaritas rubbed his wrist.
"You're still horrible."
Inemio's synapses flashed warmly.
"See you tomorrow."
Another pulse.
Qaritas sighed.
"Yes. I know."
They made it another hundred feet before reality flickered.
Qaritas stopped.
Cino didn't.
Sra didn't.
Inemio didn't.
Nobody reacted.
Qaritas slowly looked toward the wall.
Half a face stared back.
Only half.
One cheek.
One eye.
Half a mouth.
The rest simply...
didn't exist.
Then the eye disappeared.
Three more opened along the wall.
One upside down.
One sideways.
One where no eye should reasonably be.
Qaritas closed his eyes.
"Vulmere."
The wall answered.
"Late."
"Everyone keeps saying that."
A hand appeared from empty air.
Then vanished.
A leg emerged from the ceiling.
Another face formed near the floor.
Master Vulmere finally stepped out of the stone.
Mostly.
His body never seemed fully committed to existence.
His left arm flickered between solid flesh and translucent distortion.
Half his chest phased in and out.
His face continuously changed depending upon which part of reality managed to hold onto it.
Sometimes he had six eyes.
Sometimes one.
Sometimes none.
He always saw.
Qaritas hated that.
Vulmere leaned sideways.
Farther.
Farther.
Until anatomy should have forced him to fall.
It didn't.
"You relied upon vision."
Qaritas frowned.
"When?"
"Earlier."
"You weren't there."
"I was."
"Where?"
Vulmere pointed behind Qaritas.
Qaritas turned.
Nothing.
When he looked back—
Vulmere stood beside him.
"Here."
Qaritas flinched.
Vulmere smiled.
Maybe.
Half his mouth was missing.
"Still predictable."
"You are deeply irritating."
"Prediction means survival."
"For normal creatures."
"Fragments are not normal creatures."
That killed the joke.
Qaritas became still.
Vulmere's body flickered again.
An arm disappeared.
Returned from a different angle.
"Reality lies."
He tapped Qaritas's forehead.
"Senses lie."
Another tap.
"Patterns lie."
His hand vanished before the third.
"Learn what remains when all three fail."
That had been Vulmere's lesson for six years.
Unpredictability.
Space.
Absence.
Instability.
Fighting creatures whose bodies changed during combat.
Attacking something that wasn't fully present.
Recognizing movement without relying on shape.
Knowing when the floor might become a wall.
When distance might collapse.
When an enemy's missing arm might actually be behind you.
Essentially—
Vulmere taught Qaritas how to fight nightmares.
Which made him excellent preparation for the Fragments.
Vulmere stepped sideways.
His entire body disappeared.
His voice remained.
"Tomorrow."
Qaritas sighed.
"Everyone wants me tomorrow."
From nowhere:
"You are popular."
Sra smiled.
"He has a fan club."
Qaritas stopped walking.
"No."
Cino's whiskers twitched.
"Oh yes."
Qaritas slowly looked toward the distant glow of Yrtana.
"I hate all of you."
Mr. M purred happily against his neck.
And together...
they continued home.
The glow of Yrtana appeared long before the city itself.
At first—
only blue light between black stone.
Then gold.
Then emerald.
Then the enormous underground lake opened before them, its surface reflecting thousands of crystal lanterns suspended from bridges, balconies, temple roofs, market awnings, and towering pillars.
Home.
Qaritas still wasn't entirely comfortable calling it that.
Which was probably why the word came so easily now.
Cino walked beside him.
Sra had already disappeared down another street, carrying enough forbidden artifacts beneath her robes to cause at least three international incidents.
Inemio had wandered toward the healing district.
Vulmere had vanished.
Literally.
Mr. M remained asleep against Qaritas's shoulder.
Everything felt normal.
Dangerously normal.
Then—
"LORD Q!"
Qaritas stopped walking.
Slowly...
very slowly...
he closed his eyes.
"No."
Cino grinned.
Qaritas heard the cane tap once beside him.
"Oh yes."
Tiny footsteps thundered toward them.
He opened his eyes.
Six children came sprinting across the nearest bridge.
Then nine.
Then twelve.
One had wings.
Another had four arms.
One was covered in little sapphire scales.
Another appeared to be mostly fur with enormous yellow eyes.
All of them were shouting.
"LORD Q!"
"HE'S BACK!"
"Q!"
"MASTER Q!"
"LORD Q!"
Qaritas immediately pointed at the last child.
"Absolutely not."
The little girl skidded to a stop.
She blinked up at him.
"...What?"
"Don't call me Lord."
She looked confused.
"But you're Lord Q."
"No."
"Everyone calls you that."
"They shouldn't."
"...Why?"
"Because I'm not a lord."
She considered this.
Then shouted over her shoulder—
"LORD Q SAYS HE'S NOT A LORD!"
Several nearby merchants burst into laughter.
Qaritas's shoulders dropped.
"That was not the important part."
Cino was enjoying this far too much.
The children surrounded him.
One grabbed his hand.
Another tugged at his cloak.
Mr. M woke, looked at the approaching chaos, and wisely climbed onto Qaritas's head.
Coward.
A boy with little antlers held up a wooden figurine.
Qaritas stared.
It was supposed to be him.
Supposed to be.
The proportions were...
generous.
Its shoulders were enormous.
Its waist ridiculously narrow.
Someone had painted its hair silver.
And for reasons Qaritas could not understand—
it had six abdominal muscles carved directly through the armor.
He looked at the boy.
Then the figurine.
"...What is that?"
The child gasped.
"It's you!"
"No."
"It is!"
"I don't look like that."
The boy frowned at the figurine.
Then at Qaritas.
"You should."
Cino actually snorted.
Qaritas glared at him.
"This is your fault somehow."
"I have done nothing."
"That's never stopped you."
Another child shoved something toward Qaritas.
A cloth banner.
It featured a black silhouette wearing a silver cloak while purple stars surrounded him.
Across the bottom someone had embroidered:
LORD Q — THE GHOST OF YRTANA
Qaritas stared.
"...Who made this?"
A merchant raised her hand proudly.
"I did!"
"Why?"
"It sells very well."
"I did not approve merchandise."
"You don't receive profits."
"That's worse!"
The merchant smiled brightly.
"Would you like one?"
"No."
"I'll give you a discount."
"I'M ON IT."
"Exactly."
Cino had to lean against his cane.
Qaritas knew laughter when he saw it.
Traitor.
Then an elderly woman pushed through the crowd.
"Move."
The children scattered immediately.
The woman reached Qaritas.
She was barely taller than his chest.
She grabbed both sides of his face.
Studied him.
"You're thinner."
Qaritas blinked.
"I'm really not."
"Too thin."
"I'm thirty-two."
"That doesn't protect you from soup."
"...What?"
She shoved a wrapped parcel into his arms.
"Eat."
Qaritas looked down.
It smelled incredible.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome, Lord Q."
He sighed.
"Please don't."
She patted his cheek.
"Of course, Lord Q."
Then walked away.
Cino was openly laughing now.
Qaritas stared at him.
"I hope Mr. M eats you."
Mr. M chirped from Qaritas's hair.
Cino nodded.
"He has standards."
"You are unbearable."
Another child stepped forward.
She looked about seven.
Wide violet eyes.
Three tiny horns.
A wooden practice sword strapped across her back.
She held out a little book.
Qaritas looked at it.
Then at her.
"...Yes?"
"Sign it."
"Why?"
She stared at him.
Long.
Confused.
As though Qaritas had just asked why water was wet.
"Because you're Lord Q."
He waited.
She waited.
"...That doesn't answer anything."
"It answers everything."
Cino murmured,
"She's right."
Qaritas pointed at him.
"Nobody asked you."
The little girl thrust the book toward him again.
"Sign."
Qaritas sighed.
"Fine."
He took the charcoal pencil.
Opened the cover.
Paused.
"What do I write?"
Her eyes widened.
"Your name."
"..."
"..."
"I walked into that one."
"Yes."
Qaritas wrote:
Q
The girl stared at it.
Then slowly looked up.
"That's it?"
"What else were you expecting?"
"I don't know."
She flipped the book around.
"Maybe flames."
"I'm not drawing flames."
"Snakes?"
"Ask Goro."
"Stars?"
"No."
"Your face?"
"Absolutely not."
She sighed dramatically.
"Fine."
Then hugged the book against her chest and sprinted away like she'd just received a royal decree.
Qaritas watched her go.
A smile tugged at his mouth despite everything.
Ten years ago—
none of these people knew him.
Now...
they knew Q.
Not Qaritas.
Not the Ascendant of the Void.
Not Eon's brother.
Not the man connected to histories they could never be allowed to understand.
Just...
Q.
The irritating stranger who fixed roofs when storms damaged them.
The idiot who once got drunk and lectured children about vegetables.
The man who occasionally helped merchants unload carts.
The warrior who returned from missions covered in monster blood and still stopped when old women told him he looked hungry.
Maybe that was why the nickname no longer bothered him.
The Lord part absolutely did.
But Q?
Q belonged here.
Eventually, Cino rescued him.
Or abandoned him.
Qaritas wasn't entirely sure which.
They took a quieter road toward the upper districts.
The crowd thinned.
Music from distant markets softened behind them.
Mr. M climbed down from Qaritas's head and returned to his shoulder.
For several minutes...
Qaritas said nothing.
Then—
"You would've laughed at that."
Silence.
He kept walking.
"You definitely would've laughed."
Nothing answered.
Qaritas didn't expect one.
Eon hadn't spoken in ten years.
Not once.
The first year...
Qaritas had waited.
Every morning.
Every night.
He'd close his eyes.
Reach inward.
Listen.
Nothing.
The second year...
he had started talking anyway.
At first it felt ridiculous.
Then familiar.
Now...
he barely noticed himself doing it.
"Goro poisoned me again."
Silence.
"Different one this time."
Nothing.
"Apparently it makes you hallucinate your ancestors."
No answer.
Qaritas stepped over a crack in the road.
"I saw Mother."
That silence felt longer.
He looked toward the glowing lake.
"...Not funny."
Nothing.
He smiled faintly.
Another evening—
"You would've hated Mistress Sra."
Silence.
"No."
A pause.
"You would've loved her."
Still nothing.
Another—
"Cino hit me again."
Nothing.
"I made the rat joke."
Silence.
"...Yes. I know I deserved it."
Sometimes he spoke during battle.
Sometimes while cooking.
Sometimes while lying awake.
Sometimes the words were important.
Sometimes they weren't.
That's what made it hurt.
Because he'd stopped talking to Eon like one spoke to a god.
Or a monster.
Or the First Evil.
He talked to him like family.
An older brother asleep in the next room.
One who simply hadn't woken yet.
Qaritas glanced down at his hands.
Scars crossed his knuckles.
Old burns curled across his wrists.
"You've missed a lot."
Silence.
He smiled sadly.
"...I miss you too."
Cino didn't look at him.
Didn't comment.
That was why Qaritas appreciated him.
For all the insults...
the old bastard knew when silence mattered.
By the time they reached the training district, the city had grown quieter.
Not sleeping.
Preparing.
Yrtana understood that night belonged to different creatures.
The daytime masters taught Qaritas how to live.
Night belonged to Goro.
And Goro taught him how not to die.
That distinction had nearly killed Qaritas several hundred times.
The first night—
Qaritas had expected sparring.
Goro had stood thirty feet away.
Arms folded.
Smiling.
"Attack."
Qaritas had.
He made it four steps.
Then collapsed.
Poison.
He hadn't even seen Goro move.
Because Goro hadn't.
The poison had been released into the air before Qaritas entered the chamber.
Lesson one:
Never assume the fight begins when someone says it does.
The next night—
Qaritas entered prepared for poison.
No poison.
Instead, Goro's aura dropped him to one knee.
He spent six hours trying to stand.
Goro never touched him.
Lesson two:
Power doesn't require contact.
Another night—
the floor collapsed.
Another—
the walls attacked.
Another—
Goro released twelve predators into a dark chamber and extinguished every light.
Another—
nothing happened.
For fourteen hours.
Qaritas waited.
Prepared.
Tense.
Weapon ready.
Nothing.
Then, just when exhaustion made him blink—
Goro attacked.
Not physically.
A trap beneath the chair Qaritas had eventually sat upon launched him into freezing water.
Lesson:
Waiting is part of combat.
Another night—
Qaritas entered expecting traps.
Goro gave him dinner.
Nothing happened.
Qaritas refused to eat.
Goro ate the entire meal in front of him.
Nothing happened.
Qaritas stayed awake until dawn.
Nothing happened.
The lesson?
Sometimes food was just food.
Qaritas still hated that one.
For the first three years...
Goro never touched him.
Not once.
And Qaritas couldn't touch Goro either.
He tried.
Gods knew he tried.
Swords.
Spears.
Void magic.
Traps.
Ambushes.
Invisible attacks.
Borrowed weapons.
Poisons.
He once spent eleven days preparing a strategy involving three different species of burrowing predators, a collapsing bridge, two explosive gemstones, and a fake surrender.
Goro stepped left.
That was it.
Just...
left.
The entire plan failed.
Qaritas had stared at him.
"You moved once."
"Yes."
"I spent eleven days on that."
"Poorly."
Qaritas wanted to scream.
Instead he attacked.
Goro's aura knocked him unconscious.
Again.
Year four—
Qaritas finally forced Goro backward half a step.
He celebrated.
Goro poisoned him.
Year five—
Qaritas managed to cut one thread from Goro's waistcloth.
He preserved it.
Goro discovered this.
Never commented.
Which was somehow worse.
Year six—
Qaritas landed close enough to make Goro actually tilt his head away.
For three days Qaritas bragged.
Goro broke two ribs without touching him.
Year seven—
Qaritas finally did it.
Not a wound.
Not even a proper strike.
He simply forced Goro to physically defend himself.
One pinky.
That was all.
Qaritas's blade came toward Goro's throat.
Goro raised his hand.
Extended one finger.
Clink.
The blade stopped.
One pinky.
Qaritas froze.
Goro smiled.
"Better."
Qaritas stared at the finger.
Then at him.
"...You used your hand."
"Technically."
"YOU USED YOUR HAND."
"One component."
"I'M COUNTING IT."
Goro had laughed.
Qaritas considered it one of the proudest moments of his life.
Also one of the most insulting.
The years after became worse.
Much worse.
Once Qaritas demonstrated he could survive one limitation...
Goro added another.
Blindfold.
Then darkness beneath the blindfold.
Then magic sealing his sight entirely.
When Qaritas adapted—
Goro took hearing.
Then smell.
Then magical perception.
Eventually...
Qaritas trained without any senses he had once considered essential.
He learned vibrations.
Pressure.
Intent.
Movement through displaced air.
And eventually—
none of those either.
Goro would smile.
"Your senses tell you what happened."
Then strike.
"Instinct tells you what may happen."
Strike again.
"Understanding tells you why."
Qaritas usually understood after hitting the ground.
Repeatedly.
Goro poisoned him constantly.
Venoms from Labyrinth predators.
Neurotoxins from creatures beneath the underground lake.
Hallucinogens from fungal beasts.
Blood toxins gathered from monsters that hadn't existed outside the Third Universe for millions of years.
Some caused paralysis.
Some fever.
Some blindness.
Some made Qaritas hear voices.
Others made his own heartbeat feel like thunder.
One toxin made his bones feel as though insects were crawling inside the marrow.
He hated that one.
Another made gravity seem sideways.
Goro made him fight anyway.
Another prevented his wounds from clotting.
Fight.
Another made every nerve amplify pain tenfold.
Fight.
Another made Qaritas hallucinate people he loved.
Fight.
Ayla.
Komus.
Niraí.
Sometimes Eon.
Sometimes Hex.
Goro forced him to learn the difference between seeing someone...
and recognizing reality.
Which became increasingly important once they understood exactly how Yzer preferred to hunt.
Sometimes Goro didn't even provide an antidote.
"Survive until morning."
That was the lesson.
Qaritas learned something from Inemio during those nights.
Pain said:
Stop.
But pain was information.
Not authority.
So Qaritas learned to ask his body another question.
Can I move?
If yes—
move.
Arm broken?
Other arm works.
Leg cut?
Shift weight.
Can't see?
Sight wasn't required.
Can't breathe properly?
Shorter movements.
Poison slowing the heart?
Don't waste motion.
Pain became something he catalogued.
Not ignored.
Never ignored.
Separated.
There was a difference.
Goro taught him to fight underwater until his lungs begged for air.
Inside volcanic chambers where heat turned metal soft.
Suspended upside down.
In zero gravity.
Against invisible hunters.
Against packs.
Against enemies whose limbs regrew.
Against creatures without traditional anatomy.
Against enemies faster than his thoughts.
Against enemies slower than stone but clever enough to make patience deadly.
Sometimes Goro joined the monsters.
Those were the worst nights.
Because Goro played dirty.
Always.
A thrown rock.
Sand in the eyes.
Poison on the floor.
Fake injury.
False retreat.
Hidden weapon.
Qaritas had once complained:
"That's dishonorable."
Goro had struck him with the flat of a blade.
"You are alive."
"Yes."
"Then complain afterward."
Qaritas learned.
Honor belonged in choices.
Not technique.
If someone wanted him dead—
he intended to survive.
Goro had only one promise.
He repeated it every year.
Sometimes when Qaritas was bleeding.
Sometimes after a victory.
Sometimes while dragging him unconscious from a crater.
"The day I need both hands to fight you..."
Goro would smile.
"...you will no longer need me."
Qaritas had spent ten years climbing toward those two hands.
He hadn't reached them.
Not yet.
But—
one pinky had become two fingers.
Two became three.
Three became a full hand.
Last month...
Goro had used his entire right arm.
Qaritas had been unconscious for seventeen hours afterward.
Completely worth it.
He smiled at the memory.
Cino glanced toward him.
"What?"
Qaritas shook his head.
"Nothing."
"You're smiling."
"Goro almost killed me last month."
Cino nodded.
"Ah."
"That explains it?"
"With you?"
"Unfortunately."
They continued toward the distant training grounds.
Above them, Yrtana's crystal lights shimmered across the cavern ceiling like a counterfeit night sky.
Qaritas adjusted the silver cloak around his shoulders.
Mr. M slept against his neck.
Somewhere beyond the mountains—
something exploded.
The ground trembled beneath his boots.
Qaritas stopped.
Cino didn't.
He sighed.
Night training had started without him.
Which meant one of two things.
Goro was bored.
Or Xheavend was angry.
Neither possibility promised a peaceful evening.
Another explosion cracked through the mountains.
BOOM.
The road beneath Qaritas's boots trembled.
A flock of translucent cave-birds burst from the jungle canopy in the distance, glowing wings scattering blue light across the cavern.
Nobody in Yrtana reacted.
A merchant continued arranging fruit.
Two old women kept arguing over fabric.
A child chased a rolling crystal ball across the street.
Qaritas stopped walking.
Slowly looked toward the mountains.
"...They're training."
Cino didn't even bother looking.
"Obviously."
Another explosion.
A dark shape sailed over one of the ridges.
Large.
Very large.
Qaritas squinted.
"...Was that a boulder?"
"Probably."
The boulder vanished behind another mountain.
A second later—
BOOOOOOM.
The entire summit disappeared.
Stone erupted outward.
A plume of red-black smoke rolled across the ceiling of the cavern.
Qaritas stared.
Cino kept walking.
Mr. M opened one eye from Qaritas's shoulder.
Looked toward the destruction.
Closed it again.
Qaritas sighed.
"Time for night training."
"You're late."
"Apparently everyone has decided that today."
"Perhaps there is a pattern."
"Perhaps everyone is irritating."
"Also possible."
They continued toward the mountains.
The path climbed beyond Yrtana's upper districts.
Golden temples gradually disappeared behind thick jungle.
Crystal lanterns gave way to volcanic glow.
The air became hotter.
Sulfur mixed with wet soil and flowers.
Qaritas knew this route.
He'd walked it hundreds of times.
Some nights bleeding.
Some nights limping.
Once being dragged by Goro because both legs had temporarily stopped working.
Good memories.
Mostly.
The training grounds stretched beyond a wall of black volcanic stone.
Not an arena.
A landscape.
Several miles of jungle.
Rivers.
Cliffs.
Volcanic trenches.
Crystal forests.
Waterfalls.
Lavafalls.
Everything deliberately dangerous.
Goro had redesigned sections countless times over the years because, according to him—
Predictability breeds corpses.
Qaritas stepped onto the overlook.
Another blast struck him in the chest.
Heat.
Wind.
Pressure.
His cloak snapped violently behind him.
Cino planted his cane.
Didn't move an inch.
Qaritas raised one arm against the flying ash.
"She's angry."
"Observant."
"Do you ever compliment anyone normally?"
"No."
Then Qaritas saw her.
For a moment...
He forgot to answer.
Ten years.
Ten years shouldn't have felt that violent.
The little girl from the White Flame Path was gone.
The child who had once stood beside him with blood around her mouth and insects crawling through her hair...
Gone.
The nine-year-old who had searched every room for exits without even realizing she was doing it...
Gone.
At least physically.
The woman fighting in the valley below was nineteen.
Xheavend.
Her black hair had grown long, whipping behind her in wet strands as lava rolled around her body.
One eye burned crimson.
The other pink.
Her face had sharpened with age.
Not harshly.
Elegantly.
But there was something in the angles of her expression that Qaritas recognized immediately.
Hellbound.
The woman from the future.
The Ascendant of the Apocalypse.
Not completely.
Not yet.
But enough.
Enough to make his stomach tighten.
She moved through lava.
Literally.
One moment standing upon black stone.
The next—
she dove directly into a molten trench.
Qaritas winced.
Cino didn't.
"Still hate watching that."
"You've seen her do it hundreds of times."
"That doesn't make lava less lava."
"She heals."
"That does not make lava less lava."
Then—
the trench exploded.
Xheavend launched upward through a fountain of molten rock.
Skin glowing.
Steam rolling from her arms.
Her weapon spun once between her hands.
The same four-stage weapon Goro had given her ten years earlier.
Its dormant staff-form had changed.
Longer now.
Darker.
The runes across it brighter.
More awake.
She twisted in midair.
The staff became a spear.
Not gradually.
One moment wood.
The next—
a long black shaft tipped with a crescent blade glowing deep red.
She drove it downward.
Goro moved.
Barely.
He stood on a thin pillar of stone rising from the lava.
One foot planted.
The other resting lazily behind him.
His hands were folded behind his back.
Of course they were.
Worse—
he was drinking tea.
Qaritas closed his eyes.
"...He brought tea."
Cino nodded.
"He likes tea."
"He's fighting her."
"He gets thirsty."
Below—
Xheavend's spear struck.
Goro shifted his head less than an inch.
The blade missed his cheek.
She landed.
Swept low.
Goro stepped over it.
She spun.
Elbow.
Knee.
Staff.
Kick.
Goro leaned.
Tilted.
Stepped.
Turned.
Nothing touched him.
Not once.
Xheavend's red eye twitched.
Her pink eye narrowed.
Goro took another sip.
That was a mistake.
Not tactically.
Emotionally.
"STOP DODGING!"
Her voice rolled across the valley.
Goro lowered the cup.
"Stop missing."
Qaritas physically flinched.
"Ouch."
Cino glanced up.
"What?"
"He used that one on me."
"Because you also miss."
Qaritas stared at him.
"Why is everyone cruel to me?"
"Character development."
"That's Goro's excuse."
"Good excuse."
Below—
Xheavend attacked harder.
Her weapon shortened into two blades.
One red.
One black.
She crossed them.
The air ruptured.
A pressure wave tore through the jungle.
Trees bent.
Several uprooted entirely.
Goro stepped sideways.
Still no hands.
Xheavend disappeared.
Not invisible.
Fast.
She reappeared behind him.
Blade toward the neck.
Goro ducked.
She kicked.
He pivoted.
She released the weapon.
Qaritas's eyes widened.
The blades spun away deliberately.
Goro glanced toward them.
Too late.
Xheavend grabbed his shoulder.
Not to strike.
To anchor.
The discarded weapons changed direction midair.
Connected by thin crimson threads.
They came back toward Goro from both sides.
Qaritas smiled.
"That was clever."
Cino grunted.
"Better."
Goro's golden eyes moved once.
The blades stopped.
Three inches from his neck.
Not from telekinesis.
Poison.
A violet mist had erupted from his scales.
The metal itself began corroding.
Xheavend released him instantly.
Backflipped.
Landed on one hand.
Pushed away before the venom reached her.
Her weapons returned.
Melted edges repaired themselves.
Goro lifted the tea again.
Xheavend stared at him.
"You poisoned my weapon."
"You noticed."
"That's cheating."
"Correct."
She blinked.
"...You're supposed to deny it."
"Why?"
Qaritas laughed.
Yep.
Definitely Goro.
But as Qaritas watched...
His smile slowly faded.
Something had changed in Xheavend.
Not her power.
Not her technique.
Something quieter.
She didn't smile often anymore.
Not the way she had at ten.
Back then...
she laughed at everything.
Bad jokes.
Cake.
Glowing insects.
Qaritas falling while dancing.
Goro pretending he wasn't embarrassed by Yrtana's welcome.
Now—
she still smiled.
But selectively.
Around Goro.
Around Qaritas.
Around Cino.
Around the children.
Around people she trusted.
Everywhere else...
she watched.
Measured.
Listened.
Always aware of where shadows bent wrong.
Always noticing reflections.
Always checking faces twice.
Qaritas knew why.
Twelve.
That was when it started.
Two years after he began training.
Xheavend had woken screaming.
Goro had reached her first.
Qaritas remembered arriving seconds later.
Bedroom door broken.
Windows shattered.
Xheavend standing in the corner with a dagger in one hand.
Blood running from her palm where she'd squeezed the blade too tightly.
She kept saying—
"He was here."
But nobody had entered.
No footprints.
No broken wards.
No scent.
Nothing.
Then the next night...
Yzer appeared again.
Not physically.
An illusion.
Perfect.
Standing beside her bed.
Smiling.
Talking to her as though they were old friends.
He never shouted.
Never needed to.
He spoke gently.
That was worse.
The first illusion called her by name.
The second asked whether she had slept well.
The third told her she was growing beautifully.
Goro nearly destroyed half the district trying to trace the magic.
Nothing.
Yzer wasn't entering Yrtana.
He was reaching through perception.
Watching.
Learning.
Testing.
Some days—
he appeared as himself.
Tall.
Calm.
Violent strength hidden beneath an almost brotherly warmth.
Other days—
someone else.
A merchant.
A friend.
A soldier.
A child.
Once—
Qaritas.
That had nearly gotten Yzer killed.
Not by Xheavend.
By Goro.
The illusion had approached her wearing Q's face.
Smiling.
Holding out a hand.
Xheavend had known immediately.
She'd stabbed it through the mouth.
The illusion laughed.
Then disappeared.
Goro had not spoken for three days afterward.
He simply hunted.
Everywhere.
Anyone connected to Yzer vanished.
Quietly.
Efficiently.
After that...
Goro stopped trusting the city's wards alone.
He began guarding her himself.
Not standing outside her door every second.
That would've driven Xheavend insane.
Instead—
Goro became part of the environment.
Always near.
Never looming.
If she studied in the library, Goro was somewhere nearby reading.
If she trained, he trained someone else within sight.
If she wandered through the markets, he somehow happened to be negotiating with a merchant on the same street.
If she wanted space—
he gave it.
But never so much space that Yzer could mistake freedom for vulnerability.
Qaritas had watched the distinction carefully.
Because he'd seen what possession looked like.
Yzer called ownership protection.
Goro called protection freedom.
Those were not the same thing.
Not remotely.
Below—
Xheavend landed hard.
One knee struck stone.
Her breath caught.
Only once.
Goro noticed.
Immediately.
Of course he did.
He lowered his cup.
"You didn't sleep."
Xheavend stood.
"I slept."
"Three hours."
"That's sleeping."
"No."
"I was busy."
"Doing what?"
"Reading."
"What?"
"...Things."
Goro stared.
She stared back.
Qaritas smiled faintly.
He knew that look.
Xheavend was lying.
Goro knew.
Xheavend knew Goro knew.
Neither was willing to surrender first.
Finally—
Goro raised one brow.
"Did he appear?"
Xheavend's expression changed.
Barely.
Qaritas saw it anyway.
The smallest tightening around her jaw.
"Once."
Goro's eyes went colder.
"What form?"
Silence.
Xheavend looked away.
"...My mother."
The air around Goro changed.
No explosion.
No aura.
Nothing dramatic.
Just...
the lava stopped bubbling.
For several yards.
Qaritas's skin prickled.
Goro spoke calmly.
"What did he say?"
"Nothing important."
"Xheavend."
"I'm fine."
Goro set the cup down.
That was somehow more threatening than drawing a weapon.
He approached.
Slowly.
No anger toward her.
Never her.
He stopped an arm's length away.
"You don't have to be fine because I'm worried."
Xheavend didn't answer.
"You don't owe me peace."
Still nothing.
"You don't owe anyone a performance."
Her shoulders lowered slightly.
Goro continued.
"If he frightened you..."
"You may say so."
"If he angered you..."
"You may say so."
"If you want to break something..."
A glance toward the already ruined mountain.
"...preferably choose a smaller mountain."
Xheavend snorted.
There.
Tiny.
A real reaction.
Goro smiled.
"Better."
She looked at him.
"I'm tired."
"I know."
"And angry."
"I know."
"I hate when he wears their faces."
"I know."
No fixing.
No command.
No—
Don't feel that.
Just...
I know.
Qaritas watched from the ridge.
There it was.
The thing Goro would never say aloud.
That's my child.
Not by blood.
Not by law.
Not because prophecy demanded it.
Just because love occasionally arrived without asking permission.
Goro checked everything.
Food.
Water.
Rooms.
Magic.
People.
Even gifts.
But never because he believed Xheavend couldn't make decisions.
He checked so she could.
That was the difference.
Yzer would put someone in chains and call it safety.
Goro would destroy the thing holding the chain...
then ask where they wanted to go.
Qaritas respected him for many reasons.
His strength.
His intelligence.
His loyalty.
His impossible patience.
But this?
This was different.
Goro loved Xheavend enough not to own her.
And Qaritas suspected that if anyone ever tried...
Goro would introduce them to several extremely educational teeth.
Probably personally.
Xheavend stood beside Goro for another moment.
The anger around her had quieted.
Not disappeared.
Qaritas had learned that difference years ago.
Xheavend did not stop being angry.
She simply learned how to carry it without letting it carry her.
Then her gaze shifted.
Across the lava.
Across the broken black stone.
Across the steam rolling off the training field.
Toward him.
For half a heartbeat...
nothing happened.
Then her face changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
The tension left her jaw.
Her shoulders loosened.
And a real smile appeared.
"Q!"
Qaritas barely had time to straighten before she took off running.
Not walking.
Not approaching with the terrifying calm she'd just used against Goro.
Running.
Straight through ankle-deep lava like someone had neglected to explain basic self-preservation to her.
"Xheavend—"
Too late.
She hit him.
Hard.
Qaritas staggered backward two steps.
Mr. M launched from his shoulder with an offended squeak and landed neatly on Cino's head.
Cino did not react.
Qaritas did.
"Ow!"
Xheavend wrapped both arms around him.
"You took forever."
"I was training."
"So was I."
"I noticed."
She leaned back.
Her black hair clung in damp strands around her face.
One eye red.
One pink.
Both bright with amusement.
Qaritas looked her over.
Quickly.
Too quickly.
Shoulder.
No major bleeding.
Hands.
Minor burns.
Right knee.
Bruised.
Left side—
Xheavend narrowed her eyes.
"You're doing it again."
Qaritas blinked.
"Doing what?"
"Checking."
"I'm looking at you."
"You're checking whether I'm hurt."
"I'm allowed to look."
"You look like you're inventorying organs."
"That is not a thing."
"You looked at my ribs."
"I looked generally."
"You counted them."
"I did not count your ribs."
"You moved your lips."
Qaritas stared at her.
"...You're standing in lava."
"So are you."
He looked down.
Lava curled lazily around both their boots.
"...That's different."
"How?"
Silence.
Qaritas opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Nothing arrived.
Xheavend's smile widened.
Cino tapped his cane against the stone.
"Defeated."
Qaritas pointed at him.
"You stay out of this."
Xheavend laughed.
"He's right."
"I'm older than both of you."
Cino stared at him.
Qaritas reconsidered.
"Actually, I have no idea how old you are."
"Wise."
Xheavend elbowed Qaritas lightly.
"You worry too much."
"You get stabbed too much."
"You get poisoned recreationally."
"That is Goro's fault."
Goro, several yards away, picked up his tea again.
"You volunteered."
"I absolutely did not."
"You returned every night."
"Because you kept saying tomorrow would be worse!"
"And?"
"...I wanted to know how."
Xheavend burst out laughing.
Goro smiled into his cup.
Qaritas sighed.
Apparently he had walked directly into that one.
Again.
Xheavend's smile stayed for another moment.
Then Qaritas noticed the faint shadow beneath her eyes.
Exhaustion.
Not enough for most people to notice.
Enough for him.
He almost asked.
Stopped himself.
Goro had already asked.
She deserved one conversation that wasn't about Yzer.
So instead Qaritas bumped her shoulder with his own.
"Tomorrow."
She glanced sideways.
"What about it?"
"You're old."
Her eyes widened.
"I am not!"
" I'll be Twenty tomorrow."
"That's not old."
"Ancient."
"You're as old as dirt!"
"That's different."
"HOW?"
"Experience."
"You just lost an argument to me about lava."
"Unrelated."
She shoved him.
He nearly stepped into a deeper section of molten rock.
Cino watched.
"Grace."
Qaritas groaned.
"Not you too."
Tomorrow.
The word followed him even after the laughter faded.
Xheavend's twentieth birthday.
Ten years.
Exactly.
The Book had been acting strangely for weeks.
Not dramatically.
That would've been easier.
Its eyes opened when nobody touched it.
Pages turned by themselves.
Sometimes ink appeared and vanished before Qaritas could read it.
Other times it simply stared at him.
Which was somehow worse.
Then there was the Chronolock.
Restless.
The ancient mechanism had begun ticking at irregular intervals again.
Sometimes Qaritas heard it while awake.
Sometimes inside dreams.
Sometimes he woke with the sensation that something had counted down while he slept.
Ten years.
The Book had demanded ten.
Tomorrow...
Xheavend turned twenty.
And Qaritas could feel it.
Something was approaching.
His time here was ending.
That idea should have relieved him.
Once...
it would have.
He'd come to the Third Universe wanting answers.
Power.
Ayla.
A path forward.
He'd expected to leave when the work was finished.
Simple.
Except Yrtana had committed the profoundly inconsiderate crime of becoming home.
Cino.
The old rat who insulted him with the devotion of family.
Sra.
Who probably owned seventeen artifacts capable of ending civilizations and stored them beside sewing supplies.
Inemio.
Vulmere.
More than a thousand teachers.
The merchants who yelled when Qaritas skipped meals.
The children who insisted he was Lord Q no matter how many times he protested.
The hunters.
The healers.
The old soldiers.
The ridiculous merchandise.
The markets.
The underground lake.
The music.
And Xheavend.
Qaritas looked at her now.
She'd moved toward Cino.
Mr. M had transferred himself from Cino's head into her hands.
Naturally.
Traitorous little beast.
Xheavend held him close to her face.
Mr. M licked her nose.
She laughed.
Qaritas smiled.
Little sister.
Not blood.
Didn't matter.
She had become family so gradually he couldn't remember when it happened.
Maybe somewhere between teaching her how to cheat at cards—
and discovering she was better at it than him.
Maybe the night Yzer first wore Qaritas's face.
Maybe one of the mornings he'd sat outside her room after an illusion until she fell asleep.
Maybe during one of the thousand training sessions where she had threatened to stab him.
Hard to say.
But the truth remained.
Leaving would hurt.
Worse...
most of them would forget him.
History demanded it.
Q.
The ghost who didn't belong in this time.
Eventually...
memory would correct itself.
And the thought that once sounded useful now felt cruel.
Xheavend crouched beside Cino, arguing about something Qaritas couldn't hear.
He watched her.
And memory answered.
Hellbound.
Smoke.
Lava.
Blood.
A battlefield stripped almost to nothing.
A woman standing beside him.
Black hair.
Red and pink eyes.
Older.
Terrifying.
The Ascendant of the Apocalypse.
Future Xheavend.
She had looked at him like she knew him.
Hadn't she?
Qaritas frowned.
He replayed the memory.
The way she'd spoken.
The way she'd helped him.
The familiarity in her movements.
The way she'd kissed his forehead and given him that impossible sight.
At the time...
he had been too overwhelmed to question it.
Now—
he wondered.
Did she remember Q?
Did that future woman remember this?
Yrtana?
Cake?
Their arguments?
The first time Xheavend beat him at cards and proceeded to remind him for six consecutive months?
The nights they'd trained until sunrise?
The mornings he'd found her asleep over books?
The times he sat with her without speaking because Yzer had worn someone's face again?
Would she remember him?
Or one day...
would Qaritas return to his own time—
stand in front of the woman who had once loved him like a brother—
and find nothing?
No recognition.
No memory.
Just a stranger's polite stare.
Something tightened behind his ribs.
Inside him—
silence.
Qaritas almost laughed.
"You'd probably tell me I'm overthinking."
Nothing.
"Eon?"
No answer.
He smiled faintly.
"Yeah."
"I know."
Heavy footsteps approached.
Not loud.
They didn't need to be.
Goro stopped beside him.
Qaritas glanced over.
The ancient serpent still carried his tea.
Of course.
He wasn't even sweating.
Xheavend had just attacked him with lava, weapons, magic and enough force to redecorate a mountain.
Goro looked as though he'd spent the evening gardening.
Qaritas had once wondered why Yzer feared him.
Ten years ago...
that confusion made sense.
Now?
Completely understandable.
Power alone wasn't what made Goro horrifying.
There were beings stronger than Goro.
Probably.
Qaritas had yet to meet many he would bet money on.
But strength wasn't the problem.
Goro was creative.
Fast.
Patient.
Flexible.
And completely uninterested in fighting fairly.
He used poison.
Terrain.
Weather.
Animals.
Psychology.
Your own weapons.
Your momentum.
Your assumptions.
Your pride.
Once, during year eight, Qaritas had successfully disarmed him.
He celebrated for approximately half a second.
Then Goro threw Qaritas's own weapon back at him.
Handle first.
Qaritas caught it.
The handle was poisoned.
Another time Goro allowed Qaritas to trap him in a ravine.
Qaritas triggered the ambush.
Nothing happened.
Because Goro had spent the previous afternoon redirecting the underground river.
The ravine flooded.
Qaritas nearly drowned.
When he'd complained—
Goro said:
"You chose the battlefield."
Qaritas had learned something important that day.
If Goro appeared trapped...
leave.
Immediately.
Honor had rules.
Goro had options.
That was worse.
He understood now why Eon had made him Commander of the First Division.
Not because Goro was merely capable of destroying armies.
Because Goro could look at a battlefield everyone else understood—
and invent a completely different war.
Yzer knew it.
That was why he stayed away whenever Goro stood near Xheavend.
Predators recognized other predators.
And Goro was very good at making sure Yzer remembered which one had teeth.
Goro looked toward Qaritas.
Then Xheavend.
"Enough."
Xheavend stood.
Her weapon rested across one shoulder.
"Enough?"
"Yes."
Qaritas frowned.
"My training hasn't started."
"No."
Silence.
Xheavend tilted her head.
Qaritas immediately became suspicious.
Whenever Goro answered with one word...
something painful usually followed.
"What are we doing?"
Goro pointed toward the center of the training field.
"Tonight..."
His golden eyes moved between them.
"...you fight each other."
Silence.
Qaritas looked at Xheavend.
Xheavend looked at Qaritas.
Neither spoke.
Then—
she smiled.
Qaritas's stomach dropped.
Not her birthday smile.
Not the grin she used when stealing his food.
Not the tiny smile she gave whenever Goro pretended not to care.
This one—
he knew.
Hellbound.
Sharp.
Excited.
Dangerous.
Qaritas slowly pointed at her.
"Why is she smiling like that?"
Goro calmly answered,
"Because she has wanted to hit you for years."
Xheavend nodded.
"Correct."
Qaritas looked personally betrayed.
"What did I do?!"
She started counting.
"You cheated during cards."
"You cheat constantly."
"You replaced my tea with soup."
"That was funny."
"You told three children I was afraid of frogs."
"You were startled."
"It jumped at me!"
"Exactly."
"You hid my boots."
"Allegedly."
"You convinced Goro I wanted extra poison training."
"I thought you'd appreciate the challenge."
Xheavend's pink eye twitched.
"Many things."
Qaritas looked toward Goro for help.
Goro drank his tea.
Traitor.
"No."
Goro's voice changed.
Not louder.
Serious.
The humor disappeared.
"This isn't revenge."
Xheavend's smile softened.
Qaritas straightened.
Goro stepped onto the central stone platform.
"For ten years..."
"I trained you separately."
He looked at Qaritas.
"Together."
Then Xheavend.
"Against monsters."
"Against environments."
"Against armies."
"Against me."
His tail moved slowly behind him.
"But neither of you has fought the most dangerous opponent available."
Qaritas frowned.
"Each other."
Goro nodded.
"You know how she thinks."
Qaritas looked at Xheavend.
Too well.
Goro looked toward her.
"You know his habits."
Xheavend smiled faintly.
"Unfortunately."
"You know each other's favorite attacks."
"Feints."
"Rhythm."
"Temper."
"Limits."
"Pain tolerance."
"Magic."
"Fear."
A pause.
"You've fought beside each other long enough to recognize movement before it begins."
Goro folded his arms.
"Tonight..."
"...I want to know whether either of you can defeat someone who knows exactly what you're about to do."
That was different.
Qaritas slowly rolled his shoulders.
Xheavend's fingers tightened around her staff.
Goro continued.
"This is not sparring."
"This is not practice."
"Consider it an examination."
Qaritas sighed.
"Your examinations usually involve poison."
"They still might."
"Of course."
Then Goro spoke again.
One rule.
"Do not hold back because you love each other."
Everything became still.
Qaritas looked at him.
Xheavend did too.
Neither joked.
Neither corrected him.
The word remained.
Love.
Not romantic.
Not complicated.
Simple.
Family.
They'd never called it that.
Never needed to.
Goro apparently did not share their reluctance.
He continued.
"If you hesitate against someone wearing the face of a person you love..."
His golden eyes hardened.
"...Yzer will kill you."
Xheavend's expression emptied.
The smile vanished completely.
Qaritas understood immediately.
Illusions.
Familiar faces.
Yzer didn't merely disguise himself.
He weaponized affection.
Your mother.
Your father.
Your friend.
Your brother.
Someone you'd hesitate to strike.
Half a second.
That was all Yzer needed.
Goro looked between them.
"Love is not hesitation."
The words came quietly.
"Do not confuse them."
Xheavend lowered her gaze.
Qaritas watched her.
Goro continued.
"You can love someone..."
"...and still know when the thing wearing their face isn't them."
Silence.
"Learn that tonight."
Goro stepped backward.
Then stopped.
"You both keep asking when your training with me ends."
Qaritas's mouth twitched.
"We stopped asking around year six."
"You continue thinking it loudly."
"...Fair."
Goro lifted one hand.
Five clawed fingers opened.
"I have already told you."
His twenty eyes began to appear.
One pair.
Then another.
Gold opening across scaled flesh.
"When either of you becomes dangerous enough that I must use this..."
He raised his other hand.
Five more fingers.
"...and this..."
All twenty eyes opened fully.
The pressure around him deepened.
"...to stop you."
A pause.
"You will have surpassed me."
Qaritas stared at both hands.
Xheavend rolled one shoulder.
Goro smiled.
"Until then..."
He looked between them.
"...you're children playing with weapons."
Qaritas blinked.
"I'm thirty-two."
Goro looked at him.
"Child."
Xheavend immediately burst out laughing.
Qaritas pointed at her.
"You're nineteen!"
Goro turned.
"Smaller child."
Her laughter stopped.
"...Excuse me?"
Qaritas grinned.
"Oh, now it's offensive."
"I'm an adult!"
"So am I!"
Goro calmly stepped away.
"Children."
Both of them stared after him.
Then looked at each other.
Qaritas nodded slowly.
"We've been equally insulted."
Xheavend sighed.
"I suppose that's fair."
"Excellent."
"Still going to hit you."
"Naturally."
Goro reached the edge of the arena.
The training field seemed to understand.
Lava churned.
Stone shifted.
Crystal formations rose from beneath the ground.
Vines withdrew toward the jungle.
The enormous space opened.
Qaritas stepped toward one end.
Xheavend toward the other.
For ten years...
they had grown together.
Fought together.
Bled together.
Argued.
Laughed.
Protected one another.
Become something neither had named until Goro said it for them.
Family.
Tomorrow...
Xheavend turned twenty.
Soon...
Qaritas might leave.
Tonight—
they would find out what those ten years had actually made.
Xheavend rotated her staff once.
The weapon clicked.
Shifted.
Lengthened.
Runes flared red along its body.
Qaritas loosened the silver cloak from around his shoulders.
Darkness immediately gathered beneath his boots.
Not wild.
Not hungry.
Controlled.
It crawled outward in thin streams, slipping between cracks in the volcanic stone.
Xheavend watched.
Qaritas smiled.
"You know I'm not going easy on you."
Her red eye narrowed.
Her pink one glittered.
"Q..."
That smile returned.
Terrible.
Familiar.
"...you've never beaten me at cards."
Qaritas's smile disappeared.
"That has absolutely nothing to do with combat."
"Sounds like something a loser would say."
"I hate you."
"No you don't."
"...Currently reconsidering."
At the edge of the field—
Goro lifted one finger.
The joking stopped.
Qaritas lowered his stance.
The Void answered.
Blackness climbed his arms.
The air around him thinned.
Across the arena—
Xheavend inhaled.
Something old stirred beneath her skin.
Red.
Pink.
Gold.
The lava nearest her began moving against its current.
Wind curled inward.
Stone trembled.
For one brief second...
Qaritas saw it.
Not Nineteen-year-old Xheavend.
The woman from Hellbound.
The Apocalypse.
Then it was gone.
Goro's raised finger remained between them.
One heartbeat.
Two.
Three.
Qaritas watched Xheavend.
Xheavend watched him.
Neither blinked.
Goro dropped his hand.
"Begin."