"These pieces are important. These girls are still alive, and I want them whole," I said.
"Whole? Hah, you can try. I am a mage of no small means, and I can't put them together."
You're a petty speck compared to Entropy. I am His conduit, and I believe these girls should be whole. So, they must be."
He didn't argue, which was wise because I was going to put them together in any case.
"Gullyman," I said. "Help me lay the pieces out. Carefully. As they were meant to be."
He obeyed. He always does. That was the tragedy of Gullyman - just a helping hand, no matter how immoral or gross it became.
We worked in silence. Flesh on stone; the wet slap of limbs on cold ground.
In the end, there were three sets.
One was taller and green, the other had dark blue, almost black, skin, and one had what seemed to be the tail and ears of a cat or dog.
They were… stranger than the other parts I found. More unnerving.
Every so often, a finger curled slightly, or a patch of skin twitched. More like living dead than anything I had ever seen.
I tried not to think about whether any part of them was conscious through any of this. That would be cruel. Also: nightmare fuel.
Even Woodborn kept his hands clasped behind his back like he was worried a stray limb might shake hands with him.
He cleared his throat, eager to intellectualize instead of panic.
"The green-skinned one," he said, gesturing as though identifying a wine, "is orcish. Strong stock, proficient. Not very interested in other things other than strength." He sounded like an auctioneer pretending to be a scholar.
Plus, it was rude, and I guess racist.
Gullyman stared at her hand. It was about as big as his own, and it would grow if this one was another little girl.
"The dark one," Woodborn continued, "is a dark elf. Wasteful to cut her apart… they are proficient in many things, but frightfully arrogant if not taught right."
Next to her skin, her eyes, near-black, gleamed with a single yellow iris piercing through.
"And the furred one," Woodborn said, "Vulpes. Fox-folk. Nimble. But not terribly clever. Rare in Asolar, but common enough over the northern ocean. More often slaves than citizens, though. Tragic creatures."
His tone told me he did not care about tragedy - only rarity.
Three beautifully incompatible girls.
Gullyman's eyes were full of unsettling curiosity.
I was curious too, I had to admit. Nice of Woodborn to give me the answers before I needed to ask.
Woodborn looked pleased with himself. He shouldn't be.
I crouched beside the orc's torso. I aligned her legs with their proper sockets. The dark elf's hands with her forearms. The Vulpes girl's tail with her hips.
Gullyman was a bit bashful seeing them in their birthday suit, but Woodborn and I weren't. It was strange to see a normal reaction to a situation like this after a while.
"I don't understand what you think will happen," Woodborn said. "You can't stitch these creatures back into existence."
"I won't," I said. "Entropy will."
This wasn't my first rodeo. Plus, this was for the girls, not really for myself. Well, maybe a bit if I can convince them to join me and they are as powerful as the other girls.
"Stand back," I ordered.
Gullyman obeyed without thought. Woodborn obeyed because I stared at him long enough to remind him that I could tear his heart out and kill his family.
Now it was time to work. I had to dispel three bodies and then stitch them together with a healing spell, like I did before.
And even though it would be a draining experience, I couldn't show any signs of exhaustion or weakness in front of any of them - to better sell the appearance of a powerful dark prophet.
I stretched out my hand and prepared myself.
"Heca."
And then the oozing began slowly.
I still felt strong. Shockingly strong. The spell didn't even scratch my reserves. So far, so good.
It was weird, though - almost like cheating. Maybe splitting myself in two, creating a clone… Well, technically I was the clone, right?
Anyway, creating 'me' seemed to reset my stamina to its absolute max. I should have been running on fumes by now - the clone spell alone would normally leave me aching in all the wrong places. And that didn't even count the speed and strength spells I'd layered on top, or reapplying the Nyx spells to stay in the shadows.
But somehow, I wasn't tired. My arms weren't shaking. My lungs weren't burning. It was a nice feeling to be at max, all without having to sleep. Which, as I had previously mentioned, was kind of difficult for me, as I messed up my sleeping schedule with all the sleepless nights.
Oh well. Doesn't matter.
Right now, I could feel the power coursing through my veins, humming, insisting I was more than ready. Ready to raise, ready to heal, ready to make them whole.
It was an exhilarating kind of confidence - the kind, where if you let yourself lean too hard into your own hype, you might just start believing it yourself. But I didn't drink the Kool-Aid. Not yet.
"Eir-Pana-Tuo-Kane."
The four words echoed through me, and they hurt.
My fingertips buzzed, nerves overloading, or maybe the soul complaining.
Either way, I could feel the spell coiling through me. I really hoped nothing would burst or boil or burn.
Gullyman froze, eyes wide like a child seeing lightning strike too close.
Which was adorable, honestly. Giant professional murderer terrified by magical arts and crafts.
I almost wanted to pat him on the head and say, "Relax, it's just something like necromancy. No big deal."
Woodborn whispered, almost reverent:
"That… was a four-word spell."
He said it like a man recognizing a crown.
Like he suddenly realized I wasn't playing pretend.
"What is 'Heca'?" he asked.
There was a smile on my face beneath the darkness and the exhaustion that was stabbing my ribs.
"An easy task," I lied. I guess dispelling wasn't so common in this world.
I could barely breathe. A lung folded wrong, maybe.
A headache bloomed behind my eyes, but this time, they didn't burst, which was nice.
I kept neutral - prophets don't wince.
But the girls - that was what mattered.
Orc, Drow, and Vulpes - naked, each breathed as if drowning in air.
Their eyes snapped open - wild, terrified, animal survival screaming. But no actual screaming, which was good. They scrambled, claws and nails and strength ready to lash out in every direction.
I watched their chests rise unevenly and measured their breathing. They didn't yet understand what had happened, who had done it, or why they were here. That gap - between almost-death and comprehension - was mine to fill. And I'd lie to them, like I lied to the other girls.
Right then and there, I decided to recruit them to my… damn it. My cult. The fictional Cult of Entropy. But I think they'd believe it. What else would one do in a situation like this except believe the person that rescued you?
Forgive me, girls.
At least they seemed healthy.
The two men flinched.
I lifted one hand - slow, steady, and authoritative in appearance, but I had barely the strength to keep it in the air.
"Stop."
Not a yell. A command.
They froze - the instinct of prey suddenly overridden by something older, something divine-adjacent. My divine-adjacent.
Their claws lowered. They looked at me - and only me.
"You were wronged," I said. "Broken. Torn apart by the hands of fate. By those believing your time was over."
Their gazes flicked sharply to Woodborn.
Good.
Let him understand fear from three sets of eyes.
"But Entropy disagreed."
I raised both hands slightly, like a preacher before his first congregation.
"My god has deemed you return to this world. Alive. Whole. No future stolen."
Their breathing steadied - not fully calm, but listening.
"Your lives are not over," I told them. "They've barely begun."
A pause carried the weight of a new purpose settling into the bones I'd forced back together.
"You may decide the debt later… or never. But tonight, you walk away with the dignity that was taken from you."
The girls looked at each other - silent questions, shared history of dismemberment. Then back to me.
For the first time since rising from death, something warmer than fear flickered in them: Hope.
Behind me, Gullyman slowly exhaled. And in his eyes - the smallest glimmer of awe. Like maybe I really was more than a mad shadow.
Woodborn, by contrast, was staring at me like I'd just opened a forbidden door - and stepped through without hesitation.
I could practically see the greed taking over his mind: "How much of this is power, how much madness? Could I sell it? Should I run?" His pride bristled, curiosity tangled with terror. It made me smile inside the shadows. He needed to think that who he was dealing with was a far bigger deal than he thought. He needed a little awe, and that would go a long way toward keeping him useful.
Things looked great.