Castle Kingside #0-99
Author: Gennon Asche
Date: 2021-10-12T00:00:00+00:00
Publisher: anonymous

Table Of Contents

- Table Of Contents -
0. Setting The Board
1. Woodpusher
2. Ravenfall
3. Unemployed Surgeon
4. Damn Leeches
5. Back Alley Physician
6. Monopoly
7. Invisibility Experiments
8. A Humble Heist
9. Puncture Wound
10. Tenebrae
11. A Job Complete
12. Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap
13. Peter Pan, Take Her Back
14. Night of Repentance
15. Ye Olde Biochemistry
16. Doubled Pawns
17. Isekai Anatomy 101
18. Fire Opals from Africa
19. Rickety Infrastructure
20. Public Entertainment
21. Magic Toilet Paper Cartons
22. A Not So Humble Heist

23. The Pious, the Enslaved, and the Desperate

24. Rich Noble Slave, Poor Noble Freewoman
25. An Empty Bliss Beyond This World
26. Mutated Turkey
27. Dirt Cartography
28. Crawling Rocks
29. Can I Kill You? Please?
30. Rude Reception
31. The Emblem's Guidance
32. Ominous Algae
33. Sympathetic Assassin
34. Light Through Dark
35. Gift
36. Bon Voyage
37. Green Water, Green Sky
38. Whale Watching Cruise
39. Shackles Unbound
40. High Vol Mileage
41. Cold Desert
42. Travel Arrangements
43. Wizard's Apprentice
44. Breakthrough
45. Secrets Revealed
46. Ominous Greeting
47. Arrival
48. Once upon a time...
49. Feisty Girl
50. Renovations
51. Family of Sorcerers
52. Ratcatchers
53. Controlled Clinical Trials
54. Employee Training
55. Plagued Plague Doctor
56. Unlicensed Medical Practicioner
57. Enchantment Channeling
58. Phase I Trials
59. Wizard Surgeon
60. Busy Hospital
61. The Royal Offer
62. Potential for Aggressive Expansion
63. Business Negotiations and Promotions
64. Foundations for Healthcare Infrastructure
65. Court Doctor
66. A Princess and a Mine
67. Alien Constructs
68. Meeting With Demons
69. Negotiating With Demons
70. Devil Amongst Demons
71. Discovery
72. Medieval Propaganda
73. World's First Chemistry Lab
74. Sourcing Explosives
75. Spies Hunting Spies
76. Explosives Inept Doctor
77. Thaumaturgical Greenhouse
78. Convincing A Sorceress
79. False Church
80. Flying Devils
81. Improvised Explosive Device
82. Hunting With Grenades
83. Chicken in a Temporal Field
84. Voltech Hand Cannon
85. Black Powder Blast Tattoo
86. Prelude to a Lie
87. Blasphemous Rifle
88. Medieval Combat Medics
89. Military Foundations
90. Painting With Demons
91. Carapaced Devil
92. Anterior Shoulder Dislocation
93. Calculating Opponents
94. Misdirection
95. Last-Ditch Defense
96. Apostle of the Damned
97. Warm Berry Lady
98. All In Gambit
99. Reclaim Your Future

0. Setting The Board

A man sat at a desk, leafing through loose documents. “Was this pawn really the best they could afford?”

The rustling of paper, the light reflecting off of the man’s hair, the intonation in his voice. They felt crisp. Vivid. Chemotherapy had subjected Dimitry to surreal visions before, but never a dream as rich as this one. Did his palliative care team increase his opioid dosage?

Dimitry glanced left and right. Vast, pitch-black emptiness surrounded him, the man, and the desk on all sides. While the scenery wasn’t worthy of note, Dimitry enjoyed the illusion of free movement despite his motor deficit. And ditching that incessant headache was nice, too.

But something felt off.

Really off.

“Finally,” the man said. “A silent one. I prefer pawns who know when to shut up.”

“Pawn?”

“Speech and comprehension abilities confirmed,” a feminine voice echoed from an eerily close yet indiscernible distance.

Icy dread snaked down Dimitry’s spine, and his head shot from side to side, desperately searching for a woman to attribute speech to. But there was no one else there. Just him and the man.

Rabid fluttering swarmed in his gut.

Logic dictated that none of this could be real, yet instinct warned Dimitry that this wasn’t the dream he thought it was. Fear compelled him to speak. “W-who are you? Why did you call me a pawn? You said the best that they could afford. Am… am I being sold?”

“You’d be better off asking fewer questions and worrying more about staying alive. Things aren’t looking great for you.”

Dimitry’s teeth chattered, and his arms trembled. Staying alive? Would glioblastoma kill him at last?

No.

No, that couldn’t be. The oncologist said he still had time. Several weeks, at least. Dimitry couldn’t go without telling his parents and sister goodbye. It was too soon.

But that didn’t explain his ease of movement or the lack of a headache. What if he had already died and now stood in purgatory? Did his vulgar childhood finally catch up with him, overshadowing his life in medicine? Or did he get another chance? The man told him to survive, after all.

There was no point in panicking. He had to calm down and assess the situation.

Dimitry paced his gasps for air, every breath slowing, equalizing, releasing trapped tension as they left his nostrils. His legs stopped shaking, and the knot in his stomach loosened. He examined the mysterious man sitting in front of him.

The only light in the hall came from an unknown source above and behind the desk. It served as backlighting, revealing the man’s silhouette. Darkness obscured the precise features of his eyes and mouth, and only the shape of his face was visible. He seemed familiar, like an old friend Dimitry reunited with after a long time. But who?

The man reached into his desk and carefully pulled out a book. “Seems your sponsor had some money lying around.” He dusted off its cover. “Read the title out loud.”

The book was slender despite a thick leather frame. Gold embroidery decorated the cover, and the mangled edges and torn binding gave it the air of an old family heirloom. Near the top was the title, every character resembling interwoven hieroglyphics. A language unlike any from Earth.

Could Dimitry actually read that?

Taking a deep breath, he leaned in. “Invisall.”

“Reading comprehension abilities confirmed,” a woman’s voice announced.

Mouth agape, Dimitry stared at the cover. He could read that.

The man showed no signs of amazement. “Now the contents.”

Dimitry hesitated, yet curiosity compelled him to abide. He pulled up the leather cover to find a single page within the entire book. The yellow sheet contained hundreds of characters written diagonally across the page. Upon Dimitry’s attempt to read them, they glowed blue, turned counterclockwise to align with the paper’s edges, and sank into its surface. With a silent farewell, only a blank yellow page remained.

What technology was this?

The man reached into his desk, and after fumbling around, retrieved a pebble-sized rock. “Hold this.”

Dimitry complied. Like a much denser piece of steel, the rock was heavy in his palm. Sourceless light reflected off its surface, revealing a beautiful luster resembling dark green malachite. Although it wasn’t transparent like most precious gems, he wouldn’t have hesitated to add it to his collection back home.

A strange sight pulled Dimitry’s attention away from the rock to his hand. He noticed that his skin—which was paler than paper for months—now had a healthy beige color.

What the hell happened to him?

“Repeat after me,” the man said. “Invisall.”

“Invisall.”

The green rock drained into Dimitry’s palm, and heat scorched through his right arm and chest before spreading to the rest of his body. Intense nausea made him lean over and retch.

“Functional cores and circuits confirmed,” the woman said.

Dimitry wiped the corners of his mouth, ready to lash out for being put through pointless duress. However, before he could utter a complaint, he realized something was missing. His arm. Although his fingers brushed his face, he could not see them. And when he looked down, only a gray-tiled floor lay in sight. His entire body had disappeared. Suddenly, the term ‘invisall’ made sense.

Pushing aside concerns regarding invisall’s side effects, Dimitry intended to use the invisibility to escape his treatment as a lab rat. There was no way to know what abuse he would have to undergo next. He crept away.

“This would be easier for both of us if you stood still,” the man said, tracking his every movement.

Did the green rock make Dimitry invisible only to himself? How useless.

“Before you get any more clever ideas, let’s finish up.”

Two large floor tiles opened towards the ceiling like double doors, revealing a machine embedded in the ground. Glass cylinders full of vibrant blue liquid protruded from the top like upside-down test tubes. Pale fumes brushed Dimitry’s toes as the machine rose, locking into place with a thunk. A long, grapefruit-sized indent bore into the side of the machine facing Dimitry.

“Pawn, put your right hand inside, and don’t move until you’re told otherwise.”

Suffocating dread gripped Dimitry, urging him, begging him not to comply. He stepped back.

“Your reluctance will only make the process more painful.”

Though Dimitry yearned to rebel against the unfair treatment, the man implied he wanted to help him survive. Should he obey? The answer was obvious. Dimitry wouldn’t squander another chance at life, especially if he could be a healer once more.

He reached into the machine.

A cold, silky texture molded itself around his arm. Two slabs compressed Dimitry’s wrist, and something sharp pierced his skin. Like the world’s sharpest scalpel, it sliced through fat and muscle, tearing them apart from the inside, tracing patterns into his flesh.

Dimitry shut his eyes and clenched his teeth, but the searing pain was relentless. The knife eventually retracted, and a cooling gel flowed forth to numb every crevice left by the procedure. His shoulders relaxed as the pain dissipated.

“Imprinting complete,” the feminine voice said.

When the gel solidified, the machine decompressed, relieving the pressure around his wrist. Dimitry never wanted to experience that again.

“You can take your arm out now, pawn.”

After Dimitry did, he discovered a blue pawn imprint on his wrist. It looked like a tattoo a chess fan might get after a night of bar-hopping. He flexed his wrist. The solidified gel mimicked the functions of the tendons, flesh, and blood vessels that tore during the procedure. He wondered if the technology could help penetrating trauma patients recover limb function.

“Pawn C27E957 from Garrison Milky Way-686C has been cleared for deployment.”

“Don’t die too fast out there, pawn.”

Before Dimitry could voice a complaint, his body went numb and his eyesight faded.

“Board Messier 82-2C39 has been set.”

1. Woodpusher

“Check under his rags.”

“Nothin’ there either.”

The prodding came to a halt. Two sets of footsteps moved a short distance away, followed by the distinctive popping of creaky knee joints. An invasive stench akin to stale feces filled the air.

This wasn’t the oncology ward.

Dimitry’s eyes shot open to reveal a discombobulating sight. He lay on a scrap-littered road wedged between two timber-framed walls. They formed a cramped alleyway where, at one end, two men huddled around a small fire, rubbing their hands to stay warm. Dirt, grease, and crimson blots coated their shabby rags. The other end intersected with a gravel street full of pedestrians.

Adrenaline coursed through Dimitry’s veins, shocking him into wakefulness. He pushed off the ground, but a shattering pain in his hands and legs caused him to collapse into body-warmed filth. The unexpected aching caught Dimitry off-guard, but he resolved to try once more. Deliberate movements helped him ease into a standing position. Frigid winds pierced his grimy rags, which wrapped around his torso and left his legs exposed to the elements.

How did Dimitry get here?

Where was he?

What the hell was going on?

All questions Dimitry’s panic did little to answer. What he needed was information, and he needed it now. His gaze turned towards the two men by the fire.

Were they the ones who pickpocketed Dimitry while he slept? Most likely. No one else was around, and they seemed the type to resort to unscrupulous means. The men exuded desperation like stray dogs craving a meal regardless of where it came from. Judging by the blood sprinkled onto their clothes, they were no strangers to struggles of life and death. Dimitry stood no chance if they grew violent.

However, unlike the pedestrians traveling along the main road, Dimitry shared much in common with them. His clothes were ragged like theirs, and they already knew he had nothing to steal. They had nothing to gain from assaulting him. Partially convinced of his safety, Dimitry approached the two men.

A thug with a filth-encrusted beard turned back, eyes full of contempt. “The fuck ya want?”

Dimitry took a reflexive step back and examined both thugs. Neither had a blue pawn imprint on their wrist. His list of questions grew. “I… I just wanted to ask something.”

“Oh, you mean that?” asked an aged man whose gray hair protruded from under stained brown rags. “We were worried that you were dead, so we checked if you were still breathing.”

“Show some damn appreciation that we even decided to check up on ya!”

Since when did checking up on people involve digging through their belongings? Damn savages. Dimitry hid his displeasure, forcing a smile instead. “I appreciate the concern, but I just wanted to know—”

“Weren’t you taught that it’s rude to ask for favors without giving anything in return?” the older man asked.

“Morning prayer ends soon, so ya’d better be quick!”

“Morning prayer?”

“Wellbloom fever clouding your mind, kid?” The older man ran a hand through his gray beard. “Those bullshitters at the Church are giving out free food, and we’re hungry. Get it?”

Dimitry’s stomach groaned at the mention of food. The church the thug referred to was likely to be Baptist, Catholic, or Methodist. All three were known for having soup kitchens. Dimitry wanted nothing more than to eat, to satiate the painful contractions of his stomach, yet the thugs hinted they would exchange information for food.

Widespread uncertainty made knowledge indispensable, but the men’s refusal to get the food themselves fostered doubt. Was the trade worthwhile? Dimitry would decide after he reached the soup kitchen. “Where’s the church?”

The younger thug smirked. “What? Ya never seen a church before?”

“I’m not from around here.”

“What shithole did you crawl out of that you don’t know what a church looks like?” the older man asked.

“Probably some village.” The younger thug waved his hand. “Mine ain’t had much more than a chapel, either.”

“Yeah, but even you knew to look for a big stone tower. If anything, the priestess standing in front is a dead giveaway.”

“Nah. We had a deacon. He was alright.”

“A deacon?” The older man grunted. “Looks like those bitches didn’t take over everywhere yet.”

“They ain’t that bad.”

“That’s because you think with your dick.”

Despite their appearances resembling his own, Dimitry felt out of place watching the two thugs bicker. Long, neglected clumps of hair fell to either side of Dimitry’s shoulders. His beard, which he had shaved his entire life, formed an entwined mesh of grime. He was unrecognizable.

“Hey, you.” The older man nudged Dimitry with a frail elbow. “Since you’re new around here, let me give you a tip. No matter how good they make it sound, don’t join their cult. This is how they treat men.” He turned to reveal a fleshy stump in place of an arm on the other side of his torso.

“Thanks for the warning,” Dimitry said, trying to process their conversation.

“Don’t blame them,” the younger thug said. “That’s your fault.”

“If I was one of their precious ladies, they never would’ve sent me to fight heathens with a fucking toothpick.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Another extended groan escaped Dimitry’s stomach.

A vision of him biting into a hamburger as its succulent juices spilled into his mouth invaded his mind. The warm imagery lasted but a moment, leaving an emptiness in the pit of his stomach as it faded. Dimitry reached his hand under his rags and traced several ribs that stuck out far beyond the rest of his abdomen. Severe malnutrition.

The younger thug glared at Dimitry. “And what are ya doing wasting time touching yerself? Morning prayer’s ending, and we’re starving!”

Dimitry wasn’t fond of taking orders, especially from suspicious assholes, but food was as urgent a priority as information. He would play along for now. “I’ll be back soon.”

Laughter echoed from behind Dimitry as he left the alleyway and exited onto a gravel-laden street.

Like some backwater Amish town, white-plastered wooden buildings, three stories tall at most, lined an uneven road. There were no cars. No lights. No signs of technology anywhere. Instead, pedestrians in tunics and robes dodged horses and carts as they hurried by. Upon seeing Dimitry, a passing man’s face curled, and he rushed his children along.

Dimitry turned his gaze to the ground to avoid making eye contact. Their reactions were understandable. His hygiene was appalling, and the torn rags he wore probably smelled worse than they looked.

Several hundred meters away, a stumpy spire of stone loomed over the surrounding wooden roofs. If what the older thug said was accurate, that was the church.

And that meant food.

Reinvigorated by the prospect of sating the void in his stomach, Dimitry marched forward.

A building along the way stood out. Behind its open door, an assortment of strange instruments rested on display racks. Hanging above the entrance was a sign with ‘Three Brothers’ Magic’ written across its cracked surface.

Although the characters belonged to a language unfamiliar to Dimitry, not even resembling the hieroglyphics in the ‘invisall’ tome he saw in the dark hall, he read the text as effortlessly as English.

A magic store, huh? Since when did Amish people perform magic tricks? Were they even Amish? Perhaps Dimitry awakened in a place with remnant medieval architecture like Transylvania. But that didn’t explain the lack of cell phones or how he got there. Was he somewhere else or just in a different time period?

Meandering thoughts plagued him until he arrived at a massive building comprised of uniformly chiseled stone bricks.

In front stood a girl in plain gray vestments. Her clothes covered most of her hair except for two blond pigtails resting on her chest. A magnanimous smile decorated her face, its innocence powerful enough to coax protective instincts from the most cowardly man.

Was she the priestess the thug mentioned?

“Are you here for morning mass?” she asked.

Dimitry scanned her person, desperately searching for anything resembling a crucifix, a bible, any symbol reminiscent of Christianity and therefore Earth. There was none. “Excuse me, miss.”

“Yes?”

“What kind of church is this?”

Her smile wavered. “We’re just a normal church.”

“I mean, are you guys Catholic? Protestant?” His breathing grew ragged. “Baptist?”

“Baptist? Is that a village?”

Dimitry’s bare foot tapped the ground restlessly. Although he wasn’t religious, even he knew the different church denominations. So why didn’t a priestess? And weren’t female clergy considered apostasy by the bible? Dimitry suppressed his gut feeling—one warning him he wasn’t where he wished he was—hoping to uncover a more favorable truth. “Do you know Jesus Christ?”

“Who’s that?” the priestess asked.

Shit.

Stores advertising magic devices, oblivious priestesses managing churches, tunics, obscure languages, uneven roads, a lack of electricity, horses as transport, omniscient men, the ability to turn invisible, awakening in an unknown land, overly vivid dreams. All evidence hinted at a warped, medievalesque reality.

Dimitry stepped back, both terrified and desperate to confirm his hypothesis. “Are we… on Earth?”

“We’re…” The girl glanced down at her leather boots. “…on land.” There was sympathy in her eyes, as if watching a hapless child, when she looked back at him.

Dimitry swallowed. The priestess’s confusion told him everything he needed to know. This wasn’t Transylvania. This wasn’t an isolated Amish town within the United States. This wasn’t the Earth he knew.

This was…

This was somewhere else.

“Are you okay?” she whispered, taking a step forward.

Dimitry’s arm shot towards a church wall when a cramp, excruciating like an intestinal blockage, penetrative like a sharp force injury, keeled him over. How long had he been starving?

“What’s wrong? Are you injured?”

“J-just a bit hungry.”

“Get inside.” The priestess pointed towards the church’s doors. “We’ll initiate you, bring the gospel to your ears, and get you some pottage right away!”

Pottage? Was that a dish? Although the promise of food gripped Dimitry, and meeting with the clergy offered a means of edification, the old thug in the alley bemoaned the religion’s deviousness. Before Dimitry allowed a priestess in an alien land to ‘initiate’ him, he needed to know what the process entailed and the ramifications of committing to the ‘Church’. Hasty decisions now could return to haunt him.

Dimitry had only one immediate means for information—the thugs that mugged him. While the men were less than savory, they were the only people he knew that could divulge actionable knowledge about this world in exchange for meager food scraps. No ‘initiation’ required.

Unfortunately, buying their assistance would prove problematic in itself.

The priestess didn’t seem keen on giving away pottage without compliance from Dimitry, and even if he acquired some without joining the Church, he would starve if he traded it to the thugs for information.

But perhaps a solution that fulfilled both criteria existed. A method that earned him enough food to invest into the thugs and himself without commitment to a mysterious religion.

Takeout for two.

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” Dimitry said, swallowing his guilt as he lied to the first person in this world to show him compassion. “Can you spare enough food for another unfortunate soul as well? I have a friend who’s in a bad way. Although I want to hear the gospel and take refuge in the church, I haven’t the time. I need to bring—”

“You know I’m not supposed to take food out of the church.” The priestess wagged her finger as if scolding a petulant toddler. “Your friend must come in person.”

“I would, but you see, we’re from out of town, and we were sleeping on the streets when two thugs attacked us. I managed to get away with only a blow to my head, but—”

“But?”

“My friend wasn’t so lucky…” Dimitry glanced down at the gravel road. “…can’t even walk anymore.”

“I’m sorry.” She looked away. “But the rules are clear.”

Damn. Was there a better way to get her attention? Dimitry thought back on what the thugs in the alleyway said—something about the Church showing preference to women. “My friend really wanted to make morning mass, but no matter how hard she tried, the gash in her leg made it too painful for her to walk.”

“She?”

Dimitry doubled down on his villainy. “I just want her unborn baby to be healthy…”

The priestess’s eyes shot open. “W-wait here!” Her blond pigtails twisted behind her gray vestments as she pivoted away.

When the girl rushed through the church’s entrance, Dimitry collapsed against the wall, attempting to distract his thoughts from the churning in his gut.

A woman across the street dumped a pan of blackened water and various solid bits from a second-story window. The contents plopped to the ground.

Seeing the vile liquid drain into gravel and dirt did nothing to quell Dimitry’s ravenous hunger. Instead, his breaths grew heavier and faster in anticipation of food. He had learned about the starvation process before, seen malnourished patients exhibit its symptoms, but never expected to experience them himself. Food had always been plentiful.

Until now.

After an eternity, the priestess stumbled out of the church carrying two bowls, each containing grainy brown slop and a wooden spoon. “Get this to her right away! I’m not supposed to do this, but every woman is precious to Zera. When you return the utensils, bring your friend as well. I’ll ask Reverend Mother Marianne to look at her wounds.”

Was Zera someone important? Dimitry pushed the concern aside. It already took every ounce of discipline and self-control he had to stop himself from devouring the food in front of the priestess. The details could wait.

“I promise I will.” His trembling hands reached for the gruel-filled bowls. “Thank you for your generosity.”

In an alley near the church, Dimitry trudged past ceramic scrap and piled refuse. He glanced back. People rushed through the adjoining street, but no one followed him.

Good.

There wasn’t anyone to steal his food.

Primal desire flooded Dimitry as he dropped to the ground, cold dirt irritating his exposed legs. He didn’t mind. The only thing he cared about was his haul. His treasure.

Gruel topped one bowl to the brim and the other only halfway. The priestess’s intentions were obvious—the generous portion wasn’t meant for Dimitry but his imaginary female friend. A gesture he intended to take advantage of.

He devoured the glop in the well-portioned bowl and licked it clean. Despite a lack of spices, the murky mixture of beans, grains, and assorted vegetables was nothing short of heaven. Dimitry thanked whatever benevolent entity this world’s Church believed in for food and good-hearted women kind enough to distribute it.

His mouth salivated at the sight of the second portion, but Dimitry stopped himself. Overconsumption could lead to refeeding syndrome—a devious killer that struck any chronically underfed person who overate too soon after prolonged starvation. The sudden influx of calories signaled organs to mass-produce sugars, fats, and proteins, depleting vital minerals in the process. Victims died soon after.

“Something smells good,” a voice croaked from a rag-covered crate across the alley.

Dimitry jumped to his feet, ignoring the crumbling pain in his shins.

An unsteady hand reached from the makeshift home and pulled down a cloth, revealing a woman’s face. Despite what her wrinkled mouth, tired eyes, and sluggish movements suggested, she was forty at most. Not much older than Dimitry. Her pleading eyes stared at the pottage.

He studied the woman’s bony arms. She was starving, too. Dimitry’s gaze traveled from her to the second portion he received from the priestess. Although he originally intended to trade it to the thugs for information regarding this land, never again could he ignore a dying person.

That was why he became a doctor.

Despite gluttonous greed screaming at him, demanding Dimitry guard every grain with his life, he pointed at the bowl. “Would you like some?”

“I want a lot of things,” she said, “but you can’t have everything you want in life, you know?”

“I don’t mind.” He forced a smile. “It seems I overate.”

The woman reciprocated with her own smile—one that abandoned joy long ago. “So young yet so kind. If only my boys were like that, wherever they ran off to.”

So that was who looked after her. There was no way she could care for herself. “Are they coming back soon?”

“Oh, yes.” She looked up at a gray sky illuminated only by scattered rays of sunlight. “One joined the war against heathens in Mettingcrest, the other started a family with an innkeeper’s daughter. They’ve got money, you know? Their own bread oven and all.”

Dimitry knew little about heathens and why they were in Mettingcrest, but neither fighting a war nor starting a family was a temporary task. “How often do your children visit?”

“Well, you know, kids these days are so busy. They have more to deal with than anyone else.”

“But when are they coming back?”

The woman watched Dimitry with hopeful eyes in an otherwise hopeless face. “Any day now. Maybe tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow.”

Realizing an unfortunate truth, Dimitry heaved a heavy sigh. A concerned child would never allow their parent to live in such a pitiful state. No one was coming for her. Not tomorrow, and not the day after. It seemed that kids neglecting their aging parents wasn’t an issue limited to Earth.

Grabbing the bowl of pottage, Dimitry walked towards her. “Patience is a virtue, but there’s no point in waiting with an empty stomach. You should eat.”

“I can’t. Even if I wanted to.” Despite despair oscillating through her words, the woman’s smile never waned. She lowered her torn blanket to uncover a small lump at the base of her throat. “The bishop said it was a mark of devotion from Zera for entrusting such a fine boy with the monastery. He’s a knight by now, you know?”

Dimitry’s eyes furrowed. The ‘mark of devotion’ on her neck resembled a malignant growth more than any holy symbol should. “Do you mind if I take a closer look? I’m a… I was a doctor.”

“A physician?” The woman examined his shoddy clothing. “You lost your job, too?”

“Something like that.” He palpated her neck for nodules and growths with careful strokes from his fingertips.

“I used to be a seamstress, you know? But I’m old now. For a youngster like you, probably never even having children, to—” She coughed violently.

“Did that hurt?”

“N-no. Just felt fuller than usual.”

Dimitry nudged aside her trachea with his right thumb and, with his left, pulled back nearby muscle for higher clarity. “Can you try swallowing your saliva for me?”

The woman complied, and the growth in her neck pulled up.

An enlarged thyroid gland—a goiter.

Alone, that meant nothing. Many illnesses caused goiters, including cancer, excessive thyroid hormone, or even too little thyroid hormone. Fortunately, a simple visual examination could differentiate between them.

Dimitry’s gaze traveled down from the woman’s brown hair—dry and thinning across her scalp—to her puffy face. Along with a hoarse voice and scaly skin, they were classic findings of lacking thyroid function and almost definitely hypothyroidism. But that still wasn’t a diagnosis.

Everything from pituitary disorders and Hashimoto’s disease to viral infection resulted in hypothyroidism. Even malnutrition could have been the culprit. Unfortunately, each had a different remedy.

Were he still on Earth, Dimitry would have decided on treatment only after ordering an array of hormone and antibody tests, but this world doubtless hadn’t such luxuries. The only tools at his disposal were simple examination, rationale, and questioning. Providing standard care was impossible. However, since the lady sat before him was on the verge of starvation, doing nothing wasn’t an option either.

Dimitry cursed his inadequacy but did not let his indecision show. To do so was to lose his guise of composure. Nothing lost a patient’s confidence faster than an unsure physician—especially one in tattered clothes.

Resolving to do his best with what he had, Dimitry would eliminate potential causes for her illness. But first things first. What kind of doctor questioned a patient without even knowing their name?

He leaned back and looked at the woman expectantly. “Mrs…”

“Oh, so formal.” She offered a warm chuckle and a wheeze. “It’s Madalinde, but call me Milli like everyone else.”

“Mrs. Milli, I know your ‘Mark of Devotion’ doesn’t allow you to eat well, but would you tell me about your diet? The more information the better.”

She looked down at her cupped hands, whose fingers quaked in a chilling wind. “There’s not much to say I’m afraid. For many moons, I’ve been getting pottage from the lovely priestesses at the Church. They even mash it for me a bit so I can get some of it down. Then there’s the beef tallow I occasionally get from the butcher… he’s an old friend, you know? From back when I was still mending clothes on tailor’s street. Saulf’d often come by to—”

Although Dimitry nodded amiably while listening to her story, there was only one thing on his mind: Milli survived solely on grain and scraps of beef fat. The poor nutritional diversity astounded him, and it was most likely the cause of her hypothyroidism.

More specifically, iodine.

There wasn’t any in Milli’s diet.

In modern society, producers added potassium iodide to table salt to prevent a plethora of symptoms from cognitive decline to unhealthy weight gain. Milli didn’t have that luxury. Not only was the pottage they ate without salt, but he doubted anyone in this town could identify or treat iodine deficiency.

Without iodine, the thyroid couldn’t produce the hormones necessary for controlling metabolic rate. Even if Milli consumed adequate calories, her body couldn’t sufficiently mobilize the energy. The trembling hands. The damaged hair and skin, among other countless symptoms. They all resulted from poor metabolic control.

But that wasn’t the worst part. Human bodies regulated themselves, allowing for the recognition and amending of internal issues. Milli’s was no different. Attempting to manufacture more thyroid hormone, her thyroid over-activated, growing in size. However, without iodine, the effort was in vain. All her enlarged thyroid did was birth a goiter that starved her further.

The inclusion of iodine in her diet would most likely undo the damage.

Although Dimitry did not know why he was in this world or how to leave, the thought of tending to a patient made him jump to his feet. Some semblance of normalcy. For the first time since he arrived here, a genuine smile surfaced on his face.

“—and the whole family would sit together to help me knit a—” Milli’s prolonged story came to an abrupt end. She looked up at him with dilated pupils. “Did I bore you?”

“No!” Dimitry concealed his exuberant expression to conserve whatever hints of professionalism remained. “No. Not at all, Mrs. Milli. Quite the opposite. It’s just that I think I know how to cure your condition.”

She chuckled once more. “My condition?”

“The mark of devotion.”

“It’s nothing that needs curing, you know. It’s a sign from her holiness Zera that—”

Realizing Dimitry accidentally insulted her religion, he immediately rebounded. An aggrieved patient was unlikely to comply with treatment. “I misspoke. What I meant to say was that I can help you bear the burden. Your children would be delighted to see you eating well and full of energy when you next meet, right?”

Milli paused. A sliver of hope gleamed across her hesitant eyes. “You can do that?”

After a moment spent pondering natural sources of iodine soft enough for a woman with dysphagia to consume, Dimitry spoke. “Can you get fresh cow’s milk? Perhaps from your butcher friend? Two or three cupfuls a day should be enough.”

“Every… every day?” She fished under her rugged gown for a small pouch and looked inside. Several copper coins chimed within. “I have enough for a week.”

That wouldn’t work. Milli needed a daily, affordable source of iodine.

Dimitry’s eyes darted across the alley in search of an answer. The surrounding thatch-roofed buildings didn’t provide a solution. “I’m guessing potatoes are too expensive, too?”

She nodded.

Damn. His foot tapped the filthy alleyway floor, whose callused heel was numb to the scrap-infused dirt below. “How about…” His restless tapping hastened. “How about kelp or seaweed?”

“Seaweed?” Milli uttered. “That’s for pigs, you know?”

“For pigs?”

“The fish peddlers bring dried seaweed from the coasts.”

As if rediscovering hope, Dimitry inhaled a sharp breath. If people used seaweed as pig feed, that meant it was a cheap source of iodine. Cheap enough for a struggling woman to afford.

“It’s not just for pigs,” he said. “Where I come from, there are many who consider it a health food.”

“But… I don’t know anyone that eats it. Are you sure?”

“I’m very sure.” Dimitry cupped his hands as if holding a handball. “You only need this much a day. No more than that or it might make you sick. Can you at least afford that much?”

She nodded with hesitation.

“I know it may sound strange, but promise me you’ll try it.”

“R-right.”

“Great!” Dimitry barely contained the elated grin yearning to spread across his face. “Do you mind if we meet here again tomorrow for a follow-up?”

2. Ravenfall

A bowl of pottage, now only slightly warmer than the stiff wind, rested in Dimitry’s palm as he stumbled towards the alley he awoke in. The smell of assorted grains and beef stock was difficult to ignore. It tantalized him, begged him, implored him to abandon his ambitions in favor of eating it now. Urges he almost caved to.

However, overeating was lethal, and Dimitry’s plans for the Church’s charitable meal were greater than simple consumption. If successful, they would pay higher dividends than eating stale pottage ever could. He intended to trade it to thugs for information—the same two that picked his pockets when he arrived in this world.

His goal was simple: to learn the intricacies of this land.

Although Dimitry wished to avoid criminals, his misspent youth taught him that no one knew more about a city than its most unscrupulous citizens. A meager portion of food was a small price to pay for a consultation.

And yet a question remained: could he win the trust of two thugs with a bowl of pottage? Walking into an alleyway smelling of sun-rotten carcasses, Dimitry intended to find out.

Alerted by his footsteps, a familiar man’s head shot back, his thinning white hair flailing in the wind. “Oh, it’s just you. I didn’t expect you to actually bring it here.” His wrinkled hand moved away from the firepit and outstretched as if in anticipation of a gift.

“They lechya take the plates?” the younger thug hollered, holding his filth encrusted beard in shock. “They make me eat the whole thing right in front of them!”

Dimitry placed the bowl in the older man’s only hand. “The girl at the front was very understanding.”

“Don’t trust them for a moment, kid. Those bitches at the Church only pretend to be nice. If it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t have to eat with this bowl between my legs.”

“Don’t be like that,” the younger one said. “They give us free food, they can’t be too bad. Besides, without ‘em, I’d probably be dead by now.” His gaze shot towards a bowl of pottage that quickly ran out. “Hey! Save some for me!”

“Yeah, yeah.” The older thug looked up. “Anyway, I’m Samuel, and the moron here is Arnest.”

Dimitry watched Samuel struggle to eat with a single hand. Losing control of one’s body was never easy. “You said you fought in a war?”

“I was a Zera’s Chosen, and we were sent to fight heathens in Mettingcrest. I lost my arm, and the Church left me to die. Nothing more to say than that.”

His words gave Dimitry pause. They reminded him of the story Milli told about her son, who was allegedly a Church knight. Perhaps the heathens got him before he could return to help his mother.

Arnest snatched the bowl of pottage from Samuel’s lap. “There’s barely any left!”

“Respect your elders, kid,” Samuel said with a triumphant smile.

Endeavoring to cash in on his food offering while the men were in high spirits, Dimitry asked about a word he had heard multiple times already. “What can you tell me about heathens?”

“How do ya not know what heathens are?” Arnest asked. “Did someone stomp your head in or something?”

Ignoring the younger thug, Samuel glanced at the stump on his torso where an arm once was. “Basically, they’re these… these things that come from the ocean. The Church says it’s their holy duty to wipe them out, but funnily they make everyone else do the fighting. Lucky for you, we’re far from the coast. You don’t have to worry about them.”

Arnest burst into laughter. “I still can’t imagine your old ass fighting anything, much less heathens.”

“Kid, I used to be the only one with an enchanted maul in my troop.” Samuel stood up. “I’ll kick your ass right now.”

“That’s what ya always say, but we both know ya can’t even square up with a faerie!”

Faerie? Dimitry’s gut sank further with every fantastical word he heard. They reaffirmed what he already knew, a truth he pushed away despite the overwhelming evidence this world threw at him: not only was he not on Earth, but he knew too little to know how little he knew. The culture, the social structures, the fauna, the very mechanism of worldly operation itself. Every seemingly mundane step was one into the unknown.

But that also gave rise to new possibilities. He stepped forward. “What do you two know about magic?”

“You’re asking the wrong people, kid.” Samuel sighed. “Do we look like the kind to be able to afford vol? I’ll be sure to tell you all about it when I become a wealthy merchant.”

Despite the appearance of a man in his early twenties, Arnest tossed aside the empty bowl and rocked as if recalling a long-lost memory. “We had a wizard in my village once. He told me it took him less than a year to learn illumina. Smartest man I’ve ever met. He’s probably still out there, enchanting tools and selling them on market day.”

Samuel shivered like old men in cold weather did. “Wish he’d make me an incendia blanket.”

“Like ya could ever save enough to afford that.”

“A man can dream.”

So magic did exist. It could be an invaluable tool someday, but at the moment, Dimitry didn’t know where his next meal would come from. He stacked the recently emptied wooden bowl onto the one he ate from some time ago. “Thanks for the information.”

Samuel perked up. “Leaving already?”

“The priestess asked me to return these plates to her,” Dimitry said. “I don’t want to get on her bad side.”

“Smart. We should be getting back to work, too.”

“Now ya wanna go to the port?” Arnest moaned. “You were complaining about being tired and shit all morning.”

“Well, I’m full of energy now. Let’s go before Agatha finds out and kills us.”

“Whatever.”

Samuel stood up and stretched his only arm. “Kid, come see us again sometime.” There was an unmistakable mischievous smile on his face. “Especially if you’re interested in making quick money.”

Although Dimitry starved and lacked basic utilities, he couldn’t work with the same two men who tried to rob him earlier that day. Their blatant criminality reminded Dimitry of his youth, and his ignorance made it easy for them to take advantage of him. Street thugs were good for gathering intelligence and nothing more.

“Let me think it over.” Dimitry stepped past a broken jug as he walked towards a gravel-laden road. “By the way, have either of you ever seen a blue imprint on someone’s wrist before?”

Arnest frowned. “What are ya on about?”

“Don’t drink so much, kid. It’s bad for you.”

Dimitry dropped the topic. Perhaps the dark hall he saw was limited to him, and even if it wasn’t, singling himself out more than necessary was unwise.

The church’s dull gray stone stood like a monolith of fortitude among endless white-plastered wooden buildings. As if the ultimate destination of every passerby, it claimed a prime spot in the center of a three-way fork. All kinds shuffled through its entrance: women in gray vestments, dignified men in fur-trimmed cloaks, dirt-covered farmers. It seemed religion was the great equalizer in this world.

By its giant double doors waited a beautiful girl. Her blonde pigtails reflected scarce midday light as they twisted across her chest. Then, their movement stopped when the priestess’s head stiffened, her eyes hawking Dimitry as if at the sight of a long-awaited guest.

She nearly tripped over her robes when she jogged forward. “How is she? Is your friend all right?”

Her genuine concern for Dimitry’s imaginary friend elicited from him a pang of guilt, but desperation forced him to take advantage of any means of survival. He had to perpetuate the lie.

Dimitry placed the empty wooden bowls into her open hands. “Better now, I think. We’re grateful for your generosity.”

“I wish I could do more for her, but I’m afraid our kitchens are closed until morning.” The priestess looked around. “Is she not with you?”

“No. She’s too weak to move.”

“Can’t you carry her here?”

He raised his scrawny arms, which felt heavier than ever before. “Shameful as it is, I’m not fit to carry anyone right now.”

She frowned. “That is a shame. Just be sure to take care of her as best you can. It is, after all, your duty as a man to keep that young lady safe. Understood?”

Dimitry averted his gaze to conceal disgust. What right did an organization that left Milli to die after calling her fatal goiter a ‘Mark of Devotion’ have to lecture him about duty?

Icy air filled his nostrils when he took a calming breath. Now wasn’t the time to raise complaints. The misdiagnosis wasn’t the priestess’ doing: a bright and honest teenager like her lacked the capacity to orchestrate self-ingratiating falsities. Such malice was the domain of jaded adults. To admonish a young girl for her superiors’ transgressions was counterproductive.

More so when Dimitry relied on the Church to survive. They were his sole source of food. He unclenched his fist to match the rest of his composed posture. “I’ll do my best to bring her here safely.”

“Good.” The priestess smiled. “But be sure to care for yourself as well. Even if only we can hear the Voice of Zera, men are her children too. It’s our mission to rescue anyone going through tumultuous times. Bring your friend so Bishop Marianne can take a look at her wounds. Do whatever it takes to get her here.”

Even if Dimitry had an injured friend, he would never bring her here. To do so did not differ from murder. He nodded despite himself. “Right.”

“If only all men were as dutiful as you.” Her beautiful eyes gleamed. “I admire your zeal.”

“I live to serve.”

“That’s how it should be. I hope to see you both tomorrow.” The priestess lowered her head as if praising someone present but unseen before turning away to greet townspeople.

After watching her return to the church’s massive gray doors, Dimitry trudged down the street, gravel and dirt clumps crumbling beneath the soles of his calloused feet.

A man whose expression screamed disgust clamped his nostrils shut with two meaty fingers as he moved out of Dimitry’s way while a group of women wearing towel headdresses averted their gazes, leaving only a young boy biting into a holey apple to acknowledge his existence.

Dimitry paid them no mind. He was desperately brainstorming a way to remain within the priestess’ good graces. Although she believed him today, tomorrow wouldn’t be so easy. The girl was adamant about meeting his nonexistent female friend, and retracting the lie wasn’t an option.

Even if Dimitry convinced the priestess that his friend disappeared somehow, he would get only one bowl of pottage a day instead of the two from this morning. A serving that small wouldn’t gain him weight, let alone prevent starvation. The Church’s alms alone weren’t enough for Dimitry to survive.

Assuming that seasons as he knew them existed here, the frigid winds blowing against his exposed legs and the low altitude of an alien sun hiding behind a sea of gray clouds hinted that winter fast approached. Dimitry’s scrawny frame wouldn’t fare well against malnutrition and exposure to cold weather. Pottage only helped so much. A thousand calories or so wouldn’t prevent him from losing his fingers, toes, ears, or nose to frostbite, nor would it stop the resulting blisters from getting infected and killing him before spring.

Dimitry needed more than food. He needed shelter, firewood, and clothes. Shoes for his bare feet, freshwater for hydration, a bed to avoid sleeping on a dirty street floor where unknown otherworldly vermin crawled and parasites thrived.

Simply put, he needed a job.

Ravenfall.

If the scarce signs on shop and fortification walls were anything to go by, that was the name of the city Dimitry found himself in. It was one of many discoveries he made while trudging through its streets, bearing the uninviting glares of residents at every crowded intersection. However, neither the civilians’ scorn, the soreness in his legs, nor the empty pit in his stomach prevented him from scouring this strange place for employment.

From warehouses beside a central river to bathhouses and stables, he kept a mental ledger of any establishment that might hire someone like himself. But menial labor wasn’t his goal. What he wanted most was an opening that suited an out-of-work surgeon. Dimitry could tolerate life here if he could work as a medical professional once more.

Unfortunately, finding employment wasn’t easy.

There was no clinic, hospital, or even a dentist anywhere. Not along the market streets, nor within a maze or cottages or a secluded neighborhood illuminated by obscure stones glowing with unnatural red light. Pondering whether that was the magic Samuel spoke of, Dimitry followed Ravenfall’s outer walls until reaching two massive archways.

They separated the flimsy wood-framed buildings littering most of the cityscape from an inner cocoon of impressive stone architecture, including spacious houses, a towering cathedral, and luxurious stores. Down a pristine central road was a group of women in brightly dyed dresses who flirted with men in ornate tunics beneath the roof of a central pavilion. Beyond was a castle more dilapidated than in any fairytale.

If there was employment for a skilled surgeon anywhere, it was here.

Dimitry approached for a closer look, to find at last the historic equivalent to a medical office where he could work, but a swathe of guards with glowing pikes warned off his advance with murderous scowls. One even raised a strange pipe-like weapon to their chest.

Their message was clear.

Bottom dwellers like him were unwelcome.

Limping on a foot whose sole burned with every icy gravel step, Dimitry heeded their advice. They would kill him before he could come close enough to explain his situation. Although life in this world hadn’t been easy, that didn’t mean Dimitry wanted it to end. The time he wasted in the oncology ward earned him an appreciation for the minutiae. Even staying upright on one’s own feet, no matter how sore they were, was to be savored.

Advancing careers would come later. Staying alive took priority.

Armed with a list of potential employers, Dimitry moved on to the next stage of his plan: preparing for job interviews. The most immediate goal was to attain a presentable appearance. Grime stained his odorous rags, and an overgrown dirty-blond beard mired his face. He didn’t have the funds to amend his appearance with clothes or to visit one of several barbers’ shops along the market streets, but fortunately, he had life experience.

Cradled in Dimitry’s arm were two large rocks: one long and purple, the other deep black and glassy. Rough corundum and obsidian. Both minerals formed near volcanoes, and for them to be worthless enough for a mason to dump them beside their cottage hinted that one lay nearby.

Dimitry would fashion his haul into crude shaving equipment.

His idea came from a surgeon co-worker on Earth who used obsidian scalpels. Being a natural glass, microscopically thin edges formed upon shattering. Further processing allowed for a sharpness hundreds of times greater than any stainless steel blade, resulting in clean surgical incisions.

Dimitry, of course, never had a use for obsidian blades. Although they sliced skin with ease, the mineral’s brittleness meant it broke with the slightest mishandling. The fear of leaving volcanic glass fragments beneath a patient’s skin during a routine procedure wasn’t worth the potential benefits, especially considering the superior safety of blunt dissection. Sometimes a gloved finger was all a surgeon needed to separate tissue.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t one of those times. Dimitry needed to shave his beard. Without money, rough obsidian ‘blades’ were his best choice, and without a sink, a river would suffice.

It was the same river he passed twice while exploring Ravenfall. By cutting across the city diagonally, it divided the city into two.

Dimitry passed an arched bridge and a modest port to kneel by the water’s edge. A blue and clear beauty under overcast skies. While biological waste tainted the river, an absence of modern technology meant that the water here had fewer industrial contaminants than on Earth.

Dimitry wondered about the parasites hidden within its depths. His immune system was accustomed to Earth’s microbiology, and just like the Aztec civilization crumbled under an onslaught of foreign germs, he could die from the ones here. Or was his biological makeup too alien for this world’s pathogens to harm him?

While exploring, he came across people with unique phenotypes like azure hair and magenta irises—traits unheard of in humans. Were they the result of mutant alleles or the most groundbreaking cases of convergent evolution in existence? Perhaps all intelligent life was preordained to evolve a humanoid body.

Dimitry leaned forward to gaze into the river’s pristine waters. His reflected face had an uncharacteristic youthful vigor to it. Setting aside the clumps of dirt entwined in his beard and hair, the man who was in his mid-thirties now appeared as he did in his twenties.

Why was Dimitry young?

What the hell happened to him in the dark hall?

Would he ever return home?

He ignored the questions that sought to be answered and a sensation of something sinking within his stomach—the realization that he would never see his family or friends again.

Dimitry was alone.

Shaking his head to clear his mind of superfluous thought, he dug a mud pit and fit the obsidian chunk within such that it couldn’t move. His right hand tightened around the corundum stake while the other grasped a nearby piece of basalt. The poor man’s hammer and chisel were ready.

Dimitry’s jaw clenched as he aimed the makeshift corundum chisel towards the obsidian. He shifted away his vital organs to avoid penetrating trauma from ejected volcanic shards.

Cold air rushed into his nostrils as the echoes of shattering glass sliced the air.

Dimitry examined his hands and torso for breached skin. There was none. Exhaling a relieved breath, he cautiously searched the glassy debris for the straightest obsidian shard before burying the rest beneath layers of stone and dirt to avoid having an unwitting passerby accidentally step on them.

Makeshift razor clenched between two outstretched fingers, Dimitry edged closer to the river. The crystal waters would suffice in place of a mirror. He rinsed his face to remove stiff grime from his beard, then brought the sharp obsidian to his face, focusing on his reflection in the slow-flowing water. Although he didn’t sharpen the dark purple blade, its edge was more than capable of slicing hair and skin.

The sideburns went first. Then the hair on his cheek lines, mustache, and his chin. Finally, it came time for what concerned Dimitry most—the neck.

A bit of pressure was the difference between clean-shaven and severing one of two carotid arteries before promptly bleeding to death. Even with all the surgical advancements on Earth, the prognosis often led to unconsciousness and death long before a physician reached the patient.

But Dimitry’s hands were steady. Thankfully, his time-honed muscle memory transferred to this world alongside a youthful physique. Swathes of beard hair fell into the river and drifted away until a young man’s reflection remained.

There was an unexpected satisfaction that came with freshening up despite his obscure situation. No. It was because of Dimitry’s situation. A lack of resources couldn’t prevent him from getting a job. He would use the income to end his reliance on the Church and fund a clinical practice that would revolutionize medicine forever. As his wealth grew, Dimitry could investigate these twisted lands for other Earth refugees and a way home.

It wasn’t the life he had ever envisioned for himself, but it was better than laying semi-conscious in a hospital bed.

The exhilaration of another chance.

He would use this one well.

Wearing a slight grin, Dimitry buried his obsidian razor deep within the dirt. Now came the last step before he applied for a job. A preemptive chill crawled down his spine as his foot stepped into the river’s icy waters. Although he risked hypothermia by bathing, now was his best chance—midday was warmest and the weather would only grow colder every day he waited.

The gunk coating his ‘clothes’ dispersed in a calm current, revealing different colored cloth scraps layering over what was once a simple, white robe. Tears and loose string covered the rugged fabric.

Although not the suit and tie one would wear to an interview, fortunately for Dimitry, only the wealthy had pristine clothes. Warehouse workers hauling sacks and crates along Ravenfall’s pier wore similarly torn apparel. Some didn’t even have shirts.

Dimitry submerged the mismatching cloth rags into riverside mud to avoid hauling wet trash to every interview, then marked the burial spot with piled rocks. Spare cloth always had a use.

3. Unemployed Surgeon

A waxing moon hung low in the sky, painting the white-plastered walls of timber-framed buildings teal. The main roads, packed this afternoon, now supported sleepy-eyed laborers, wandering drunks, and Ravenfall’s arcane caretakers.

Accompanied by a guard, a yellow-robed woman held green rocks in one hand and hovered an outstretched palm over a dim streetlight. “Illumina,” she whispered.

The streetlight’s luminescence intensified until its brightness matched the dozen others lining main street. But neither had a candle. Nor oil. Not even a hearth. Instead of crackling flames, a stone orb glowing bright peaked atop every iron rod.

Dimitry watched with wide-open eyes. The robed woman’s chant reminded him of the dark hall. He used a rock just like hers. Was he capable of magic as well?

The thought would have dropped his jaw in awe if the green celestial body overhead hadn’t already. He had watched it rise since the skies began to darken. This moon dwarfed the Earth’s in size and light. While breathtaking and wondrous, it was a constant reminder that he was no longer home.

Nowhere near home.

Once more Dimitry told himself he should focus only on what he could do, and once more his hand pinched his torn white robes to discover that they were finally dry. From midday to evening, he froze in pre-winter gales, the rumbling void in his stomach sharpening every icy chill. But his efforts paid off.

He could interview for a job at last.

Unfortunately, time was limited. Many of the city’s workers packed their tools or marched towards alehouses. Their workplaces would close soon.

If Dimitry didn’t find employment tonight, he would have to sleep in some cold ditch, his clothes dirtying before morning. Every effort would have been for nothing. He rushed to where his chances of being hired were highest—the port. Most laborers dressed almost as poorly as him, their work was unskilled, and with Dimitry’s advanced knowledge, he probably wouldn’t have to drag a single sack across the pier.

His bare feet pounded across a gravel road. The prospect of money invigorated sore muscles. From food to warm clothes, he could buy anything he wanted. Shoe shopping thrilled Dimitry for the first time in his life.

Past an arched bridge and a timber harbor stood a wide building. Plank-reinforced bricks comprised the warehouse walls, and loose tiles formed the roof. Laborers hauled crates and two-wheeled wagons through front gates.

Relief flooded warmth into Dimitry’s numb thighs upon discovering that the business operated into the early evening. Perhaps he would find a job tonight. He combed his hair, straightened his back, and faked a confident gait to give the illusion of health and confidence as he entered.

Leaning against a wall and sat on stacked sacks, a man with fatigued eyes studied Dimitry. His shirtless chest and sweat-drenched, baggy pants hinted he was a laborer. They lacked the authority to hire anyone.

Even so, Dimitry greeted him with a respectful nod. “Good evening. Do you know where I may apply for a job here?”

The laborer’s brows furrowed. He shrugged and pointed to a back room.

Unsure if their blasé response could be trusted, Dimitry afforded another nod. “Thank you.”

He strode past crates, vermin droppings, and workers who roared with laughter while discussing tonight’s plans. Gales squeezed through chinks in the walls to chill Dimitry’s neck until he reached a door leading to a back room. His hand reached to knock.

“What now?” A cloaked figure barked from within. He pushed aside stacked parchment bearing scribbled numbers from past calculations as his face rose to glare through a tiny green glass screen in the door.

Their rudeness didn’t disturb Dimitry—a day’s work made anyone impatient. Instead, he smiled amiably as one did during any job interview. “I’ve come to inquire about employment at this facility.”

“Inquire… facility?”

Realizing he spoke too formally for an entry-level unskilled labor position in a medieval society, Dimitry chose simpler words. “I’m looking for a job.”

With an irritated grunt, the man tumbled towards the door. It creaked open. However, instead of inviting their potential employee into their office, they blocked the entrance with a wide gut. Their tunic’s hood flung back to reveal a bearded frown. “Who the fuck are you? Do I know you?”

“We haven’t met. I’ve arrived in Ravenfall just recently, but I believe I can offer you services no one else in this city can.”

The man’s hand shot forward to grab a fistful of Dimitry’s torn white sleeves. His gaze fell onto an embroidered symbol on the inner cuff resembling a cane. “A pilgrim, huh? Never seen eyes like yours, must have been quite the journey. Celeste guide you.” He backed off to unblock the doorway.

Dimitry followed him inside. He wasn’t sure what being a pilgrim entailed, nor if it was a desirable circumstance, but his choice to avoid over-qualifying his credentials was a good one. A pilgrim seeking employment in ragged robes held more believability than a beggar surgeon ever could. Even in this world.

“I’m James.” The man pointed at a crude oak chair across from his desk. “Want a drink?”

No. Dimitry didn’t. After drinking from wells to quench an insatiable thirst and fill the emptiness in his gut, worsening muscle cramps hinted that his blood salt levels were plummeting from overhydration. He risked developing a deadly electrolyte disorder without money to buy nutritious foods.

“I don’t wish to trouble you more than I already have.”

“Nonsense.” James blew into a cup, from which dust chunks erupted towards a low plank ceiling. He reached for a ceramic jug. “Zera would despise me if I did nothing for a pious kid like you.”

Brushing aside being called a kid, Dimitry waved a hand. “Please. Don’t trouble yourselves with—”

Before he could finish his sentence, a cup slid across the table.

As it approached, Dimitry’s stomach churned.

But James watched unmovingly.

Aiming to appease a potential employer, Dimitry reached for the water despite primal disgust begging him not to. “Thanks.”

As if accomplishing a bothersome yet necessary chore, the man’s shoulders relaxed. He leaned back in his chair. “You said you wanted a job, right?”

“That’s correct.”

Two bloodshot eyes traveled up Dimitry’s scrawny arm. “You saw the kind of work we do out here, din’tchya? You’d be a liability. Last thing we need is someone dying on the job—especially a pilgrim. The Church would never let us hear the end of it.”

Damn. Although Dimitry expected his health to be problematic, he hoped an uncaring employer would allow for oversight until he recovered. Unfortunately, the title of pilgrim conferred unwanted protections.

His gaze shifted to the scattered parchment beneath the man’s elbow, each displaying columns of crossed lines and numbers—unnecessarily laborious and reckless math. While the digits took strange forms, Dimitry deciphered them as easily as he did this world’s alien language. Basic mathematics seemed to operate on the decimal system just as it did on Earth, and the additive nature of the numbers indicated James was handling some sort of ledger.

Dimitry’s skills were relevant.

They were his best chance at securing a job.

“But of course,” he said. “You’re absolutely right. I cannot possibly transport goods as well as your other employees, but that’s not why I came here. I have something far more valuable to offer you. A skill I learned in a distant land.”

“And what skill is that?”

A glance at the nearby quill was all it took to dissuade Dimitry from demonstrating proper long-form algebra. The potential embarrassment of fumbling with a writing implement he lacked experience with would destroy his credibility. Mental calculations were a better option.

After briefly cross-checking the numbers, Dimitry’s eyebrows furrowed. There was a mistake. One so basic that even a middle schooler could see. “Just making sure—you’re keeping track of something with this, right?”

James’ tongue dug between yellow teeth to fish out remnants of today’s dinner. “It’s our raw material inventory.”

Dimitry pointed to a misaligned seventh row. “Would you please double-check this number?”

“Why?”

“Just try it.”

The man groaned before throwing an abacus bearing the scratches of frequent use onto his desk. After a sluggish dance of jotting numbers and the lazy clashing of wooden beads, he jerked up in his chair and hunched closer to the table. He did the calculations once more, except this time, his hands moved feverishly. Mumblings escalated into panicked groans as the abacus’s sliding beads slammed against one another.

Four repetitions and an agape mouth later, James glanced up. “Who are you?”

“Just someone that knows a bit of accounting.”

“Bullshit.” James tossed the loose parchment stack into his desk drawer and slammed it shut. “Do you expect me to believe a roving pilgrim like you just comes out of nowhere dressed like shit but can do something like that? And out of all the places you can go, you come here looking for work?”

The dissonance between Dimitry’s appearance and capabilities—did he oversell himself? “I didn’t mean any disrespect. Can’t you tell I’m just desperate for money?”

Massaging his forehead, the man inhaled a deep breath. Rage gradually left his face. “Look, do you have anyone impressive who can vouch for you? We can’t just trust a random smartass with our finances.”

Dimitry met only two thugs, a homeless woman, and a church priestess. Neither knew him longer than a day. “No, but—”

“How about guild certificates or connections from The Holy Kingdom?”

“Can you explain?”

“Prominent family in Ravenfall?”

“I don’t think I have any here.”

“So how the hell am I supposed to know you’re not a gambling addict or a Tenebrae bum sent here just to fuck us over? Shit, at this point, I don’t even know if you’re a real pilgrim.”

“I just told you,” Dimitry said. “I’m starving. If I don’t clothe and feed myself soon, I’ll die. There’s no reason for me to compromise your business. Give me a chance.”

James stood. “Maybe you are a good kid, but if I fuck up by hiring you, it’ll be my head on the chopping block. Unless you can pull some actual credibility out of your ass, I suggest you get outta here before I really get mad.”

Dimitry lazily traced a moon floating across a pitch-black sky, blinding green light illuminating an alleyway of scattered refuse, soot-coated roof edges, and cracked plaster walls—his home after a long evening of job-searching. He would have continued looking were there a shop or establishment without a locked door, but Ravenfall’s businesses closed early. The only option was to lie on a makeshift mattress of hay and thatch until morning.

But he didn’t sleep.

He couldn’t sleep.

Although Dimitry’s eyes wished to close for a moment’s rest without the constant burning dryness brought on by fatigue and the frigid air’s irritation, skittering vermin and gravel crushed beneath patrolling guards’ iron boots repeatedly shot him into wakefulness.

So he lay in perturbed silence, inflamed toes curled to conserve heat amongst icy blitzes. Dimitry fantasized about scorching showers and warm coffee. Rarely a bacon and egg sandwich on the side. Usually just an espresso. It was often his breakfast after falling out of a toasty bed and driving to the emergency room for a twenty-hour shift comprising a dozen car crash, random trauma, and violent crime victims.

Sometimes Dimitry would complain about sleep deprivation while on-call, but it was always in jest. Even time spent outside the operating room wasn’t a waste. Potentially saved lives outweighed the tedium that came from feverishly reviewing CT scans and X-rays, especially when patients frequently suffered from easily missed injuries. Every effort was worth it.

All of it except paperwork.

However, even hours of filling forms on a touchpad sounded good after tonight’s job interviews: the first at the warehouse, the second in a butcher shop, and finally at a tailor’s. They were suitable places for him to seek employment. Weaving various suture stitches for over a decade familiarized Dimitry with needles, and the occasional amputation gave him proficiency at severing flesh.

But it wasn’t that simple. Despite any skill Dimitry demonstrated, one flaw undermined his every attempt: credibility. No one knew who he was.

The tailor and butcher feared a homeless man would steal from their shops, while the warehouse operator fabricated an entirely new identity for Dimitry. Their paranoia, although angering, made sense.

Even on Earth, electronic security checks fostered little trust for those seeking employment without credentials or connections. Hiring panels cared more for reliability than brief demonstrations of knowledge and skill—more so when the one they interviewed wore nothing but a tattered white robe.

Dimitry sighed and rolled onto his back to avoid the sharp hay digging into his thigh. His gaze focused on the flickering shadows of a flame dancing behind an overhead shuttered window. It must have been warm inside. With the progress his current job hunt was making, it was a comfort he would die before experiencing.

Going about it as he did wasn’t viable. What he needed was for someone to vouch for him. Someone who knew the local businessmen.

He initially considered asking the Church for help, but the thought of indebting himself to them elicited a wince from Dimitry. Their self-portrayal as selfless givers eroded under the weight of patient and believer neglect. Along with being morally reprehensible, their ‘pilgrim’ robes earned little sympathy from employers. Religion offered no advantages in the private sector.

Another idea was asking Samuel and Arnest for references, but the bloodstains on their rags and the elder’s sinister parting words incited concern. Were they murderers? Thieves? They did dig through Dimitry’s clothes while he lay unconscious. Even if associating with two muggers somehow improved his reputation with an employer, they weren’t the type any self-preserving man should work for.

That left Dimitry with only one option—one he preferred not to take. Asking a favor from an ailing woman who struggled even more than he was the ultimate disgrace, yet worsening stomach spasms compelled him to do so anyway.

Or that was what he told himself.

However, simple survival was not the sole yearning within Dimitry. As yet another frigid gale hurled fabric debris through the alleyway and sent shivers down his slender arms, he wanted one thing more than anything.

He wanted to feel like a human again.

Like a healer.

Church bells sang from every direction, filling Ravenfall with Zera’s undying affection. Normally, that was when Milli would have awoken. But not today.

Today she awoke early.

Her head no longer ached and that constant fog clouding her mind… it was gone! For the first time in years, her thoughts were clear. Milli had vitality! Even before the day began, she had already bathed and began sewing.

It was what she used to do before fatigue made her incapable of paying taxes on the shop. How long had passed since then? How often had she prayed to work once more? A problem of the past. Zera had mercifully granted her wish!

Never again would Milli conserve needle and thread for a day she feared would never come. Her fingers, no longer frozen stiff, dipped and swerved to restitch the unfurling hem of her gown. Although some threads came out uneven, at this rate, her skills would soon return to normal.

Milli would practice on her clothes before doing work for others. She would gradually earn enough to purchase a small tailor shop, just like the one she owned in her prime.

Surely such a blessing was brought on by Jarin—her youngest son. Entrusting him to the Church was Milli’s best decision. There was a time selfishness made her hesitate, but her baby must have become a proud Zeran knight by now and slain a truly evil heathen, earning enough forgiveness for even a mother as wicked as Milli!

She inhaled a mouthful of cool, crisp air. What a lovely boy she birthed. Milli would visit him once she saved enough coin to travel to Mettingcrest. Would Jarin recognize her? He was only an infant when they parted.

Only time would tell.

Time that waited for no one.

Sat in an alley, Milli focused on tailoring even as the streets grew lively and colorful with Zera’s children, most of whom had just left their homes for work. Gentle laughter and the occasional prancing horse brought levity. It was a beautiful day, you know?

The hushed sound of softly crunching gravel approached from around the corner.

With newfound agility, Milli’s head darted to the right.

A lanky young man with mysterious golden-brown hair trudged closer. Eyes gentle and pale green like autumn grass, he stepped out from main street and into the alley. It was that kind ‘doctor’ from yesterday except he no longer had a beard, and the torn robe he wore was that of a pilgrim.

A pilgrim’s robe…

A pilgrim’s robe?!

Milli’s mouth opened wide. Could it be? It was strange for Zera to deliver miracles through men, and for seaweed to bring vitality, but for her tiredness to vanish after a pilgrim from The Holy Kingdom visited… it couldn’t have been a coincidence!

She was saved.

The young man limped closer. “Mrs. Milli, is everything alright?”

Noticing the warm tears racing down her cheeks, Milli mopped her face with a half-stitched cuff.

His unique eyes flinching with unearned guilt, the young man froze.

Milli’s hands deftly dug into her crate and quilt bed to unearth a small pouch. She knelt and held it forth on two open palms. “Please, I want you to have it. For food and your journey back home.”

His fearful gaze transformed into a warm smile. He crouched beside her. “I assume you’ve taken my advice?”

She nodded. “I got seaweed from a friend. It tasted bad, but it feels like I can do anything now, you know? I’m full of energy!”

With a brief chuckle, the young man leaned closer. A hand reached forward, but instead of grabbing her pouch, they held up Milli’s fingers. His gaze darted across her cheeks.

“You definitely look more alert. Interesting that the seaweed has taken effect so soon. Your nails are probably going to take longer to heal, and your face will be puffy for a while still. As for the lump in your throat, it’ll get smaller, but there’s a chance it’ll never go away completely. You probably won’t even notice it by then, though. That’s assuming you continue eating seaweed once a day. Not more often than that, and only a handful for now. Eating too much too soon can hurt you more than it helps.”

She could only nod. Although Bishop Marianne said her Mark of Devotion was a gift from Zera, who was Milli to forsake the advice of a cleric sent by her holiness herself? All she felt in her heart was praise.

Pouch still on outstretched hands, she lowered her chin to the alley floor. “Won’t you accept? There may not be enough to repay one of your wisdom, but I would feel better if you took it, you know?”

The young cleric’s expression contorted as if confronting an inner struggle. A long silence passed before a smile returned to his face. “How about this? I’ll happily take your money after you’re healthy enough to earn more. My responsibility entails more than prescribing patients seaweed. I have to discharge them too, you know?”

Although Milli had the feelings, she didn’t have the words to respond to his kindness. She kept it simple. “Thank you.”

“Just glad I could help.” An elongated grunt escaped his mouth as two bony legs struggled to stand. He headed towards the street, gave an unsure glance back, and continued to walk away.

Milli felt guilt. An old woman like her had already fulfilled her duty to the Church by having children, but for her to let a cleric who converted hog feed into miracles to suffer as he did was a crime she would never forgive herself for. Even if Zera did.

“Wait a moment!”

His head shot back. “Is everything okay?”

“That’s what I want to know. Where are you going?”

He licked his cracked lips and pointed at the intersection ahead with a limp finger. “Just getting pottage from the church.”

Milli pressed her hands to her hips as she used to when reprimanding her eldest son. “And then?”

“And then… well, it’s actually one of the reasons I came to see you, to ask if you can help me find somewhere to work.” He gazed at Milli’s cuff, which dangled a needle from a thread. “But I can see you’re busy trying to put your life back together as well.”

Somewhere to work? Why would a talented pilgrim like him have difficulty finding a job?

Milli thought for a moment. Perhaps clerics were much like tailors: both had to establish a base of clientele. Usually, an apprentice inherited their master’s customers, but how could a young man have the same soon after a pilgrimage from The Holy Kingdom? It was a pity. Without money, he would starve, and without him, many would die.

Zera blessed few women and even fewer men. Milli couldn’t let his divine talents go to waste. “There’s a lot of sick people around these parts, you know? I can help you find them.”

“So I’ve seen. Unfortunately, what I did for you was an exception. My skills mostly deal with surgery. Without tools or supplies, I can’t operate. That’s why I wanted to ask about your butcher friend who gives you tallow. Do you think he could give me a job?”

Surgery?

Milli’s head tilted back. “You’re a barber?”

He gave her a familiar look. It was one of those looks that people claiming Milli’s struggles were just in her head had given her before—utter disbelief. “I sometimes shaved people before surgery, but I wouldn’t call myself a barber.”

“That’s exactly what I mean! You’re a barber-surgeon! Why are you throwing away the gifts Zera blessed you with to be a butcher’s errand boy when you can work for someone like a barber?! You should be out there saving lives!”

“Barber-surgeon?” The young man thoughtfully rubbed his chin. “I saw the shops, but I never thought they’d be run by physicians. Is that some sort of subspecialty in this wor—in this city?”

Milli wondered if The Holy Kingdom lacked something as trivial as barber-surgeons, but she didn’t waste precious time explaining trivialities. Every moment they spent here was a life stolen from Zera’s ill and beloved faithful. She thrust her sheathed needles, dyed spools of thread, and a red pouch into her pockets so no one would steal them in her absence. “Come on!”

“To get pottage?” he asked. “If you want, I can prepare it so it’s easier for you to eat, and there’s also a few swallow-strengthening exercises if you think you need—”

“Don’t bother yourself with me.” Sacred duty pushing her forward, Milli rushed past him. “You’ve come to this city for a reason, and I know why.”

4. Damn Leeches

A narrow doorway stood between two walls with uneven white plaster surfaces, which had been peeling for at least a decade. Visible through the chinks were exposed mud-colored chunks. They slowly crumbled away from timber frames. A pole, striped red and white, protruded just above a shuttered window and rattled with the occasional gale—typical barbershop paraphernalia.

At least it had been on Earth. Dimitry assumed the same was true in this society where life held a remarkable likeness to medieval Europe. That was why being a barber wasn’t his first choice of employment. Although he could shave skin, providing socially presentable haircuts was another beast. The roles of a barber and a surgeon couldn’t have been more different.

Or so Dimitry thought. During the trip from the alley, Milli explained that barber-surgeons dealt in everything from haircuts and amputations to plagues and dentistry.

A terrifying prospect.

In any modern society, the deep complexity within each of those responsibilities required the skills of highly educated professionals with years of training. Even barbers had familiarity with countless minutiae, including dermatology fundamentals and blade safety.

Something like amputation, however, was even more nuanced. Nurses and anesthesiologists worked alongside surgeons who specialized in the organs being removed, followed by the prosthetist, physiotherapist, and psychologist who handled the physical and psychological hurdles of losing flesh.

How the hell was one person supposed to do all that? Was it even plausible for a barber-surgeon to master the basics in a land where tossing raw sewage from a window was the norm for disposing of fecal matter? The survival rates couldn’t have been high.

Following Milli with down-turned eyes, that was all Dimitry could think about.

She stopped upon reaching the barber shop’s protruding doorstep. Her patchy gown flapped in an oncoming gale. “This is the barber who looked at my tiredness and the… the hypnothtrotter gouter years ago. If I tell him how you’re a holy cleric with Zera’s blessing, he’ll definitely consider you, you know?”

Dimitry didn’t mind her assumptions of his holiness. As long as Milli complied with treatment, what she called him didn’t matter. Troubling him more was the prospect of working for a barber-surgeon. However, despite his rationale hinting at imminent disaster, there was hope that in a world where tools, weapons, and walls glowed incandescent, where hushed whispers in the dark gave rise to light, that magic existed to counteract knowledge gaps.

Recalling his time in the dark hall, Dimitry glanced at the light-blue pawn on his wrist. ‘Invisall’. If that was a spell he chanted, and it rendered him unseen, magic could hold possibilities more extravagant than light production.

What if a blood clot disintegrating spell existed? One that cured genetic illness? Regenerated brain tissue from strokes, cerebral aneurysms, or oxygen deprivation? Perhaps in this world, medicine and surgery were merely a ceremonial supplement to healing magic.

There was much Dimitry didn’t know.

He judged the rituals of a mystical people too early. Aiming to investigate spells more thoroughly when he earned a stable living, he focused on basic necessities for now.

Dimitry straightened his back and adjusted his robe, wearing an expression as confident as a barefoot man’s could be. “I’m ready.”

“You’ll do good!” Milli cheered, fresh enthusiasm in her voice. “Zera will see to it.”

“I sure hope so.”

She pushed open the door, which creaked around a rusted metal hinge.

A narrow internal full of ceramic vases and the occasional fluid-filled glass jar came into view, and a self-assured male shouted from further within. “I’m seeing a patient. Wait your turn outside.”

“It’s urgent,” Milli said. “A cleric bearing Zera’s gifts came to rescue us all! He wants to offer his help.”

“…would you please give a moment to deal with this?” the man grunted to someone unseen. Several heavy stomps later, his bushy eyebrows peeked from behind a stone-framed archway. “What?”

Dimitry debated introducing himself but stayed silent instead. To avoid demonstrating his ignorance of this world’s customs, he let Milli handle the greeting.

Her thinning hair flopped when she bowed two overly hasty bows. “Ingram, sir, this is—” Milli glanced back, her pale face filled with the horror of forgetting to learn a crucial detail.

Dimitry briefly bowed. “I’m Dimitry. It’s a pleasure.”

The barber ignored him. “I remember you.” He approached Milli and pulled her head up by the cheekbones. “You’re the one that said her Mark of Devotion was choking her.”

“Y-yes, it’s a little better now. Dimitry is curing—”

“Hold still.” Two of the barber’s fingers jabbed the lump in Milli’s throat.

The woman grasped her neck and knelt into a coughing fit.

Dimitry’s eyes shot open. What did he just witness? Couldn’t the barber just palpate the goiter like a normal person?

Grinding his teeth, Dimitry hid his revulsion. He said nothing. Landing the job and gradually introducing proper examination techniques accomplished more than antagonizing the barber-surgeon ever could. Especially when Milli wasn’t the only victim. In the room ahead, bright light imprinted onto the wall a fourth person’s shadowy silhouette. They were wheezing. Another patient. Were Dimitry to lash out now, would they ever receive proper treatment?

The barber calmly wiped his fingertips on a pink-glowing bloody rag dangling from his back pocket. “The bump is still there, not that anyone expected that to change.”

“But can’t you see? I’m full of energy now,” Milli pleaded. “All because of a holy remedy, you know!”

“What remedy?”

“D-dried seaweed. I ate some yesterday.”

A prolonged laugh barreled from the barber’s gullet. He grinned at Dimitry. “Some are as gullible as ever, eh?”

“You’re wrong,” Milli said. “Dimitry didn’t even ask for money. He did it to honor Zera’s glory.”

“I’m sure he did.”

Dimitry closed the door behind him, locking the freezing wind out of the barbershop. “I can prove my techniques work. You have a patient back there, don’t you?”

The barber’s bushy eyebrows furrowed. “So what?”

“I can help them.”

His glare traveled down Dimitry’s white robes. “Just because you’re a pilgrim doesn’t mean you’ve got Zera’s approval, and it doesn’t mean you can do what I do.” He grabbed a small jar from a nearby shelf. “Take a pinch of salt and be on your way. Brush your teeth with it.”

“How about instead of giving me a paltry handout like everyone else, you let me show you what I can do?”

The barber scanned Dimitry’s eyes like a surgeon hawking an x-ray for cervical spine fractures in a rear-end collision whiplash victim. His hand contemplatively scratched his bald spot and then shoved the salt jar back into place. A sigh escaped his lips. “Just don’t touch my tools. That includes you too, Madalinde.”

“I praise your generosity,” she muttered. “Celeste guide you.”

A short trek past shelves led to another room containing razors and saws and small critters resembling slugs, jiggling turnips, and suction cups. Sat on a barstool in the middle was a young woman no older than twenty. Wheezing beneath her headscarf, the patient cautiously examined Dimitry. Her gasps for breath hastened when she saw his bare feet.

Although her wheezing indicated potentially lethal airway obstruction, that wasn’t enough for a diagnosis. Dimitry knelt to level with her.

She turned away.

“I know, I know.” The barber waved a hand. “Just humor him a while. I’ll give you proper leech therapy after he gives up.”

Leech therapy? This woman could have been dying, and leeches were the barber’s solution? No magical cures? Not even a glowing tool? Fearing the worst, Dimitry locked eyes with the patient. “I know I’m not well-dressed, and my hair’s a bit of a mess, but I promise I won’t do anything to hurt you. I know it’s hard for you to breathe. Will you let me help you?”

After a hesitant nod, she met Dimitry’s gaze.

The floor creaked as Milli slowly approached from the other room. She muttered incomprehensible prayers, and from a wall-mounted stand, a glowing statue of a woman showered the room in overpowering light. It illuminated the patient’s overwhelmingly puffy lips.

Swelling deep in the skin—angioedema. That symptom alongside wheezing led Dimitry to suspect food allergies, but confirmation wasn’t possible without further examination. “Can you open your mouth?”

She did.

“Having fun playing around?” the barber mused.

Ignoring the provocative comment, Dimitry peered to the back of the patient’s mouth. An engorged redness crept beyond her tongue and inflamed uvula to cause pharyngeal swelling that likely traveled down the entire throat. An endoscope was unnecessary to learn that the inflammation reached her respiratory tract. Wheezing was proof enough. But was the source food allergies?

Dimitry leaned back. “Madam, do you feel any itchiness or pain?”

“My mouth is burning,” she croaked after a labored breath. “It feels like I’m chewing a ripe dune pepper. And my stomach hurts so much I feel like throwing up.”

More proof to support his hypothesis.

The barber shook his head. “Whenever Idalia comes in here, I tell her to stop sleeping on her belly. Is it so hard to listen?”

“That’s not what’s causing her stomach pain,” Dimitry said. “I think it’s gastrointestinal anaphylaxis caused by allergies, but without a—”

“Spewing random words to impress me now?”

“You’ve never even heard of allergies? They might kill the poor girl.”

Idalia shot the barber a concerned glance.

He pushed away from the wall. “Of course I know about allergies. And analtraxis!” The barber pointed to a yellow sheet nailed to the wall. “Do you think the guild gives certificates to anyone that comes around?!”

Milli’s muttered prayers grew louder as the patient’s eyes darted across the room, unsure of whom to believe.

Shit. Although the patient might survive today, a severe reaction to an unknown allergen would eventually take her life. This world didn’t have epinephrine injections or antihistamines. There was no room for error.

Dimitry had to provide treatment and appease the barber’s ego. “I admit, you know more than me.”

“That goes without saying!”

“You also know that in order to treat allergies and analtraxis, we need a food challenge to—”

“I know that!” the barber shouted. “I’m just saying that leeches are the better option.”

“The leeches might curb the inflammation, but it’s just a symptom. We need to eliminate the cause.”

“Then how exactly would you extract the cursed blood from her lips, moron?”

Realizing that reason wasn’t working, Dimitry opted for an arrangement that benefited himself, the patient, and a defensive barber-surgeon. “Why not try my way, then prove me wrong with the leeches?”

“I don’t have to prove anything to a bum.” The barber pointed towards the exit. “Leave.”

Desperate, Dimitry’s gaze returned to Idalia. “Tell me, quick. What did you eat this morning? Try to be accurate—this could save your life.”

The girl hesitated. “I… I had pork sausage, and buckwheat soup, and, and some vegetables.”

“Fine.” The barber stomped away. “If you can’t leave, I’ll have someone do it for you.”

The door creaked open, and a harrowing breeze washed across the barbershop.

“Guards!”

With panicked eyes, Milli pulled Dimitry’s arm. “We can’t stay here!”

Her fearful response hinted that Ravenfall’s guards wouldn’t take kindly to two homeless lurkers intruding upon an alleged physician’s establishment, yet every fiber of Dimitry’s being begged him to stay, to help the ailing person in front of him. But he couldn’t stay long. To do so was to risk Milli’s life.

He offered potentially life-saving advice before leaving. “Idalia, you must stay away from all the foods you ate this morning. I know it sounds strange, and I can explain more if you find me in an alley near the Church. I swear to Zera that you’ll never have to wheeze like this again.”

The girl nodded hastily. “C-Celeste guide you.”

As Dimitry dashed away from her, past a fuming barber, and across icy gravel streets, urgency burned within his chest. The people of this city were dying from unnecessarily fatal diseases. And he was starving.

Both issues had a simple solution: cut out the middleman.

Timber chunks and cloth scraps piled against alley walls to make room for an empty storage crate. For the sixth time, it scraped across the dirt floor before hitting another crate with a wooden thunk to produce a poor man’s medical exam table. Nearby was a precarious chair upholding a folded quilt provided by Milli.

Dimitry spread the makeshift table cover and stepped back to appraise his ‘doctor’s office’ from a distance. Here wasn’t good enough either. Although the sun would illuminate a supine patient as long as it remained in the sky, its light would also get in Dimitry’s eyes.

No one would trust a physician who squinted the entire visit.

Kicking away hazardous ceramic shards onto the gravel street, Dimitry went over to the crate and gripped it once more. Pain shot across his thigh as he pulled it through the alley. He winced as the aching in his arms intensified, but thoughts of the lives recklessly squandered spurred him on. A cycle he aimed to end through his efforts. Everything had to be perfect when the patients arrived, which could happen at any moment.

Even now, Milli visited ill acquaintances across Ravenfall in search of potential customers. She did so at Dimitry’s request soon after they fled the barbershop. He planned to treat as many as possible, and he would do so for free.

His decision wasn’t made solely out of a desire to aid the impoverished, but also because building a customer base and a reputation took priority over short-term profits. Although there might have been people willing to pay premiums to a surgeon operating from an alley, there weren’t many. Free admission with excellent outcomes resulted in rapidly propagating word of mouth—the best advertising. Once Dimitry earned a constant stream of patients, he would charge just enough to afford food, equipment, and a sterile workplace. Only then could he provide acceptable care.

No longer would patients like Milli have to suffer from mineral deficiencies.

No longer would patients like Idalia have to die from barbarous barber practices.

Despite his puzzling circumstances, plans of modernizing medicine brought a smile to Dimitry’s face. No surgeon ever had this big of a chance to impact society. He could live with it.

As the final crate scratched against the alley floor, slow footsteps approached from behind.

Dimitry’s head shot back.

A man cautiously stepped in from the streets. Eyes hiding beneath a dirty brown hood, an equally brown and rough tunic wrapped around their torso. They glanced at Dimitry before backing out to reexamine nearby storefronts. “Between the baker’s and the general store,” they loudly announced. “She said the holy cleric Dimitry was here. This is the right place, right?”

Professionally greeting a patient in a torn robe instead of scrubs shot shame into Dimitry’s gut. Refusing to huddle away as his instincts demanded, he confidently strode forward and smiled. “You’re in the right place.”

The patient’s mouth morphed into a shape that held a lifetime of disappointment. “Is that so…”

Dimitry felt his self-esteem plummet, but the primary concern was eroding the source of the tension—his appearance. He looked down at his robe and fabricated a lie using concepts he heard applied to this world.

“Yeah, I know I don’t look like much of a cleric anymore. I was on a simple pilgrimage when heathens attacked my caravan. Now I don’t even have enough to buy proper clothes.” He chuckled. “But could be worse, I guess.”

“Yeah.” The patient cracked a smile. “Better broke than dead.”

A modicum of rapport established, Dimitry slapped the top of the crate beside him. “So, you know, I’d appreciate it if you imagined this was an examination table.”

“They broke that too?”

“I was too terrified to go back and check. I just ran for it.”

“Don’t blame ya.” Arms open and relaxed instead of crossed, the patient sat. “All I’d care about is getting the wife and kids out of there.”

Not one for commitment even in his mid-thirties, Dimitry admired the man’s familial devotion despite a young age. “I’m sure you’ve got a lot going on back home, so let’s get right to it. Mind telling me your name and what’s hurting you?”

“I’m Rowan and…” The patient curled his hands and glanced down at his boots. A piercing wind brushed unnaturally white hair across his forehead. “I think I’m possessed by The Ancient Evil.”

Preparing to hear more of the Church’s deception, Dimitry rolled his neck. “I’m all ears.”

“I’m always tired, and my entire body hurts.”

“Can you be more specific about where it hurts and the type of pain you feel? Is it a crushing pain, or maybe something sharp?”

“My head always hurts,” Rowan said, “like it’s being gently squeezed in a vise, and my lower back and shoulders keep me up at night.” He ran two hands down his leg. “And here, too. My knees, thighs, and ankles. It’s hard to even walk sometimes.”

Although a long list of symptoms, they did little to help Dimitry diagnose the issue. Everything from fibromyalgia to chronic fatigue syndrome caused headaches, joint tenderness, and unlocalized musculoskeletal pain. A world filled with unique phenotypes, like hair color, further complicated treatment. Who knew what novel illnesses plagued peoples’ lives?

Dimitry fell onto his rickety stool, which tilted with the slightest movement, and rested his chin on a fist. “I’m sure the pain makes taking care of your family difficult.”

“You have no idea.”

“Is there anything else I should know about? Anything at all?”

“Well…” Rowan’s voice lowered to a mutter, “Remember I said I’m possessed?”

“Yes.”

Rowan struggled to tug off a boot caked in dry mud and massaged his bruised ankle. “Bishop Marianne says it snaps out of place whenever the spirit inside comes free, but I’ll need to buy regular purifications if I want the pain to stop.”

Charging money for sham treatments—a classic. Dimitry suppressed the urge to click his teeth. “When the spirits come free, what are you doing and what does your ankle look like?”

“Just walking, usually. It gets red and puffy.”

Whenever Dimitry saw an ankle that frequently ‘popped’ or ‘snapped’ before bruising and swelling, he immediately suspected lateral ankle instability. The cause was typically a previously injured ligament that healed incorrectly following an ankle sprain, making future sprains more likely. But that wasn’t always the case. One could never be sure without conducting tests.

Lamenting not having access to imaging machinery to collect diagnostic information, Dimitry knelt. “I’m going to examine you now. Lie down, bend your knee so that your foot lies flat on the crate, and tell me if you feel any pain.”

Rowan complied.

Dimitry set his sights on the anterior talofibular ligament. Of the three that comprised the lateral collateral ligament in the foot, it was the most fragile and therefore the one that usually resulted in recurrent ankle sprains. He would probe its integrity with the anterior drawer test.

However, when Dimitry pulled up the patient’s pant leg, there was something that didn’t belong.

Bruises.

Lots of bruises. Big and small, purple and black, they crawled up the patient’s leg from the shin and calf to the thigh. These weren’t ankle sprain bruises, nor were they the ones seen in fractures.

This was something else.

“What?” Rowan’s torso shot up. “Did you find an evil spirit?”

“These bruises,” Dimitry said. “Where did you get them?”

“Oh, those? I get them all the time. Sometimes, I just wake up with new ones all over. The pain’s not too bad, so they’re no big deal.”

No. It was a big deal. A huge deal. Men in their early twenties like Rowan should not bruise this much and this frequently. They indicated profuse bleeding beneath the skin.

Normally, Dimitry would consider hemophilia or the frequent combination of rheumatoid arthritis and anemia to explain the bruising and widespread joint pain, but that changed when he palpated Rowan’s ankle.

The skin.

It was far too soft—like a newborn’s.

Dimitry’s eyes shot open. Those symptoms: musculoskeletal pain, unstable joints, overly smooth skin, copious internal bruising. They frequently co-occurred within a group of connective tissue disorders that were once thought to be rare but were diagnosed more frequently every year. These days, even surgeons like him knew about them.

“Hold out your hand,” Dimitry commanded.

Rowan’s breathing grew abrupt and rapid. “D-did you find something. Is it bad?”

“I’ll tell you after a few more tests.”

“Okay…”

Dimitry grabbed Rowan’s wrist and pinched the back of their hand. Like loose velvet, the young man’s skin stretched several inches further than any healthy human’s ever should.

Hyperextensive skin.

Although that likely ruled out Loeys-Dietz syndrome, one of several potential genetic disorders, and easy bruising eliminated Marfan syndrome, Dimitry didn’t come to a diagnosis yet. The next step was to test for joint hypermobility with the Beighton Scoring System.

He pulled back Rowan’s pinkies, which bent so far as to almost reach the back of the hand. Then, he tugged the thumbs all the way into the wrist. After also examining the patient’s elbow, knees, and spine with various stretches, Dimitry confirmed the patient had loose and unstable joints.

Rowan said nothing. The wind scattered the long, white hair creeping from under his brown hood past a contemplating frown.

Taking a deep breath of air cold and dry, Dimitry dropped into his chair. He massaged his forehead. There were few things in life more heart-wrenching than delivering a lifelong and painful prognosis to a man with children, and even fewer when the children were likely just as ill with no hope for a cure. Even with Earth’s technology.

The two men sat in silence for a while.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Rowan finally asked.

“You said you had kids, right? Do you know if they’re ‘double-jointed’ and bruise easily like you do?”

Rowan’s mouth dropped open. “How did you…” Like a man guilty of committing unforgivable taboos, he squirmed on the crate examination table. “Guess you really are a holy cleric like Milli said you were. You divined all that even though my wife and I have been hiding the kids at home. So, are you gonna tell everyone? That they’re possessed like me?”

“No,” Dimitry said. “I won’t tell anyone anything, and none of you are possessed. You have a disease called Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, and your kids probably have it too. It runs in families with no known cure.”

“How do you mean?”

Pondering the best way to explain genetic illness in a world without toilets, Dimitry leaned back in his chair against a white-plastered wall. “Everyone has this thing in their body called collagen, and it’s responsible for holding flesh together. Unfortunately, your collagen doesn’t work right. That’s why you get so many ankle sprains—the ligaments holding your joints together are unstable. It also explains why your skin is so soft and stretchy and why your blood vessels burst so much that there are bruises all over you. Does that make a little more sense?”

The dumbfounded expression Rowan wore only grew grimmer.

That was all it took Dimitry to omit information on the different Ehlers-Danlos syndrome subtypes and potential complications. Not that he knew enough to speak about them professionally. He wasn’t a rheumatologist nor a geneticist. “What I’m saying is that you and your kids have lifelong conditions. Normally, I’d prescribe you some pain medicine, but I’m afraid I left it back on my caravan far, far away.”

“So you’re saying we’re not possessed?” Rowan jumped up. “It’s just lots of pain?”

Did Dimitry say all that for nothing? Perhaps he included far too much information. “For now, yes. I’m afraid that it’ll probably only get worse with time. You may also start having joint dislocations, sometimes in places no healthy person does.”

All color drained from Rowan’s face. “So that’s what was happening to my father… wait! No, does that mean my kids… oh no.” Eyes to the ground, he paced the alley. “Oh no, oh no, oh no… Celeste guide us.”

Watching a father descend into panic over the life of suffering his children would eventually succumb to was taxing. Dimitry had to turn away lest the gritting teeth showed. There had to be something he could do. Why diagnose a patient and his family with a life of debilitating pain, only to send them on their way?

Still, pills didn’t exist.

And manufacturing them without funds or equipment wasn’t possible.

But there was one thing.

Although Dimitry wasn’t a physical therapist, surgical work involved devising physical rehabilitation programs for patients who had lost freedom of movement in traumatic accidents. The same could work for an Ehlers-Danlos patient. By increasing the strength and endurance of surrounding muscles, joints would become more stable, decreasing the likelihood of dislocations, subluxations, and pain.

“Hey, Rowan!”

Distracted from his musings, the young man looked up. “Ah, sorry about that.” He stumbled closer. “I was just thinking out loud. Thanks for, you know, that.”

“Don’t give me your thanks yet,” Dimitry said. “I’m going to teach you a way to make the pain go away. You’ll be sleeping better, your body won’t hurt anywhere near as much, and you won’t have to pay anyone anything. Not even for purifications from the Church.”

Rowan snapped straight up. “You can do that?”

“No, you’ll be doing it. It’s called aquatic therapy. If you bring your children here, I’ll show all of you how it’s done.”

Revitalized from his slump, the young man prepared to dash away. However, before disappearing into the streets, Rowan turned back. His hand reached into his brown tunic to pluck out a copper coin and slam it onto the examination table with a rough metal clang.

Dimitry fondled the otherworldly money with hungry eyes. “Didn’t… didn’t Milli say I was doing it for free?”

“Yeah.” Rowan grinned widely. “I just don’t want you to starve before I come back. The meat pie lady comes around noon. Celeste guide you, holy cleric.”

5. Back Alley Physician

Daylight had escaped Ravenfall. The sun disappeared behind the horizon, and the emerging alien moon’s luminescent green aura crept across a blackening sky. Whatever bustling a city of tens of thousands had at noon dwindled to scattered laughter and whispers—so quiet that any passing howling wind would silence them. However, even as a chill fiercer than this afternoon’s washed across Dimitry’s exposed forearms, it did nothing to quell his restlessness.

Lying in his palm were three coins—copper gadots the people called them. Unlike modern currency, neither was flat nor perfectly round nor uniform. One even had a jagged edge. However, despite the imperfections each possessed, the value they held to a homeless surgeon trapped in an unfamiliar land exceeded a million pennies on Earth.

Ravenous impulses tempted Dimitry to spend them on meat pies as Rowan proposed, but food was a poor investment. At least for now. One of today’s five patients was an out-of-town peasant that, despite free treatment, demonstrated goodwill to a ‘holy pilgrim cleric’ with stale brown bread.

Dimitry graciously accepted her payment.

Not only did starvation flavor dry bread more deliciously than the crunchiest croissant, it also meant Dimitry didn’t have to beg for pottage at the Church. A loathsome proposition for multiple reasons. Among them was morality and pride, yet the foremost was self-preservation.

When Dimitry last visited the priestess, layered grime soaked his rags, masking their identity as pilgrim robes. That made lying about his background simple. However, now that people assumed him a fervent Church zealot on sight, could he do the same? Was it possible to simultaneously keep his ignorance of Zera hidden and assimilate future lies with those of the past without being discovered as a fraud? What punishment was an organization that disguised illness as possession or divine symbolism capable of?

Finding out entailed too much risk.

Even if Dimitry received a pardon, he would lose his identity as a holy cleric, the current source of customers. Food payments allowed him to avoid confrontations with the Church while saving money for two matters even more urgent than insulating clothes, shelter, and hygiene.

The first was electrolyte-rich supplements to stop his muscle spasms and to prevent deadly complications like cardiac arrest. The other was needles.

Simple needles were all Dimitry needed to treat a man who, earlier that afternoon, presented with a deep laceration cutting down his entire thigh. A wound that large and fresh was prone to infection. If only Dimitry had basic surgical tools, if only he had starting funds, he could have avoided a potentially deadly illness before it began.

Fist clamping around the three copper coins they held, Dimitry glanced longingly to his side.

In the hands of a seamstress who hummed a joyful gospel was a needle. Sadly, it wasn’t good enough for surgery. The straight body increased the risk of needlestick injuries, and the rusted iron surface provided crevices for this world’s equivalent of tetanus spores to hide. Even if boiled water sterilization succeeded, the rough edges would irritate internal wounds further.

What Dimitry would do for a half-circle needle made of stainless steel! They were good for everything from ophthalmic to cardiovascular suturing. Even non-rusted iron sufficed. If his three copper gadots were enough to get one custom-made, he would have dashed out from the alley long ago!

He leaned further back against a body-warmed wall and sighed.

Although Milli’s tune came to a halt, her hands continued to sew two rough leather squares together. “Are you still thinking about that? Fremy will be fine. Zera blessed him with the stamina of an ox, you know?”

Dimitry considered explaining the dangers of deep wound infections to her once more, how apparent physical health didn’t guarantee survival, but decided to collect productive information instead. “You said you bought your needles for several copper gadots, right?”

A faint smile that seemed to borrow joy from days long past surfaced on Milli’s face. “Back when I ran my shop, we got really fine bronze needles from the blacksmith for only five coppers.”

He examined his three coins—not enough. “What if I told the blacksmith it was urgent, that I could save lives with a single needle? Do you think he’ll let me pay him back later? Or maybe give me a discount?”

“The only reason my prices were good was because we ordered in bulk. Most people have to pay double for a small job like that. Even if a holy cleric like you begged, you couldn’t convince a blacksmith otherwise. Delaying work just to do a favor for people like us will upset their regulars, you know?”

She shook her head. “They’d rather make money than help a pilgrim fulfill their divine orders. Greed corrupts everyone.”

Despite disdain for the Church’s atrocities, guilt ran rampant in Dimitry’s gut. He never claimed himself to be a holy cleric, but he didn’t correct Milli’s misconceptions either. It was the best way to get her to comply with his seaweed ‘prescription’.

A gust scattered her thinning hair, which would fill in now that she took iodine supplements for hypothyroidism. Her eyes that lay half-closed yesterday were now open and alert. No longer pale, her face had color. Milli was getting better.

He couldn’t risk directly revealing the truth. The lie was keeping her alive. If carrying guilt and listening to religious ramblings meant a woman could rebuild her life, it was guilt worth carrying and mumblings worth listening to.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Just thinking.”

Milli chuckled. “A young man like you shouldn’t worry so much. It’s impossible to help everyone all the time, you know? Not even Celeste could save her entire flock when they trekked across Remora.”

“I suppose she couldn’t.”

Her hand held out the rusty iron needle it was using. “Are you really sure you don’t want this one? I have two more.”

“It’s not the right size, but I appreciate the thought.” Dimitry forced a smile. “I’ll just wait until I get more money.”

Milled sewed the stacked leather patches into a cup shape. “You should rest for tonight. I’m sure you’ll be busy tomorrow.”

“Why’s that?”

“There’s a lot of sick people around, but there aren’t many that’ll listen to me. My old friends yelled at me before I could tell them a miraculous holy cleric was in Ravenfall. I know most of them haven’t seen me in years, but I wish they would’ve listened, you know?”

Dimitry knew the feeling well. Even after laundering his robe, bathing, and shaving, citizens avoided him. A lanky frame spoke volumes in this society, but his youth gave him an advantage. How much worse was the treatment an aged and sickly woman received?

“You’ve done more than enough for me,” he said. “The only reason I had customers today was because you went out of your way to advertise my services.”

She laughed. “You remind me of my youngest. He was always polite, you know? Bringing smiles to be people’s faces, kind of how you’ve done for that boy, Rowan. He’s probably been talking about you all the way up and down the slums. Cora and Saul looked pretty happy, too. You won’t need me anymore. They’ll tell everyone about you, and, unlike me, people will listen to them.”

Relying on word of mouth had been Dimitry’s plan from the start. Short-term profits might not have allowed him even one paying customer today, but working for free provided many stunning reviews that would build the customer-base necessary to lift him out of poverty before winter. A young waitress presenting erythema multiforme rashes on her belly, a stonemason whose blue fingers indicated peripheral cyanosis, and a husband whose wife snored every night.

Dimitry provided them the best treatment possible. He also spent most of the afternoon demonstrating aquatic therapy techniques for Rowan’s family at the river cutting through Ravenfall. Even if they were poor and could only pay a pittance, the work was fulfilling and meaningful, unlike the time he wasted away in a cancer ward bed.

His one regret was that he couldn’t help the girl from the barbershop. Idalia never visited. Although it wouldn’t surprise Dimitry if the pleas of a rushed homeless man didn’t convince her to meet him in a filthy alley, he hoped the spreading rumors of a miracle healer would. For a girl that young to suffocate from common food allergies was a tragedy.

He waited for her even now.

There was no excuse to be unprepared when she arrived.

“I should start getting ready.” Dimitry stretched and stood to straighten the wind-blown quilt covering the examination table. He glanced down at the seamstress who practiced her skills all evening in hopes of working once more. “By the way.”

“Yes?” Milli said without meeting his gaze.

“When business takes off, I want to help fund yours.”

“Oh, please.” She waved a hand. “Don’t worry about me. The duty of the elderly is to guide the young like Celeste did all of Zera’s children. I’ll be fine.”

The sound of crunching gravel from the street coaxed a swift glance from Dimitry. Disappointed it wasn’t a patient, he turned back to Milli. “But don’t you need money to get started? It’ll be hard to do anything with three needles, some thread, and loose fabric.”

“I’m not opening my shop here.”

“Why not?”

After weaving a red string through a leather opening, Milli pushed away from the wall. In her palm was a brand new pouch. She lowered it onto the examination table and knelt. “May it fill further with every life you save.”

Unsure if he was thankful for the gift or guilty of taking more from someone who had little, Dimitry’s eyes furrowed. “That’s for me? Are you sure?”

“It’s my apology for leaving before you can establish your barbershop. I gave it two layers in case someone secretly tries to cut it open and take the coin. Thieves exist even under Zera’s watchful eyes, you know?”

“Are you going somewhere?”

She nodded. “An old friend offered to take me to Worlstock. My youngest lives there. The tavern he runs has its own stable. I have to leave before the snow comes and makes passage by horse impossible.”

A disappointing turn of events. Since treating patients alone proved difficult, Dimitry intended to ask Milli to train as his nurse. Her thoughtful nature was the makings of an excellent health care provider. However, everyone deserved to live life as they pleased. If she felt healthy enough to leave Ravenfall, to reunite with her children, then Dimitry would support her. He knew well the exuberance of a second chance.

“I see.” Dimitry grabbed the pouch from the examination table and smiled. “Thank you for everything.”

Dimitry awoke long before Church bells clanged the next morning. Early winds bit his exposed toes and gray clouds still cast dark shadows over the alley when the first patient arrived. Alone at first, many others soon joined. By the time the savory aroma of meat and baked pastry oozed from pie merchants peddling wares along lively afternoon streets, a tiny crowd of gossipers and patients had formed outside the alley.

The rush of working in the emergency room returned once more. Although Dimitry led a surgical team through life and death encounters no longer, replaced by the basic illnesses of a society without basic hygiene, the pressure of potential lives to save kept him alert. It was the fulfilling, purposeful, and nostalgic adrenaline-rush he yearned for.

Dimitry had purpose. Even if his current lack of equipment didn’t let him help everyone, there were those he could.

Among them was the man rushing closer. His arms carried a child no older than five. The black bags beneath the man’s dilated eyes bespoke the desperation of any concerned father, Earthen or alien.

“Holy Cleric! If the rumors are true, I want you to cure my boy. Make him normal. He needs to take over the farm, and he can’t if he’s like this.”

Milli, who sat against a wall sewing a shirt, glanced up.

“Panic won’t help you, me, or your son,” Dimitry said. “Take a deep breath, and then tell me what’s wrong so I know how to help.”

The father ignored Dimitry’s advice. Breaths erratic and chest heaving, he shoved his child forward. “Look, he doesn’t even walk! How am I supposed to ever retire with him like this?!”

Disappointed that the parental concern was actually self-pity, Dimitry tapped the freshly washed quilt covering the examination table. “Lay him down, and I’ll take a look.”

The boy struggled to wriggle from his father’s arms.

“Try to get away one more time, and I’ll make sure you—”

“Leave me alone!” the boy said.

The father pressed his child into the examination table to keep him from escaping. “My apologies, holy cleric. These past few days Nino’s been so aggressive when normally he’s so calm. Must be getting to that age. I’ll teach him some manners when we get home.”

Sudden yet lasting aggression at such a young age? Dimitry stroked his stubble-covered chin. Although the cause may have been an overly pushy parent, irritable behavior was common in ill children. Nino’s inability to walk supported the latter hypothesis.

Dimitry approached the boy. “Hello, Nino. Do you mind if I take a look at your legs?”

Nino flexed his hips and knees further into his body.

Aversive behavior. The situation was critical.

“Nino!” the father shouted. “If you don’t listen to the holy cleric, I’ll—”

Dimitry held out his hand. “It’s not his fault. There’s something hurting him. Try not to push so hard on his chest.”

“S-sorry. It’s just that the barber said Nino was making it up. We tried everything: spices, star readings, even leeches. Nothing worked.”

Leeches? Again? Dimitry groaned. “I know you’re in pain, and I promise I won’t hurt you or give you leeches. Just a small peek is all I need. Okay?”

Although Nino’s legs didn’t uncurl, his flailing halted.

“Thank you.” Dimitry removed the patient’s boots, then retracted their pant legs.

Small and circular leech bites covered the boy’s swollen ankles and knees. At the site of every puncture was an unhealthily thin and fragile scab, implying impaired wound healing. The skin was pale except for the tiny purple and red dots dotting the surface. They were petechial hemorrhages resulting from burst capillaries. However, out of many symptoms, there was one that stood out.

Corkscrew hairs.

Like desiccated and thin vines, fragile blonde hair sprouted from bleeding follicles across the boy’s shin—a pathognomonic sign few physicians could miss.

Without a wasted moment, Dimitry lowered the boy’s pant leg to avoid them needlessly freezing in the cold. He removed their hood instead.

“W-what’s wrong?” The father leaned further in. “Did you find something?”

“Give me a moment.” Dimitry pushed down on the boy’s overly dry and pale lip.

Nino’s mouth opened, revealing inflamed and purple gums. Gently pressing above the chin was all it took for blood to gush from beneath unsteady teeth. They confirmed Dimitry’s findings without a doubt.

The father looked on with horrified eyes. “B-but we brush our teeth every day. With salt and linens and everything!”

Wincing at the horrors of rubbing salt into a bleeding mouth, Dimitry put the boy’s shoes back on. “Your son has scurvy. It makes it hard for him to walk and also explains why his teeth are bleeding.”

“Scurvy? Is that bad? Can you fix it?!”

Dimitry chose not to explain scurvy’s pathogenesis, nor what vitamin C was or how its lack caused all of Nino’s symptoms from anemia to excruciating leg pain. Patients stared with blank expressions whenever he went into detail. Skipping directly to treatment saved time and prevented headaches. “No need to worry. I’ll fix it. But first, tell me what you eat at home.”

“Uh…” The father froze. “Now that it’s getting cold, mostly pottage.”

If the pottage Nino’s family ate resembled what the Church fed to the poor, the ingredients consisted of water and grain—poor sources of vitamin C. Fortunately, there was a simple remedy. Dimitry saw ample cabbage in the markets while exploring Ravenfall. Their nutritional content made them the perfect supplement.

“Add lots of cabbage to your pottage. Nino will be back to normal in around twenty days.”

“That’s it?” The father asked. “There’s nothing else we have to do? No mantras to chant, no stars to find in the night sky?”

Milli glanced up from the shirt she sewed, her nimble hands continuing to move with unguided precision. “Believe the holy cleric. He was sent by Zera to heal everyone, you know?”

“So the rumors say.” The father held out his hands to lift Nino but stopped halfway. He slapped a copper gadot onto the examination table, and his voice lowered to a whisper. “I’ve heard of your perilous journey here, pilgrim. Be safe.”

Hiding the thrill of another coin, another step towards surgical tools, Dimitry nodded. “Thank you. Stay healthy.”

After the patient left, the gadot fell into Dimitry’s new pouch with a satisfying clang. He didn’t have to look inside to know how many there were. Twelve. The steadily increasing number never left his mind.

But there was little time to savor it. From the gossiping crowd of hesitant patients and curious onlookers beyond the alley, a girl inched closer. Glancing back with every short step forward, hands pressed to a battered tunic, she came to a halt. “E-excuse me…”

Fearing the impression a young girl alone in an alley with two homeless people gave, Dimitry knelt, wearing the kindest smile he could muster. “Hello. Are you lost? Is everything okay?”

She looked back once more before shaking her head. “I’m-I’m looking for the holy cleric.”

“What for?”

“I’m bleeding really a lot.”

Milli’s head shot up.

A myriad of thoughts crashed through Dimitry's mind. A patient with severe bleeding. Was it a laceration? He still lacked tools and saline solution! Boiled river water could suffice to irrigate a contaminated wound, but how quickly could he buy suturing needles from a blacksmith?

Dimitry was getting ahead of himself—there could have been only minutes to work with. Stopping the blood loss took priority. “Everything’ll be okay. Just tell me where the bleeding is, and I’ll handle the rest.”

The girl’s gaze lowered to her pants. “It started two months ago! I-I thought it went away, but it came back again! I promise I stayed away from the forest and fyrhounds!”

Ah.

With a soft chuckle, Milli’s focus returned to her work.

Dimitry’s adrenal glands eased their relentless assault against his pounding heart. Who knew puberty could terrify a man? He massaged his forehead. “That’s quite the problem. I think you should talk to your mother about it. She knows how to handle that better than I do.”

“I don’t want to scare her.”

“I promise she won’t be scared,” Dimitry said.

“Really?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“O-okay…” The girl placed a sweaty stone into Dimitry’s palm. “Celeste guide you.”

Dimitry examined his white-striped gray sedimentary rock ‘payment’. One glance at the alternating iron oxide and chert layers revealed its identity: banded ironstone. They formed on ocean floors, where oxygen from photosynthetic cyanobacteria reacted with dissolved iron to precipitate into underwater oxide layers. How strange that they existed in this world, too.

Reminiscing about similar formations in his mineral collection back home, one Dimitry hoped to continue expanding someday, a nostalgic grin surfaced on his face. “Thank you very much.”

The girl bowed once more before wobbling away.

“Children are Zera’s precious gift,” Milli said.

“I’m sure they are,” he lied.

Before Dimitry could shove the rock into his pocket, another patient approached—the one he waited for since yesterday. A scarf covered her head as it did in the barbershop, yet the young woman’s lips were no longer inflamed. At least for now. One poor dietary decision could have been the difference between normalcy and asphyxiation.

Exhilarated and eager to prevent the worst, Dimitry stood straight. His movements slowed to a confident crawl to exude professionalism despite torn clothes and overgrown hair. This was a patient he couldn’t let escape—not until she learned of her condition.

“Good to see you again, Idalia. I hope you’ve been well.”

The young woman bowed when she got close. “Holy cleric.” Her gaze shifted towards Milli. “And I believe barber Ingram called you Madalinde.”

“Milli is just fine, dear.”

Dimitry pointed to the examination table. “I’m glad you’ve decided to show up. I was worried you wouldn’t.”

“Honestly, I almost didn’t.” Idalia sat. “I was working at the alehouse last evening when I heard rumors about the pilgrim with mysterious pale green eyes who cured every ailment, and I realized it was you.” Obscure yellow-tipped orange hair leaking from under her headscarf, she bowed again. “My apologies for doubting your sacred gifts.”

Although his choice of advertising was effective, Dimitry never expected word of his services to reach so many in two days. He leaned back against a wall. “Well, I’m glad you’ve had a change of heart. You were in a bad spot yesterday. Any worse and your airways may have closed completely. You might have suffocated.”

“Suffocated?” Her gaze lowered to the floor. “I was really scared, I felt like I was going to die, but every time it happened, my brothers and father told me I was worrying for no reason. To think I could suffocate from a burning mouth and a stomachache…”

Full of pity for someone struggling with a mysterious and loathsome illness, Dimitry shook his head. “The burning mouth, stomachache, and wheezing are only signs of a deeper issue. Do you remember what I asked you to do?”

“To stay away from everything I ate that morning, right? Pork sausage, buckwheat soup, and vegetables.”

“Correct. A single ingredient in any one of those dishes is making you ill whenever you eat it. It’s called food allergies. Usually, the discomfort comes on during the meal, but sometimes it can take a while. Did you ever notice something like that happening?”

Idalia watched her hands, which lay folded on her lap. “Now that I think about it, it kinda makes sense. Is that really true, though? I’ve had these… allergies since I was a baby, but they were never this bad.”

The symptoms were worsening with age. Did that mean something? While Dimitry had handled patients with anaphylactic allergic reactions before, to latex or anesthesia during surgery, they were a rare occurrence. Immunoglobulin E-mediated allergies weren’t his specialty. Only a trained allergist would know the full implications of Idalia’s condition. Hell, whether she even suffered from food allergies or something else entirely, like severe food intolerance, was uncertain. And yet, if Dimitry didn’t treat Idalia, a pompous barber with a leech fetish would.

Limited knowledge was shitty, but limited knowledge trumped none at all when the wrong midday snack could kill his patient.

Dimitry spoke with calm and confidence despite uncertainty. “If your allergies are getting worse with time, we need to uncover the source before they become deadly. Think back. Are there any foods in particular that, after eating, make it hard for you to breathe?”

Idalia lifted a shaky hand to fiddle with her faded blue headscarf. “I’m… I’m not sure.”

“I need you to think really hard. It’s important.”

A long silence passed before the girl looked away. “Forgive me, holy cleric. I wish I had been more vigilant.”

Damn.

The worst outcome.

Without knowing the precise substance that pushed Idalia’s immune system into overdrive, a food challenge was necessary. Idalia would sample potential trigger foods from yesterday’s breakfast until one triggered a reaction. Unfortunately, allergic attacks were unpredictable despite general trends. Anything from a mild stomach ache to asphyxiation could result.

Dimitry wished for a less dangerous solution, perhaps an elimination diet encompassing every food Idalia recalled, but avoiding buckwheat, pork, and a plethora of vegetables would cause nutritional deficiencies even if Idalia somehow complied with the draconian dietary restrictions.

He took a deep breath. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. Tomorrow, I need you to—”

The enclosing rattling of metal interrupted his train of thought. Dimitry glanced towards the alley’s entrance.

Four rusted iron boots stomped closer. They belonged to two guards, each elbowing citizens as they passed.

A woman with yellow skin and eyes, like that of a jaundice patient, fell to the ground. Not one in the dispersing crowd helped her up.

“That’s him!” a familiar voice shouted. “The charlatan stealing my customers!”

6. Monopoly

Wearing a round iron helmet and a disgruntled frown, one of two guards stepped past the fallen woman and into the alley. His arms folded across a padded jacket. “This the guy? Some pilgrim?”

“That’s no pilgrim.” The bushy-browed barber behind him waved a hand. “Just another charlatan peddling false cures to the impressionable. Makes me sick.”

Milli dropped her needle and the shirt it mended.

Horror clouded Idalia’s face.

All fatigue and soreness zipped from Dimitry’s body. Icy sweat oozed from cold-numbed palms as his gaze snapped between the glowing maces at the guards’ hips, gasping onlookers, a disgruntled barber-surgeon, and the ill woman rubbing a potentially injured shoulder on the trampled dirt alley floor between them.

Why did the city’s protectors harm an innocent bystander? Was it a mistake? They stared at Dimitry—was the violence a scare tactic? What words could deescalate the conflict?

Despite countless questions whizzing through Dimitry’s mind, crippling fear begged him to remain seated, to keep his mouth shut. It yelled that he would suffer if he overspoke. Death was more than a possibility. However, when a potential patient might have sustained a fall injury besides jaundice, and when silence would appear as an admission of guilt, passiveness wasn’t an option.

“Excuse me.” The precarious chair beneath Dimitry nearly overturned when he jumped to his feet. “I understand that tensions are high, but—”

“No one asked you to speak.” Gloved hand gripping around a mace, the second guard’s lip curled. “I suggest you keep silent and still.”

Taking a hint from the tense silence with the guards’ arrival, Dimitry obeyed. Dying now was pointless.

“See how he uses the ailing as mere tools to excuse his crimes?” The barber knelt beside the patient, pretending to palpate for wounds. “Much unlike a real physician.”

“We didn’t come to hear your spat,” said the round-helmeted guard. “Ingram, you told the Shire-Reeve that there’s a barber here practicing without a guild certificate. Were you talking about this pilgrim? Yes or no?”

“For the last time, he’s not a pilgrim! Yesterday he came to my office begging for an apprenticeship, but he actually only wanted to steal my client. Look!” The barber pointed to Idalia. “That’s my client. Do you think a bum like him can give a young maiden like her proper care? Do you think he can afford two golds to join the Barber Surgeons Guild?”

Was that what this was about? Dimitry helping a client that some knock-off doctor failed to treat despite multiple visits? Although his breaths became terse, and he wanted nothing more than to lunge forward and choke the bastard, Dimitry maintained a calm disposition. To lose his composure now would only support Ingram’s story.

The round-helmeted guard nudged Idalia. “Is that true?”

Hands shaking, the young girl stood from the quilt-covered examination table. “It is t-true that I came to visit the holy cleric, but he never claimed to be a barber. He’s healing me with Zera’s divine insight… I think.”

“It’s true!” Milli threw the shirt she mended to the ground. “For two years now, I felt like I was always tired and weak, you know? But Celeste has guided the holy cleric to me. I’ve never felt so strong.”

Another person, lost in a crowd of onlookers, raised their hand. “My second cousin said they don’t feel sick anymore!”

“I heard something like tha—”

The second guard pushed the crowd back. “Everyone shut the fuck up a moment.” He stepped forward and grabbed Dimitry’s shoulder. “For the last fucking time, do you have a certificate from the Barber Surgeons Guild or not?”

A single glance into the snarling man’s eyes made Dimitry step back. “N-no, but it’s like they say. I’m not a barber.”

“Then why did you pretend to know so much about it?” said the barber. He held a handful of silver coins towards the guards. “So you don’t fall prey to the faker’s tricks.”

Dimitry breathlessly watched the second guard greedily nab most of the coins.

Bribery?

Just to incarcerate a homeless man?

The round-helmeted guard sighed before taking the remaining silver. “Sorry, can’t have you breaking the law. Just get a certificate and be done with it, or else it’ll give those Tenebrae twats more excuses.”

Both grunts marched closer.

Dimitry’s heart pounded as if to escape his chest. He willed himself to run. His mind froze before the signal could register.

One of the armored grunts locked Dimitry’s arm, twisting it to his upper back, wrenching sharp pain into his shoulder.

The other grabbed his throat.

Dimitry tried to breathe but mustered only faint wheezing whimpers.

“To do that to one of Zera’s messengers!” Milli shrieked. “You demonic scum!”

Overwhelming force smashed Dimitry into the ground, and a metallic taste filled his mouth. Face against the floor, he spat to keep dirt infused blood from reentering his mouth.

A sharp ringing muffled the erratic protests erupting from an unseen abyss.

“Celeste, save… the corruption!”

“He’s just…”

“I… next in line!”

The shouting loudened as Dimitry’s eyes cracked open to discover a discombobulated world. Gradually, blurred faces materialized to match their respective voices.

“I said shut the fuck up! All of you!” The guard whose knee thrust into Dimitry’s spine stood. “Don’t make me come over there.”

The round-helmeted guard’s head madly twisted, absorbing the chaos. “No, no. We’re done here. Let’s go.”

“Don’t be that way.”

“But if he really is a cleric from The Holy Kingdom, Zera’ll never forgive us.”

“Not our fault he doesn’t have a certificate.”

“Wait,” the barber moaned. “That’s it? You’re not going to jail him or stomp his throat or anything?! He’ll just come back tomorrow!”

Grinning, the second guard strolled toward his patron. “Not unless you’ve got another, bigger coin purse in that tunic of yours. ”

“Oh, I do.”

Idalia knelt beside Dimitry. Cupped in her palms were two coppers resting on a handkerchief. “Take them and leave! Before they see!”

“For… for me?” he croaked.

“You can’t stay here, you know!” Milli dropped three more coins to the stack. “Go with my prayers, holy cleric.”

Dimitry stumbled to his feet. Intense dizziness, perhaps from a traumatic brain injury, hypotension, or reflex syncope, threw him back to the grimy alley floor.

Someone caught him mid-fall.

Attempting to stand once more, Dimitry grabbed his throbbing head. “Idalia, no matter what happens, don’t forget. One of the foods we discussed is bad for you.”

“Yes, yes, I know! Find it and avoid it, right?”

“And Milli, don’t eat too much seaweed, or else—”

Before he could give the final warning, they pushed him away.

Fear consumed Dimitry as he hobbled through Ravenfall’s gravel streets, mind struggling to piece together what happened in the alley. Those guards. They bellowed when he ran and were probably still looking for him, to kill him for being the only one to provide decent medical care! All because of a barber’s bribes!

Was the city guard really so corrupt? Why the hell was violence necessary? How many more would die preventable deaths now that Dimitry couldn’t work?

The thought of some knock-off surgeon treating every patient with leeches enraged him, culminating in sore and painful stomping whenever his emotions peaked past an uncontrollable threshold, grabbing the attention of surrounding tunic and gown-clad citizens.

Feeling piercing stares dig into his spine, Dimitry glanced back.

There were no obvious pursuers, but that meant nothing. They could be skulking in the alleyway, doorways, and rooftops, tempted by a vindictive barber’s silver coins. Or perhaps they hid among the residents.

Even as Dimitry drenched Idalia’s handkerchief with a bloody nose, two men paused their discussion to gawk at his pilgrim robes and eyes.

They were keeping tabs on him.

Dimitry’s breathing hastened as another pulse of adrenaline reinvigorated the trembling in his arms. No. No, no, he was being illogical.

Between spying citizens and word-of-mouth, cultivated by Dimitry and now unwanted, which was more likely? The latter. Definitely the latter. He prayed it was the latter, but when everyone was a potential snitch, there wasn’t a way to know for sure. Corrupt guards could coax information from the masses, track him wherever he ran.

Dimitry had to hide—conceal his identity.

He limped along unsympathetic, timber building-flanked roads until the port came into view. Many ships harbored there today. More sailors, porters, and merchants, too.

Eyes that saw all.

Numb legs struggled to rush Dimitry past them and alongside a riverbank, nearly collapsing before reaching the destination. He toppled piled rocks and unearthed the burial site beneath with chipping nails.

There they lay. The tattered brown and gray rags that enshrouded Dimitry’s robe when he arrived in this world. His ‘new’ disguise.

Unfortunately, they smelled of moist dirt, and pasting their potentially parasite-caked surfaces around his head and torso was dangerous. He swiftly laundered them in the river and wrung excess water from the fabric. Although that wouldn’t eliminate every festering microorganism nor the disgust, the trade-off was worth it. Incognito clothes now trumped future health hazards.

But it wasn’t enough. What if someone saw Dimitry change?

His solution was the port’s massive and overflowing crowd. Passive onlookers couldn’t track him as he blended amongst hundreds of others, each person stampeding in a different direction. Most people, however, seemed to have one destination in mind.

Dimitry followed them to the market.

Packed unlike two days ago, the deafening shouting of a hectic crowd dominated the atmosphere. Customers and merchants haggled and complained and argued at dozens of stalls across the football field-sized venue. One such stall featured leather armor with glowing auras. Another had tools with blue engravings, but no obvious function. A fishmonger’s counter soiled the air with the pungent seafood, melding with the fragrant stenches of nearby assorted spices.

“Fresh fent from Sundock!”

“Armor forged in Worlstock and enchanted by grand wizards!”

“Voltech!”

Merchants in flamboyant cloaks stood out amongst Ravenfall’s residents. Most worked alongside an assistant. Some were under the protection of armored guards wielding weaponry, both familiar and new, while others tugged along atrocious conga lines of shackled servants, who stumbled behind their masters with eyes devoid of purpose.

Slavery.

It seemed this world, too, assigned fates worse than death.

As the adrenaline wore off and accumulated physical and emotional exhaustion weighed heavier on Dimitry, his shaky legs crumbled under an insurmountable mass. His ass fell to the trampled ground and his spine crashed back against an uneven wall.

For the first time in years, Dimitry missed home.

But not his condominium. Rather, he thought of where his parents lived—that dilapidated building whose creaking floors were drowned out by a television blasting Russian news from morning to night.

As a boy, Dimitry always dreamt of moving out. What immigrant kid wanted to live in a house that always smelled of borscht? Roof leaks gave rise to ceiling mold, the boiler worked just enough to prevent pipes from bursting in winter, and the thin walls of his cramped bedroom prevented having girls over, especially considering his sister slept next door.

Although Dimitry had saved money to help his parents escape that shithole, now, there was no place he would rather visit. Just a breath of that warm familiarity would suffice. A moment in that attic overlooking cracked cement streets where children played, dogs barked, and cautious drivers cruised. Late-night gaming in June as a warm breeze caressed—

“Move!”

Dimitry jolted forward.

Was he discovered?

A guard shoved a hunched man towards the center of the market center. His body trembled as fresh blood dribbled from open wounds. At their destination, the guard tied him to a cart and stripped him of his clothes, revealing additional gashes from a recent beating.

“In accordance with His Majesty’s law,” the market guard announced, “bakers that fatten loaves with rocks are sentenced to 5 scaldings!” He held a short rod against the culprit’s back in one hand and a wallet-sized green rock in the other. “Incendia.”

The baker shrieked a howl that made everyone in the market stop and stare. He clenched his jaw and squirmed as the skin on his back turned red, then black. The process repeated several times. By the fifth ‘incendia’, the baker didn’t utter so much as a whimper. His body hung lifelessly over the cart’s edge, sloughing skin and burst blisters covering his back.

Dimitry grit his teeth and closed his eyes. What senseless cruelty. The baker didn’t have long to live. Third-degree burns led to sepsis, fluid loss, and electrolyte imbalance, but Dimitry could only watch as a battered and scorched man was dragged across the ground.

“Let that be a reminder to all cheats that fraud is dealt with harshly in the Amalthean Kingdom.”

Onlookers took swift glances at the stiff body. However, as if accustomed to public displays of torture, the clamoring atmosphere returned before long.

The urge to yell that that man needed urgent care welled within Dimitry, but he vented his frustration by squeezing his calf instead. Pointless death everywhere. In the market, on the streets, and soon, to those Dimitry abandoned in the alley.

Did Idalia really understand food allergies? What if multiple triggers led to inevitable anaphylaxis? And Milli. Would she overdose on iodine before her thyroid recovered? There was also Rowan, whose Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome put him at risk for aortic dissections, and somewhere in Ravenfall, a yellow-skinned woman had jaundice—a symptom of countless deadly illnesses. They and a dozen other patients Dimitry promised to help suffered from easily treatable conditions while he sat around doing nothing.

Rage lifted Dimitry’s fist into the air, but before it could slam into the ground, a merchant glanced his way.

Now wasn’t the time for tantrums.

Although cathartic, bringing stillness to his trembling hands, emotional outbursts only delayed progress and attracted attention—counter-productive tendencies that would lead Dimitry and his patients to an early grave. Only actionable plans helped. However, without a level-head, irrational impulses would thwart any scheme he concocted. Dimitry had to calm down.

He focused on pacing shaky gasps for air that pulsated through his gritting teeth. While random bursts of fury erupted to hamper relaxation, eventually the tension gripping his shoulders and neck dissipated, breaths evened, and racing thoughts slowed into workable ideas.

Without a wasted moment, Dimitry delved into the fundamental problem: money.

If the barber’s musings held truth, two gold coins could purchase the certificate Dimitry needed to practice medicine in Ravenfall. He would be immune from authoritarian persecution. Although unclear if the acquisition process resembled how American associations granted licenses through medical board examinations, the minutiae were irrelevant. Modern surgeons could handle leeches—a local anticoagulant, vasodilator, and anesthetic—as well as any barber.

Dimitry dug under his rags for the pouch Milli made, which contained seventeen copper gadots. He clicked his teeth. While the precise exchange rates were unclear, in no world did a handful of penny equivalents approach the value of precious metal coinage.

He needed money, and he needed it now.

The biting winds gnawing at his toes showed that unknown months of winter were closer than ever. If he didn’t resuscitate his business soon, he would die himself. But monetary sources were few.

Earlier job-hunting attempts were a waste of dwindling time, and asking former patients for work was equally inefficient. They were poor and fared little better than Dimitry. There was also the danger of corrupt guards discovering him as he roamed Ravenfall, revealing his identity to every potential employer.

Seeking refuge with the Church wasn’t safer. How would the immoral opportunists react to a profane cleric that treated illness instead of extorting patients with promises of salvation? What if they caught him lying? If the Catholic Church didn’t treat heretics kindly, neither would this one.

Another option was the two thugs Dimitry met upon his arrival in Ravenfall. Samuel, the elder, claimed to know how to earn money. His blood-stained clothes and disgust for the Church indicated his methods were independent of religious or governmental authority, but they also hinted at violent crime.

While a plausible moneymaker, the thought of regressing to a heinous adolescence filled Dimitry with revulsion. Years mired in regret. Harming innocents for profit would undo nearly two decades of hard-won change.

There had to be a better way. But what was it? Begging for scraps? Investing in a lousy tunic in hopes of a meager wage outside the city? How many seasons would pass before he scraped the two gold coins necessary to treat the patients he abandoned? Perhaps the day he received the certificate would never come. Food, health, and housing expenditures alone would set Dimitry back indefinitely. He considered reconnecting with Milli for a crowd-funding campaign, but the breadth necessary for the endeavor to succeed would doubtlessly attract the attention of guards and the Church. Even if Dimitry escaped prosecution once more, Milli and her few remaining friends would become accomplices. Maybe they were already.

Dimitry massaged his forehead as his eyes scrolled across a massive marketplace.

At over a hundred stalls, shoppers argued with merchants. The locals sold common goods like vegetables, eggs, and rough iron nails, while those adorned by decorated cloaks pushed everything from strange pipes to armor and people. On the counters of the rich rested up to three or four gold coins.

Half would suffice for a barber’s certificate.

What if Dimitry borrowed a few gold gadots from a slaver? How many lives could he resuscitate with funds from someone who peddled them? Asking for a loan wouldn’t work. If they didn’t laugh Dimitry away or alert the guards, they would make him their merchandise.

He had another idea in mind.

The stone the murderous market guard held—it resembled the green rock the man in the dark hall gave Dimitry. Were both substances identical? Was ‘invisall’ a spell just like the ‘incendia’ the guard used? Could Dimitry really become invisible? Magic rendering him unseen had countless possibilities, including a means of escape if vindictive guards chased him, or a vital tool in a stealthy theft.

Just one petty crime.

Robbing a slaver of their unethically conceived fortunes was the difference between starvation and a sustainable medical practice. Dimitry would never have to resort to malice again—nothing more than a brief return to his unsavory roots.

Better yet, magic could allow him to avoid crime altogether. Did the dark hall or the blue pawn on his wrist grant Dimitry access to spells that unraveled routes for rapid wealth? Transmutation, for example. Gold generation would bring a swift end to his woes.

He shook his head. An unlikely dream. Were gold production that easy, this city’s economy would have evolved to accommodate metal exchange long ago. But Arnest did say that wizards earned substantial incomes from enchanting goods.

Magic was the best investment.

Cautiously optimistic, Dimitry rocked away from the bumpy wall. Splitting pain radiating from his shins to his thighs elicited a wince, but he had already wasted much of the little time left to him and Ravenfall’s patients. After stumbling past hordes of shoppers, a stall displaying magical catalysts came into view.

Rocks shaped like ingots, pellets, and cubes lay on the counter.

Although among them were the dark green chunks Dimitry needed, he didn’t approach. Not yet. The disgusted gazes of nearby patrons told him he wasn’t welcome in the market. After all, what benefit to them was a man wearing rags?

To feign wealth despite atrocious attire, Dimitry rolled his torn head-cloth down to hide distinctive pale green eyes and briefly left the market to fill his pouch with coin-sized stones. He returned to the stall advertising dark green rocks once more.

Minding them was a merchant with a gray-tipped orange bowl cut. At first, he averted his gaze, perhaps hoping the enclosing homeless man would leave. When Dimitry didn’t, the merchant’s irreverent frown warped into frustration.

Eager to disarm presuppositions, Dimitry assumed a dignified pose. “I’m sorry for bothering you, but the products you have on display interest me.”

“You mean vol?”

So that was vol. “Yes.”

The merchant’s gaze crawled down from Dimitry’s mismatching rags to his bare feet. “I’m afraid we don’t serve your kind. Finish gawking and leave.”

Pleasantries weren’t enough to coax information from a businessman, but Dimitry couldn’t leave without results. He held out his fattened pouch, tightening his grip to muffle the distinct clanging of worthless copper against stone. “If you’re worried about me not having money, don’t be. Appearances can be deceiving.”

“An errand boy?”

Satisfied with the role, Dimitry nodded. “Very perceptive of you.”

“Hmm…” The merchant gave a cautious bow rather than a respectful one. “Usually craftsmen and mages greet me personally, and your apparel didn’t strike me as that of a noble’s servant. Be quick. What did your master send you to purchase?”

Dimitry hunched over the few ingots and many stones. Most were opaque aquamarine marbles, while others lustrous, dark green chunks. He pointed to the latter—they resembled the rocks he saw in the dark hall the most. “Can you tell me about these?”

“Pure vol is six silver for a dozen pellets.”

Twelve small shards were that much?! For a material to be worth so much silver in a society without modern ore harvesting and processing equipment told all. Vol was an expensive commodity.

However, was it too pricey for Dimitry? Experience showed that one entire pellet granted invisibility, but more were necessary to test invisall’s efficacy, explore magic’s capabilities, and fill emergency preserves. Could seventeen copper coins buy enough?

To avoid unraveling an already shaky backstory, Dimitry worded his currency concerns indirectly. “Sorry, but I have only gold and copper gadots with me. Do you accept those, too?”

The merchant licked his lips, ignorant of the encroaching disappointment. “I hope your master didn’t entrust such funds to one incapable of basic maths.” He pointed high above the market center.

On a tall pole hung a sign displaying characters carved into wooden blocks.

Month of Submitium Gadot Rates
Gold-Silver 1:9
Silver-Copper 1:12
Beware of Mark Counterfeits

Futility crushed Dimitry’s chest. He was worth less than one and a half silver gadots—barely two pure vol pellets. Would that even suffice to test invisall?

Unlikely.

The man in the dark hall saw Dimitry despite his invisibility. Whether the man had alternate methods of perception or if the spell made Dimitry unseen only to himself was unclear. He couldn’t employ invisall in hazardous situations without differentiating between both possibilities.

“Is something the matter?” the merchant asked with exaggerated concern. “If it is my imperial heritage that troubles you, rest assured. I don’t deal in Marks. Few outside the Gestalt Empire do since the war.”

Dimitry lay still his bouncing foot and acknowledged the man’s babbling with a nod. “That’s good to know because I was told to make a large purchase and to be sure I’m buying the right thing for the right price.”

“Yes, caution is always necessary.” The merchant wore a polite smile, doubtless preparing some swindle.

Using a businessman’s excitement to his advantage, Dimitry pointed to a stack of aquamarine pellets. “Can magic be used with these as well?”

“Crude vol? Are you sure your master needs that?”

“What’s the difference?”

“It’s like pure vol, except less refined. Beginners use it since the feedback is less severe. Some artisans do, too…” The merchant glared at Dimitry. “But those artisans are rarely the type to spend entire golds on magic.”

Dimitry’s understanding was that the dark green metal was vol, and the aquamarine pellets were the same substance except with impurities. The merchant’s words indicated they were cheaper, too. An alternative worth exploring. “Do crude vol pellets work as well as pure vol pellets?”

“Why do you care?”

“It’s important.”

The merchant frowned. “You’re asking all too many questions for a simple errand boy. If you’re wasting my time, then...” His eyes drifted towards a patrolling market guard.

Despite the implicated threat, Dimitry remained calm. This may have been the only chance to harness magic—his best hope for safety and getting gold for a barber’s certificate. He fabricated a bluff from Arnest’s tale about a wizard and Milli’s meandering explanations of apprenticeship to pacify the merchant’s distrust.

“I understand your frustration. Well, truth is, the reason I’m so curious… please don’t tell anyone, because it’s crazy, but I want to become a wizard’s apprentice.”

“You? A wizard’s apprentice?”

“He’s a genius,” Dimitry said. “Enchants tools and sells them on market day. Attracted to his fortune, I sold my house, my tools, my clothes, and even forewent food to save enough to follow in his footsteps. My family calls me crazy, but...”

“And that’s where your money came from? Everything you own is in that pouch?”

“Precisely. But money isn’t enough—he won’t just train anyone. I want to impress him with magic.”

The merchant’s hand ran through his gray-tipped orange hair. His contemplative frown folded into a sly smile. “So that’s why you’re so inquisitive. You said you wanted to know about crude vol?”

Relieved that his deceptive gamble succeeded despite limited knowledge, Dimitry nodded. “More than anything.”

“Both pure and crude vol pellets come from the same ore, but crude vol isn’t refined further after being poured from a blast furnace. Since it’s less concentrated, it packs less of a punch than the pure alternative, but you could use more than one pellet for equivalent strength. It’ll be perfect for you. You’ll need lots.”

Furnace? Ore? Was vol a metal? Despite burning questions, the intensity of countless stares digging into Dimitry’s spine made him look back.

People were watching him—more than before.

Although Dimitry wanted to learn more about magic fuel, a homeless man glancing at luxury products garnered excess attention. He sped the conversation along. “I want to purchase a small sample of crude vol pellets. Just to try it out first.”

“Bad move.” The merchant leaned forward. “You should buy ‘em in bulk. I’ll give you a discount.”

Obvious upselling. Not that Dimitry could fall for it. He was too poor. “A silver’s worth for now, please.”

“That’s only five crudes. You can’t do anything with that!”

Five entire aquamarine pellets for twelve copper coins? Not only was that three more units than Dimitry would get from buying pure vol, he would also have money left over to purchase electrolyte-rich foods! Perhaps the refining process was almost as expensive as vol itself.

Dimitry quietly fished twelve copper coins from his pouch, then dragged them onto the counter. “Give me five for now. If I’m impressed, I’ll be back to buy more later.”

“Look, I’ll give you forty-seven per gold.”

“Not interested.”

“Forty-eight if you buy now.”

“You’re wasting my time. I told you I’ll come back for more later.”

“Fine.” The merchant groaned before rolling five aquamarine marbles across the table. “Just don’t be angry when you flounder with so few attempts. I’ll be here waiting.”

7. Invisibility Experiments

From a hillock beyond the city’s border, Ravenfall appeared to be at peace. Hulking outer walls strangled a blurry portrait of medieval society, only the lording towers of a grandiose cathedral and castle distinguishable in the distance. The constant foot traffic and toiling carthorses and clapping in the streets from vendors peddling goods no longer existed. Not here. Instead, scattered cottages, thinning as they withdrew further from Ravenfall, decorated the grassy land.

A place far from wandering eyes.

That was why Dimitry ventured to Ravenfall’s outskirts. There were no guards or civilians here to discover a homeless man dabbling in magic. Secrecy was vital. An invisibility spell’s applications and effectiveness grew the fewer people knew of Dimitry’s capacity to cast it.

There were also potential hazards. When Dimitry cast invisall in the dark hall, intense nausea made him lean over and retch. Although the symptoms lasted only a few seconds, conducting tests in a crowded city while ignorant of the aftereffects was hazardous.

However, despite countless concerns, a far more basic question remained: could Dimitry use magic?

His gaze fell to the five aquamarine pellets rolling in his palm. If the experiment failed, not only would Dimitry lose all his wealth, he would likely wither in the cold, crucial medical knowledge gone from this world forever. Many of his patients would die.

Dimitry had to make this work, he yearned to make this work, but the potential for failure made him hesitate.

The only proof of his wizardry was the pale imprint of a pawn on his wrist. Usually blue, the crimson light of a sinking sun gave it a purple hue. It signified that the dark hall was real. That really happened. He could cast spells. And yet, no one else in this world had a similar mark.

So why did he?

What was its purpose?

A croak like the amalgam of a raven’s caw and a toad’s grunt screeched above.

Dimitry’s eyes darted up the thick oak he leaned against but saw nothing. The leaves were still. Eager to finish while the otherworldly creature inside remained peaceful, he inhaled a deep breath of air green and fresh and hurried his attention back to the five crude vol pellets. He placed four back into his pouch, leaving one on his palm.

The first test would measure general magic aptitude with a market guard’s murderous chant. Anticipation bubbling within, Dimitry glared at the tree’s bark, the target of his fiery trial. He licked his cracked lips and clutched the vol.

“Incendia.”

Aside from a sudden gale rustling leaves, nothing changed. The pellet remained within Dimitry’s grasp, and the oak’s surface didn’t char.

“Incendia.”

“Incendia.”

The results were the same every time.

Dread ushered cold waves throughout Dimitry. What if he couldn’t use magic? No. That couldn’t be it. It was that merchant. They took advantage of Dimitry’s ignorance, scammed him with dysfunctional goods. Maybe pure vol pellets were the better choice.

He shook his head. Why would a merchant risk a long-term customer and a poor reputation for several copper coins? There had to be another explanation. What if incendia only burned people, or a conduit was necessary, akin to the short rod the market guard held? It might have been a wand.

With fragile hopes, he opted for another spell—one a cloaked woman chanted to coax incandescent light from a magic street lamp without tools. Imitating her, Dimitry hovered an empty palm over the bark.

“Illumina.”

Nothing happened.

“Illumina. Illumina, illumina, illumina. Illumina!”

“Illuminaaaaa!”

“Illumin-ah!”

“Aluminum!”

Although every attempt was more desperate than the last, Dimitry neither consumed the vol nor produced light. He had hoped the dark hall granted him magical expertise besides renewed youth and alien text decipherment, but like the wizard in Arnest’s story, perhaps one mastered magic only through study.

A devastating development. Without the ability to cast either illumina or incendia, access to other wealth-generating magic was unlikely. Was theft the only route to earning a medical certificate? A pointless question. There wasn’t time to explore other options. After purchasing vol, Dimitry had spent all but two remaining copper coins on nutritious, electrolyte-replenishing food to end his muscle spasms and prevent a plethora of deadlier medical issues. But the benefits wouldn’t last. He had to act soon.

Dimitry’s fist clenched around the misbehaving crude vol pellet. It had to grant him invisibility. Otherwise, the world would kill him through starvation, hypothermia, or chance encounters with guards.

He rolled his shoulders and inhaled a sharp breath.

“Invisall.”

Heat rushed into Dimitry’s arm and across his chest, legs, and head. Everything around him spun, but thankfully, the tree his shoulder rested against kept him from collapsing.

Catching his balance, Dimitry looked down. Although he could see the grass beneath his feet and a tree trunk behind his muddled abdomen, Dimitry’s legs were still visible. The prayers floundering through his gut dove into despair.

He was transparent.

But why? Grainy sand, gray and uncomfortable between Dimitry’s fingers, indicated that he consumed all the vol within the aquamarine pellet. Was it not enough? The merchant mentioned crude vol was weaker than purified vol, but Dimitry imagined that the difference would be shorter effect durations.

Not this.

This was useless. Transparency would only draw more attention.

However, the merchant also said that multiple crude pellets held more power than a single, refined alternative. Would consuming two pellets instead of one grant Dimitry full invisibility? It was a trial best conducted tomorrow, when he would determine if invisall concealed him amongst people. For now, collecting other data benefited him most.

Dimitry observed his rags become transparent along with his body, but not the grass he stood on. The ability ‘knew’ which objects he intended to affect. Also noteworthy were the side effects. Consuming pure vol in the dark hall left Dimitry nauseous, but crude vol only made him dizzy. Was that the feedback the merchant warned him about? Poorly planned magic use could leave Dimitry in a vulnerable state.

To finish, he measured how long the effects lasted. Without timekeeping equipment, mental counting was the only option. He combated meandering thoughts until a dull headache constricted Dimitry’s head. Neither the grass beneath his feet nor the tree behind him was visible any longer. Invisall’s boon ended.

A little less than five minutes.

That was all the time he would have to escape danger.

Dimitry trudged through Ravenfall, stepping around sharp stones reflecting green moonlight in search for a place to sleep.

When he shared an alley with Milli, she had quilts that insulated warmth and kept nighttime critters away. Unfortunately, things had changed. Dimitry returning to the alleyway doctor’s office—the scene of his ‘crime’—was dangerous without a barber’s certificate. An upset local could report him to the guards.

Dimitry looked for a temporary home instead. He traversed gloomy roads, homeless-ridden dead-ends, and rendezvous spots full of scowling scoundrels before crossing the river towards the city’s cleaner half.

The squealing of stressed bridge planks cut through a hesitant atmosphere that, vibrant this afternoon, was now devoid of life. As was the nearby port. Hundreds scampered across its docks midday, but now, patrolling its rough timber paths were only a dozen armored men. The light-emitting sticks they held combined with green moonlight gave the port the appearance of a lonely nighttime rave.

Overburdened timber beams croaked behind Dimitry.

Startled, his head shot back.

Two men’s silhouettes edged closer—one of which lacked an arm.

“Is that the kid or not?” an older man with a wrinkled face and thinning hair whispered. “I can’t see shit these days.”

A young man’s filth-encrusted beard came into view. “That’s what I’m tellin’ ya, Gramps. It’s the guy from the other day. The one who tricked priestess Josephine into letting him take food out of the church.”

“If you call me Gramps again, I’ll break my foot in your ass.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Recognizing both men as the thugs that robbed Dimitry, he froze. Did they know his real identity?

“It is him!” Arnest ran closer while chucking green-tinted silver chunks into a small pouch. The young man stuffed it under his tattered clothes. “Told ya I saw him earlier at the port, and now he’s back again!”

“Not so loud, moron,” Samuel whispered. “The kid is obviously trying to avoid attention.”

Icy dread sludged down Dimitry’s spine. How did they know he was at the port earlier? “Why would I be avoiding attention?”

Samuel frowned. “You think I’m stupid or something? Everyone’s heard about the pilgrim going around fixing people. Shit, until they started saying green eyes paler than mint, I wanted to come see you myself. Back’s been killing me for years.”

“Wait,” Arnest said. “Ya sayin’ this guy’s the holy cleric? The rumor ain’t real?”

“Real?” A vindictive laugh broke from the elder’s mouth. “Real? When has anything good about the Church ever been real? Those bitches only care about two things: control and fattening their robes with other people’s pain. Fuck ‘em.”

“But they give us food.”

“Oh, not that shit again.” Samuel shook his head and slapped Dimitry’s shoulder. “At least the kid gets it—using Zera’s divine horse crap against them to scam a bunch of gullible idiots. Couldn’t have done better myself.”

So they did know of Dimitry’s back alley clinic. Survival instinct urged him to run, to flee as far as sore legs could carry him, but calmer thoughts prevailed. There wasn’t danger yet. The thugs’ perceptiveness could prove useful. “You guys seem pretty good at gathering information.”

“Darn straight,” Arnest said.

“That’s what we do, kid.” Samuel massaged a bald spot that looked like a forest lake encircled by white hair birches. “Though I’m sure that’s impressive for someone who didn’t know about morning prayer ‘till a few days ago.”

“Do you know if there’s some kind of bounty on me?”

Arnest shrugged. “Something like that, but it’s probably no big deal.”

“Just don’t look a guard in the eye for a few weeks and you’ll be fine.” Samuel paused. “Also, take a break from scamming people. You’ll get your shit kicked in before you can say Celeste guide me.”

“What if I had a barber’s certificate?”

Overlooking a black river gleaming green, Samuel nodded. “I think I see where you’re going with this. You want the guild’s backing. Might work if you had the coin and stopped advertising yourself as a cleric.”

Dimitry’s gaze fell to the plank and timber bridge. Unfortunately, his predictions were accurate: guards were antagonistic, and practicing medicine without a guild membership was suicide. Two gold gadots. All he needed were two coins and both problems would vanish.

“Ya wanna be a barber?” Arnest asked with child-like wonder. “Why?”

Samuel’s eyes scrolled longingly past harbored boats. “Everyone wants something, though looking at the kid, I imagine he just wants to eat.”

“If ya wanna eat, ya gotta work.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

The men who tried to mug Dimitry days before now acted affably. Were they setting a trap? Although plausible, it was unlikely. Samuel and Arnest could have alerted nearby guards to his presence. Instead, they greeted him and divulged information. Perhaps they wanted to recruit Dimitry into their schemes like last time—three homeless men struggling to survive in the world.

Dimitry couldn’t trust them then, and he didn’t trust them now. However, when stealing gold from a slaver was his best plan, having alternatives only helped. “You said before that you know a way to make quick money. Is that true?”

“Of course,” the elder said. “If you’re capable and know the right people.”

“If ya can even call them people.” Arnest turned his head to spit.

“Sure, our employers might not be the nicest bunch, but they’ve given people like Arnest and me more than enough coin to survive. Can’t ask for much more than that. Hell, if it wasn’t for them, you’d find a lot more dead bodies on the streets. I probably would’ve died long ago.”

Samuel’s crooked smile hinted that whatever they did wasn’t legal, but Dimitry prioritized preserving life over obeying laws. “What do they make you do?”

“That’s a tough question, kid. It depends. Most times, they just want you to keep an eye out. Other times, the job is… a little more complicated.”

Arnest groaned. “What he’s tryna to say is, sometimes they ask ya to risk your life for a handful of gadots.”

“Just keep your wits about you, and you’ll be fine. We can always use a third. What do you say? Want to give it a try?”

Empty consolation didn’t convince Dimitry. He needed facts. “My question is, what kind of work will be doing? Will we have to hurt anyone?”

“If anyone’s gettin’ hurt,” Arnest said, “it’s us.”

“Take a good look at us, kid.” Samuel slowly turned, holding out a single, scrawny arm. “Do you think we’re in a position to be attacking anybody? Tenebrae isn’t stupid. They’ll put people where they’re used best.”

While invisall might save Dimitry in a pinch, the spell’s countless unknowns made it unreliable. The prospect of competent employers offered a shred of relief. No sustainable organization pointlessly squandered useful workers. Still, the name ‘Tenebrae’ didn’t exactly ooze dependability. “I can’t help but wonder who exactly we’ll be working for.”

“You and me both, kid. The bigwigs in Tenebrae don’t like to make themselves known. All that matters is that they have plenty of money to throw around.”

“How about Agatha?” Arnest asked.

“She’s a pawn in the grand scheme of things, just like us.”

Arnest waved as if swatting at flies only he could see. “For a pawn, she sure likes to throw her weight around.”

“Anyway, feel free to join us,” Samuel said. “From what I’ve heard, there’s going to be a big job soon, so the pay’s bound to be good as well.”

Signing his life away to a secretive criminal organization didn’t thrill Dimitry, but dire circumstances didn’t allow him to disregard the option altogether. “I’ll think on it.”

“Are we done here yet?” Arnest’s legs shivered in the frigid wind. “C’mon, let’s go back already!”

“You think you’re cold? Try being old.” Samuel sighed. “Kid, we have a fire back at the alley. You coming?”

With freezing planks irritating Dimitry’s soles, the old man’s hospitality was welcoming. Perhaps too welcoming. “I’m grateful, but since you know I’m wanted by the authorities, how can I be sure you won’t sell me off to the guards when we get there?”

Arnest’s gaze darted towards Samuel’s.

Both men stood silent as if waiting for a punchline to a joke before laughing hysterically.

“What’s so funny?” Dimitry asked.

Side-splitting hilarity thwarted Arnest’s attempts at speech. “He’s… he’s serious!”

“Ah, man.” Samuel wiped away joyful tears with his sleeve. “Kid, even if we ratted you out, think the guards will throw us a single copper? Shit, they’d probably beat the crap out of us before we even get a word out.”

Sympathizing with Samuel and Arnest’s distrust for Ravenfall’s authorities, Dimitry was unsure if he was relieved or upset to have so much in common with two thugs. Hell, he was already considering crime as a solution to his destitution. Perhaps Dimitry hadn’t changed as much as he thought. “Alright, lead the way.”

“Are ya sure we can trust him?” Arnest asked. “He lied to Josephine and didn’t even tell us his name.”

Samuel watched Dimitry expectantly.

“It’s Dimitry,” he said, wondering if Josephine was the priestess he met at the church several days prior.

“What kinda name is that? Ya from Sundock or somethin’?”

Dimitry sighed. “From somewhere far from here, I fear.”

“What does it matter where he’s from?” Samuel said. “We’re all here now. Not to mention we have bigger things to worry about.”

Arnest looked up at the moon, its green light illuminating his dirt-smeared face. “Should be any day now.”

“That’s all the more reason for us to get this job done right. The cold and the night of repentance make for a nasty combination.”

With four emergency aquamarine pellets in hand, Dimitry accompanied the two men.

Dimitry’s eyes opened to reveal the blurry image of a dead-end alley.

Samuel’s grimy gray hair swayed in the wind as he blew out the flames enveloping scorched wood fragments.

Beside a soot-stained wall crouched Arnest. The young man tossed a dented silver cube into the air before rushing to pluck another four from the ash and dirt-layered floor. “C’mon, done yet?”

“Almost.” Samuel groaned. “Maybe I would’ve finished already if you weren’t preoccupied with those fucking knucklebones.”

“Gotta practice for after we get paid.”

“You know you’re just gonna lose it all anyway. Damn gambling addict.”

Ignoring their bickering, Dimitry unraveled his fist. The four aquamarine vol pellets he clutched all night left indentations in his palm. He felt relief. Relief that neither Arnest nor Samuel mugged or sold Dimitry out to authorities while he slept, and gratitude for the opportunity to sleep beside a toasty fire. For the first time, oppressive cold didn’t sap all sensation from his toes.

“Just ya wait.” Arnest flung a silver gaming piece and crawled forward to catch it midair. “When I get good enough, I won’t have to work for Agatha or anyone anymore, and you’ll be begging me for money.”

“To be young and stupid.” Samuel shook his head. “I don’t miss it.”

“Doncha worry. I’ll be nice and buy you a walking stick.”

“And I’ll shove it up your ass.”

Dimitry exhaled a feeble laugh through his nostrils.

“Hey, look who finally woke up!” Arnest half-complained. “We were waitin’ on ya.”

Samuel lifted his tired eyes to meet Dimitry’s gaze. “Oh, good. Maybe I won’t have to listen to a moron’s babbling all day. You coming, kid? We’re off to visit the assholes at the church for some grub.”

“You call them that,” Arnest said, “but you’re lucky they’re even feeding your ass.”

“Lucky? If it wasn’t for them, I would’ve been a wealthy merchant sipping wine instead of running around cleaning up after you!”

“If ya say so.” Arnest lightly punched Dimitry’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s go. We ain’t got all day. Missus Josephine is waiting for us, and she’s the kindest priestess in all of Ravenfall.”

Though the promise of free pottage from the Church was tempting, especially with Dimitry’s limited funds, rationality prevailed. He was a medical criminal who abused Zera’s authority without permission from the Church. With how many patrons the priestess greeted daily, rumors of his ‘sin’ had definitely reached her. Josephine was doubtless wary of the man with pale green eyes. More so since she had met Dimitry before. Not even the most intricate lie could integrate who he introduced himself as and who he became.

The risk and time investment wasn’t worth a half-bowl of pottage containing less than a thousand calories, and the nutritious meal he bought yesterday evening would keep him going long enough to find more efficient means of survival. “I’m not sure I’ll be so welcome. I’ll pass for now.”

“Whaddya mean, you’ll pass?” Arnest’s love-struck guise became one of confusion.

“Kid’s got a point,” Samuel said. “There’s no telling what those bitches will do when they see him.”

“Don’t call missus Josephine a bitch!”

“I’ll call ‘em as they are. Just cause someone’s pretty and gives out food doesn’t make them good. One day, they'll ask for a favor in return. They always do.” Samuel’s stub arm protruded from under assorted rags. “That’s speaking from personal experience.”

“That’s what ya always say. Fine, whatever.” Arnest waved Dimitry away. “Just leave then.”

Samuel sighed. “Go on, kid. Arnest’s pissy, but you don’t have to worry about him blabbering about the ‘holy cleric’ to the Church. He knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

“That’s good to know.” Dimitry turned to exit onto main street only to glance back. “Just a quick question, but do either of you know anything about invisibility magic?”

Arnest frowned. “Huh?”

“What’s that?” Samuel asked.

“For example, spells that make people unseen.”

The two men shared confused glances.

Wondering if magic awareness was rare amongst commoners or if invisall was simply ineffective, Dimitry shrugged. “Just something I overheard in passing. It’s probably no big deal.”

A gloomy morning sky beamed scattered sunlight into a deserted alley, whose contents were only three: a rotting pig carcass, moldy crates, and a former surgeon whose shaky hand gripped a shriveled pouch.

Dimitry emptied it into his palm—two copper gadots and four aquamarine pellets.

Yesterday, one piece of crude vol turned him transparent, but in the dark hall, a single pure vol shard made him invisible. Would two crudes do the same? How long would the effect last? Was invisall even useful? Neither Arnest nor Samuel heard of similar magic despite vast street knowledge, and when Dimitry experienced invisibility in the dark hall, the omniscient man saw him regardless. If the spell affected solely the user’s perception of themselves, Dimitry was screwed.

Dread pumped ice under his skin and down his spine. This was Dimitry’s only chance to get this right. Invisall’s unknowns were countless, and without vol for additional attempts, he had to drain every ounce of data before employing the spell under hazardous conditions.

Duration, efficacy, reliability, and adverse effects.

A single test had to ascertain them all.

His laboratory was around the corner and two buildings away—Ravenfall’s market square. No larger than a football field and more packed than a rush-hour train, there were two, perhaps three, times as many people as yesterday. They shuffled through the narrow spaces between stalls, each searching for some otherworldly product. Their shouts sang to the tune of rattling chains played by downcast slaves.

The morally bankrupt sight was one Dimitry wished to do without, but the gradually increasing population density towards the center allowed him to confirm not only if invisall hid his figure but also if it muted smell, touch, and sound along an elevating population gradient.

Blood pounded in Dimitry’s ears. What if the magic faltered, allowing someone to discover him? Was there a ‘revealall’ that nullified ‘invisall’? Could Dimitry escape? He was too weak to wrestle out of a market guard’s grasp.

Before thrusting himself into danger, he would conduct a precursory trial in an area with no guards and accessible escape routes—a less populated road leading to the market.

Dimitry scurried down the narrow alley before crouching behind a mildew-coated crate. He returned half of the crude vol pellets to the pouch, then stared at the two that remained on his palm. A sharp breath rushed cold air into his nostrils as he braced himself for pain.

“Invisall.”

Scorching heat coursed through Dimitry, burning every organ as it surged across his body. He staggered when a vertigo episode, like one would experience when spinning in an office chair, disrupted his balance. Sweat mixed with the remnants of the aquamarine pellets to create a gel-like mixture in the palm of his hand.

He glanced down.

Only a dirt floor, a crate, and a jagged ceramic cup lay in view. Dimitry and his rags were invisible. Grateful that two crude vol pellets achieved the desired effect, some of his anxiety teetered into hopeful anticipation. But the experiment had only just begun.

He stumbled onto main street and stood in traffic. Right before a woman bumped into Dimitry, he stepped aside to avoid a collision.

She didn’t see him.

A desperate thrill, like that of a stranded man spotting a distant ship from an island, stole Dimitry’s breath. But it was still too early to celebrate. To collect data under more erratic conditions, he performed jumping jacks on the side of the road.

One passerby glanced at the dust rising from the road seemingly of its own volition but soon lost interest. A second pinched her nose when walking beside Dimitry. Another turned his head to an unseen tap on his shoulder, while a sourceless clap startled his friend.

Invisall did exactly as the name implied: it erased the user’s visuals without affecting sound, smell, and tactile impulses. That was fine. No, it was great! Although imperfect, the spell did exactly what Dimitry hoped it would do!

Assuming the duration was five minutes as it was with one crude vol pellet, there was ample time to experiment. Eagerness pushed Dimitry into the market to conduct further tests.

As the crowd’s density increased, so did obscure sights. Among them was a counter upholding five stubby rods. They were just like the wands the murderous market guard from yesterday held. A small, rectangular piece of wood decorated with teal lines entrenched itself in each device’s handle.

While intriguing, the rattling of chains attracted Dimitry’s attention to a stall at the market’s center.

Slaves.

They lined up beside a podium as wealthy perusers observed their complexions, held their limbs, and squeezed their muscles in a repugnant display.

Dimitry wondered if invisall could help free them, maybe at night while their owners slept, yet he lacked the tools to sever thick iron shackles. And releasing binds alone was short-sighted. There was also the issue of feeding and sheltering slaves while transporting them to distant cities where anonymity allowed them to reintegrate into society as free citizens.

Rash action now would endanger everyone involved. Perhaps one day Dimitry could muster the resources to emancipate others, but currently, he couldn’t help his patients or even himself.

For that, Dimitry needed money.

His eyes locked onto a slaver’s counter upholding only a gray-glowing statue and a pile of coins of which six were gold. Six golden gadots! How many surgical needles, hemostats, and forceps could that purchase? How many medical innovations could be developed?

Dimitry stumbled closer.

A flowing crowd of shoppers and onlookers blocked the path.

He tried another.

A hand-holding couple obstructed that one too, so he opted for another. And another. Then another. Regardless of route, the gaps between shoppers narrowed until the risk of bumping into pedestrians before reaching the slaver’s stall became insurmountable.

Fearful of invisall’s effects fading while trapped among a sea of observers, Dimitry grit his teeth and backed away. But it was fine. Although he hoped to use invisall most efficiently while it lasted, he accomplished the primary goal—measuring the spell’s parameters.

Two pellets remained in his pouch. With limits identified, they would suffice to escape poverty. However, to further increase the odds of success for when the time came, he would conduct one last experiment. Dimitry dodged and ducked past a liquid horde, thinning by the moment, until he reached one of many exits.

Near the edge of the market square stood a stall with many display racks, each laden with straw baskets bearing familiar and alien vegetation. Grain, exotic yellow beans, and other produce.

At the end of the counter lay a crate of flat melons.

The perfect practice target for the real heist.

Transporting gold coins while invisible would require experience, and now was Dimitry’s only chance to adapt. If he could steal a giant fruit, he could easily escape with a handful of gadots. The proximity to many escape routes almost guaranteed his safety, and the sugar-rich contents were a bonus.

He crept closer.

Three people stood under the produce stall’s canvas roof. One was an older woman with beads of sweat trickling down her plump cheeks. She waved her hands passionately while speaking to a customer across the counter. The third was a girl with tangled vermilion hair and a glowing metal collar around her neck. Sitting in silence, she watched the crowd move around her.

“This is the freshest samul you’ll find in all of Remora! Four and a half coppers a bundle is the lowest I’ll go!”

“The local grocer sells it for four. Are you trying to rip me off?”

“Ha! That’s a steep price to pay for trash.”

Neither of the three heard Dimitry as he slid beside the stall. His palm grasped the melon’s thick, leathery skin, but no matter how much he willed it to, the fruit didn’t turn invisible. An expected yet disappointing outcome.

Dimitry moved onto the next step: stealing.

But he hesitated.

Although theft would save him money, the merchant wasn’t a slaver or rich. She was struggling to survive just like him. Dimitry retrieved an invisible copper coin from his pouch and gently lowered it onto the counter.

None were the wiser.

Transaction complete, he nudged the crate, and the topmost melon fell to the ground with a condensed thunk.

The vermilion-haired girl locked her gaze onto the fruit.

Dimitry froze. Did she notice him? His instincts screamed at him to flee, yet the girl’s irreverence told otherwise. She stared at the melon with half-closed eyes, not taking the initiative to retrieve it. Did she not care?

He gave the fruit a gentle kick.

With raised eyebrows, the girl watched a melon roll through a market exit and onto the streets.

8. A Humble Heist

In a dead-end alley, a homeless surgeon’s arm rose into the air only to come down like a hammer in a desperate game of high striker. The sharp rock he held pummeled into thick, green skin, resonating another leathery thwack between timber-framed walls.

Although Dimitry had ‘bought’ the melon to test invisall, after spending an entire copper on the product, he intended to make full use of its nutritional contents. Only a fool would throw away a perfectly good source of sugar. Though his biceps burned with fatigue, he continued to hack away at the melon’s fibrous carapace.

With one last strike, the fruit split open.

Dimitry scooped up a mound of white flesh and stuffed it into his mouth. His eyes shot open when an intense bitterness made him gag. He scrambled to scrape a persistent layer of starchy mush from his taste buds.

Was that crap supposed to be edible?

Before Dimitry could fully process his disgust, a thick mental fog constricted his brain, and his limbs weighed down like logs. He ran a trembling, now-visible hand through his hair. Invisall’s effects wore off.

He didn’t track the spell’s precise duration, but it lasted longer than when he had turned transparent. Perhaps seven minutes of complete invisibility. It seemed that using additional vol did more than strengthen effects.

“Fent!” a shrill voice cheered from above.

Shocked by the sudden outcry, Dimitry’s gaze shot up.

Aside from a blue sky squeezed between two timber-framed walls, there was something else. It leaned from a rooftop. The sun’s glare concealed its precise figure, but whatever it was, it had a tiny golden ponytail affixed to an equally tiny head.

Although Dimitry blinked, the scenery remained the same. Did his visual and auditory hallucinations return?

The creature’s gaze traveled from the fruit to Dimitry. “Loathsome human. Step away from the fent, or I will corrupt your soul.”

Unsure if the creature knew of invisall or if it was even real, Dimitry pointed to the melon. “This is fent, right? You want this garbage and not me?”

“Garbage?! Take that back!”

“Why? It tastes horrible.”

“That’s exactly what a dumb human would say. J-just go away! But leave the fent behind first.”

Although everything within Dimitry yelled at him to obey, to heed the whims of a sentient alien creature, his muscles refused to cooperate. “I’m tired. Come back for it later.”

“What if someone else takes it?!”

“Doubt that’ll happen.”

“If you don’t leave, if you don’t leave now, I’ll… I’ll—”

“Look,” Dimitry said, hoping he was speaking to himself. “Threatening me won’t help you. I’m not in the mood.”

After frowning down at him for an extended moment, the tiny head pulled out of sight. “Dummy.”

Dimitry blinked once more. Did that really just happen? Although the creature felt real, hallucinations always did. Perhaps visual and auditory glitches were additional components to the feedback the vol merchant mentioned.

He tried to ignore what he saw. The creature didn’t seem threatening, and even if it was, he couldn’t do much about it. Dimitry had important preparations to make.

While scouting Ravenfall for thievery targets and hideouts to survive the aftermath, Dimitry grew hungry and spent his last copper gadot on meat pie. As he held the fatty mutton and crispy flour treat, a concoction of desperation and sadness weighed down on him. All of his money was gone. Whatever he did next had to work.

“Hey!” a belligerent yell echoed from across the street.

Dimitry’s head shot up. Searching for the threat, he glanced back.

A man, six-feet tall and in his early thirties, stumbled down the street. Staggering feet gave him an intoxicated appearance. Clutching his hand on either side was a woman of the same age and a teenage girl. Both struggled to keep his movements straight when his feet veered sideways, causing him to bump into a shirtless laborer.

He dropped the crate he carried. “Watch your step, ya drunk!”

“Fuck off,” slurred the unsteady man. “I’ll bash yer damn ‘ead in.”

The woman holding his hand bowed. “Please, forgive him. I promise my husband doesn’t drink ale or wine. It all started a month ago and—”

“Don’t care if he drinks ale or mead or river water,” said the laborer. “Just keep him away from me and my cargo. I’ll tell the guards if it happens again.”

She bowed once more. “My humblest apologies.”

Biting into his meat pie, Dimitry watched the man stumble near. The face beneath his rough tunic’s brown hood was pale like an anemic patient’s, and if he abstained from alcohol as his wife claimed, the slurred words and drunken staggering likely resulted from cerebellar ataxia—a degenerative disease that damaged the part of the brain largely responsible for regulating speech and movement. Although the ailment’s cause was rarely clear, widespread malnourishment offered clues.

The biggest suspect was B12 deficiency. As the vitamin was vital for red blood cell production and central nervous system health, its insufficiency explained the man’s anemia and ataxia—sensible deductions since animal protein provided the bulk of the nutrient in human diets. Like vegans on Earth, people in a society that survived solely on meatless pottage for months were at high risk.

A society like this one.

Dimitry needed only a few questions and a brief clinical examination to confirm his hypothesis. He would examine the man’s tongue for red patches consistent with hunter’s glossitis and conduct a two-point discrimination test to ascertain peripheral neuropathy. Both were common symptoms in B12 deficient patients.

If he was right, a nutritional supplement could fix every issue, including aggression.

Determined to halt a preventable illness that inflicted irreversible damage with every passing moment, Dimitry stepped forward. But a single step was all fear allowed him to take. Would the couple attack the approaching homeless man? Dimitry was too weak to fight back. Even against a woman. Or maybe they would recognize his pale green eyes and call the guards. Were the risks worth taking?

He considered the wife and daughter. When the father’s condition deteriorated further, and macrocytic anemia resulted in premature death, could the widow support her child alone? Unlikely. Pre-modern society’s physically draining lifestyle necessitated everyone’s survival. To let one family member die was to kill them all.

Dimitry chomped down the rest of his pie and beckoned the couple closer. “Excuse me, sir. I think I can fix your stumbling. All I need is a momen—”

“Huh?” The husband slurred, inviting the gazes of onlookers. “A beggar wants to fix me?”

Although a dozen piercing stares and the man’s bulky posture alarmed Dimitry, it was a result he expected. Irritability was common with vitamin B deficiencies. “There’s no need for hostility. It’ll just take a moment.”

“Come on, honey.” The wife nudged her husband and daughter to walk faster. “You know beggars get desperate this time of year. Giving them attention only makes them braver.”

“Fuckin’ bums should learn their place.”

“Anemia’ll kill you at this rate!”

The daughter glanced around her stumbling father to glare at Dimitry, face scrunched with disgust.

Their unsteady gaits hastened.

“Eat beef liver!” Dimitry yelled plentiful sources of B12, hoping the deficiency didn’t source from malabsorption. “Beef liver, sheep liver, pig liver, whichever you want! A portion every day will cure the stumbling!”

Neither of the three turned a head or nodded as they disappeared down the street.

Dimitry was angry.

Angry at a society where unbalanced diets murdered more than heart disease or stroke, angry at a Church that brushed off preventable diseases as divine intervention, and angry at a government corrupt enough to brutalize the only surgeon that tried to remedy both. The dozens of patients Dimitry promised to help were dying. Innocents were dying. And soon, he would die as well.

The meat pie he ate wouldn’t satiate him for long. With frigid winds sapping his exposed legs of warmth, icy well water sips, and constant movement, the meal’s few hundred calories would be gone in hours. Fainting and crippling muscle weakness would soon set in.

He needed money now.

Hunger, morals, and reason warred over whether Dimitry should use vol for theft, and the morals lost. The two aquamarine pellets on his trembling palm were the last hope of a man gripping to life.

Contrary to his earlier plans, however, Dimitry couldn’t use invisall to steal from slavers. The counters where they displayed their egregious wealth stood between thick crowds in the market’s center. Even if Dimitry weaved through countless shoppers and guards while invisible, he wouldn’t escape with two floating gold coins in hand.

Worsening symptoms necessitated scouting for another target while Dimitry’s body still functioned, but the task wasn’t straightforward. Few establishments in Ravenfall were wealthy and gaudy enough to keep gold on open display. Even fewer isolated themselves from potential witnesses.

A need to avoid suspicion limited Dimitry’s criteria further. The target of his robbery had to be far from his clinic, yet close to somewhere he could stash loot immediately after the heist. Afterward, he would have to lie low while the city searched for a thief. A formerly homeless man purchasing food, clothes, and a barber’s license with gold coins right after a burglary invited skepticism. He would have to launder the gold into copper and silver gadots through traveling merchants to avoid being traced, but Dimitry needed an emergency escape in case his targets caught on to his schemes. And the best emergency escape was invisall.

Unfortunately, his vol supply sufficed for only a single cast—the one he intended to use for the theft. That was why he searched for an establishment that stocked magic catalyst and money on an open counter. Dimitry’s odds were highest if he could acquire funds and vol in a single heist. If he had to steal, he would do it right.

After scouring the city for hours, he found only one place in Ravenfall that fit every rigorous requirement: ‘Inscriber Works’.

It was a store that stood on east main street, where luxurious shops lined up in two neat rows surrounding a wide, well-paved, and relatively clean road. A problem since wealth attracted foot traffic and guards. Although sneaking past with invisall wouldn’t be difficult, the task required caution.

A sign depicting blue crisscrosses leaned by the store’s entrance. The lack of windows made it hard to peek inside, but judging by the clientele, Inscriber Works provided luxurious services. Guards, merchants, and wealthy residents in decadent fur-trimmed cloaks dropped silver and gold coins onto the counter before leaving with tools and weapons brandishing engraved woodblocks in their handles.

Dimitry inhaled a slow breath to calm his trembling legs. Stealing from slavers was one thing, but targeting a craftsman riddled him with pernicious guilt, steadily creeping across his body as goosebumps.

But he had to do it.

While self-preservation did not excuse his crimes, he tried to imagine his deeds as taking a loan. One day, when his business took off, he would pay back every stolen gadot with interest.

Feeling slightly better about himself, Dimitry stepped out of the alleyway and merged with the crowd. To avoid staring directly into the store, he walked up and down the street, each time throwing a single passing glance inside.

The front counter displayed a small stack of silver and gold coins from a recent transaction alongside a tray upholding dark green pure vol pellets. Behind them, a short, rotund man with a gaping bald spot looked down as he carved something unseen with a metal pen.

Dimitry slipped into a dark alley and gripped two round vol pellets in his shaky palm.

“Invisall.”

A familiar sensation struck Dimitry at once—searing bodily pain and nausea. A dizzy spell flung him against an alley wall, hurting his knee, but the discomfort was a sign that the magic was working. He raised his arm yet saw nothing.

Dimitry was invisible.

So far, so good.

He crept towards Inscriber Works and leaned against the store’s outer wall. Dimitry peeked inside for anything that could jeopardize his heist.

The shop’s narrowness was problematic. Were a customer to enter while Dimitry was inside, he would be trapped in a corner until they left. Unable to take a bath in Ravenfall’s central river for fear of hypothermia, Dimitry smelled of every alley he slept in the past few days. His odor would give his position. Fortunately, raw sewage rotting in nearby alleys would mask most of his scent. A bigger concern was the rough planks of a wooden floor that creaked under pressure. He had to tread softly.

Dimitry took a deep breath and slid through the entrance. His exposed feet made no sound against the wooden flooring except for the nigh inaudible creak of compressing wood fibers, easily attributable to the wind.

On the counter lay piled coins and a small ceramic plate carrying pure vol pellets. Just a handful of each would—

Creak.

The shopkeeper’s bald spot disappeared from view when his face shot up.

Adrenaline slammed into Dimitry, begging him to flee. But he couldn’t. If he ran now, he would have no vol for future attempts or money for food. Starvation would kill him.

He held his breath instead.

The shopkeeper’s eyes shot towards the door. There was no one there. Perhaps disappointed by his apparent lack of visitors, the man shook his head and glanced down to continue his task.

The tension constricting Dimitry’s muscles released.

He stepped forward, and a jagged wooden plank dug into his sole. Dimitry slowly lifted his foot to mute the groaning of bent timber as it returned to its protruding stance.

Several steps later, the money and vol lay within reach. The shopkeeper stood behind them, less than a meter away.

Heart pounding against his chest, Dimitry stretched both hands forward.

A sensation akin to the flowing chill of a cold intravenous fluid infusion sapped warmth from Dimitry’s arms. The displaced heat fluttered towards a gray-glowing statue atop the shopkeeper’s desk.

Color dyed Dimitry’s outstretched arms, rags, and skin.

He was transparent.

The shopkeeper who stood just a few paces away stared at Dimitry with bewildered eyes and a mouth that wished to speak but lacked the words. “Who… what?”

Dimitry’s hands launched to grab hazy quantities of loot. He dashed for the exit. His thigh slammed into a stand, whose contents spilled onto the floor. A sharp object, a nail perhaps, plunged into his foot.

Withholding an excruciating yelp that yearned to get free, Dimitry darted away.

“Guards!” The wheezing shopkeeper wobbled after him. “Guards, guards, guards!”

Where to go?

Where was the best place for Dimitry to go?

Despite an unplanned outcome, he chose the originally planned route.

Dimitry stumbled as he flew out the door and towards a nearby alley. His body slowly regained its invisibility, but nowhere near fast enough. Worse, the stolen green pellets and coins he held were fully visible.

He had to stash them quickly.

Two armored guards pushed civilians aside behind him. Surging forward, their heavy metal boots crushed the gravel.

The portly man stood outside his shop, pointing at Dimitry. “If you can get me that man alive, I’ll give each of you a gold gadot! But alive! I want him alive!”

Dimitry couldn’t outrun guards, but he was already fading from sight. He had to stay ahead until his invisibility fully returned. Or at least he hoped it would.

His shoulder collided into the corner of a building as he slid into an alley, eliciting a pained tear from his eye.

He bore the pain as he ran, jamming vol and coins into predetermined stashes including pockets of eviscerated plaster in walls, crannies between timber beams, and behind rotting crates for later retrieval.

Bystanders stopped to stare at the man that faded out of reality, and the clanking metal footsteps of guards were getting closer.

The sound of crushed gravel came from right behind Dimitry, but his legs were almost invisible.

Just a little longer!

Pain erupted from the sole of his injured foot and soared as he rushed across grime and dirt, but the epinephrine, norepinephrine, and cortisol bombarding his skeletal muscles numbed the scraping of stones against the puncture wound in his foot to bearable levels.

Dimitry tumbled out of the alley and across a crowded crossroad. After a sharp turn, he swerved perpendicular to the guards and through townspeople.

Glancing back, he saw a robust crowd of laborers, authorities, and passersby scattering. They rushed in every direction. Their confusion bought Dimitry enough time to become invisible once more.

He was safe.

Swelling relief cut short when Dimitry slammed into a black-cloaked bystander.

They both fell to the ground.

Dimitry gazed horrified into her vacant, indigo eyes.

An engraved steel collar glowed around the young lady’s pale neck. Pressed to gravel by an unseen weight, she reached for a leather scabbard attached to her leg. “What are—”

“Sorry.” Dimitry pushed off the floor and limped away. He glanced back to confirm her health.

She stood up, and while brushing herself off, scanned the surrounding crowd with unemotive eyes.

The young lady wouldn’t have been so composed if she sustained injury. Finding solace in her safety, Dimitry fled.

9. Puncture Wound

After the adrenaline rush dwindled, bone-rattling aches and searing pains erupted across Dimitry’s body. Most painful was the penetrating trauma. His foot screamed in agony as dirty blood trickled through grain-sized rocks embedded in a deep gash.

For those who starved like him, among cardiac and electrolyte disorders, there was another killer. It struck anyone whose atrophying organs absorbed scant nutrients in a struggle to keep functioning, leaving little for immune responses and wound healing.

That killer was infection.

Dimitry would succumb to it soon. He had sustained a puncture wound from a dirty object in a filthy environment. Whether it was tetanus or an equivalent alien microbe that penetrated his skin, he would eventually die from sepsis or endotoxic shock.

He tore a small slice of fabric from his rags and tightened it around his foot. The pressure would stem the bleeding while he procured clean water. Although Dimitry drank from wells for days without contracting illness, the contents weren’t sterile enough for wound care.

To produce purified water, a container capable of holding boiling liquids was necessary. A non-problem. The polluted streets of Ravenfall had, among countless hazards, ceramic scrap littering the ground. So much so that one had to look down whenever they walked.

Before long, Dimitry found a jug with a jagged upper half and a fitting wooden lid. He filled the ‘teapot’ at a well, then retreated to where Samuel and Arnest slept, hoping to find an open flame.

Sat on an alley floor was a young man with a grimy beard and a scar running down his cheek. Arnest pointed to the five silver gambling pieces in his hand. “Six… three… one… four… six. That’s twenty-two!”

The balding old man across from him groaned. “It’s twenty, moron.”

“You’re just mad ‘cause I won! Admit it, I’m gettin’ better!”

Samuel’s sigh came to an abrupt halt at the sound of approaching footsteps. His head darted to the side. Upon seeing the visitor, a sly grin floated onto his face. “Hey, kid. You look like shit.”

“Feel like it too,” Dimitry said. “Mind if I use the fire?”

“Help yourself. We’re leaving soon, anyway.”

Arnest tucked each dented silver shard into a small pouch and caressed it like a mother cradling her newborn child. “Alright! Let’s go before Agatha kills us.”

“We’re fine,” Samuel said. “Kids these days gotta learn to take their time.”

“But I wanna stop somewhere on the way.”

Samuel rubbed the chin under his gray-black beard. “Those children again? You should try looking after yourself before worrying about them.”

“Yeah…” Arnest’s face had a tinge of red to it.

“Whatever.” Samuel sighed. “Kid, remember to keep the fire small and to blow it out when you’re done. Guards’ll kill you if they find it.”

At some point, the threat of death had lost its effect on Dimitry. Perhaps he was too exhausted to register fear. “Got it.”

The two men shuffled out onto the street.

Dimitry moved the burning wood scraps that made up the small fire pit, carefully placed the water-filled jug into its center and topped it off with a wooden lid. He gently blew on the fire whenever its flames dimmed.

Once the jug’s contents reached a roaring boil, Dimitry tore another strip from his rags and soaked it into boiled water, hoping this world’s pathogens couldn’t survive extreme temperatures. He removed the makeshift bandage from before.

A deep, contaminated, and now dry wound pierced deep into his foot. Dimitry’s head jerked back—a reaction uncharacteristic of him. He had unflinchingly handled many grievous injuries in his life, but then again, he always had soap and saline solution handy.

Unfortunately, now wasn’t one of those times.

He washed his hands, cleaned the area around the wound and thrust forth an unsullied portion of cloth to take out whatever fragments of filth and rocks he could find. A rag stabbing deeper into subcutaneous tissue elicited a wince, but aggressive wound debridement maximized his chances of survival. More so when antibiotics didn’t exist. Upon removing all foreign material with repeated cleanings, he wrapped his foot in fresh bandages.

Dimitry raised a hand to shield his eyes from an overhead sun sending blinding rays of light into his cramped alley, illuminating the amalgam of dirt, refuse, and scraps littering the floor. The stench of rotting matter was one he could never acclimate to, no matter how long he sat there, leg hanging over a piece of timber, waiting for the bandages to dry.

He ran a finger across their damp surface. It wouldn’t be long until Dimitry could leave to search the stashes he left near Inscriber Works for illicitly gained goods. Two gold gadots was all he needed to purchase a certificate and discard his charade of thievery.

However, despite nabbing enough coin to cure countless illnesses and an equally impressive quantity of vol, the stress of a rabid chase by guards made concealing money during escape difficult. Some gadots fell to the floor. Others protruded from their hidey-holes.

Did enough loot remain hidden? The longer Dimitry waited to find out, the faster his heel tapped the ground. All of his anxiety stemmed from invisall’s failure—an unexpected outcome.

The spell concealed him within Ravenfall’s market, yet faltered in a small shop when a nearby gray-glowing statue diminished its intensity. Considering that neither glowing axes, walls, nor lamps Dimitry encountered while invisible did the same, he assumed that either every object or the hue of the aura they emitted had a different effect. Magic’s unpredictability made relying solely on invisall dangerous.

Bare feet slapping against the ground drew closer.

Dimitry’s head jerked sideways. Seeing two familiar thugs rather than livid guards relieved him. He greeted them with a feeble wave.

“Still here, kid?” Samuel carefully lowered himself onto a crate protruding from debris, then stretched his arm towards the fire. “Strange to see you here in the middle of the day. Usually, you leave to piss off the Church or the guards or whatever it is you do.”

“Just taking a short break while I think things over.”

“What are ya thinkin’ about?” Arnest asked as he sat across the fire.

Samuel smirked. “Since when did you take an interest in thinking?”

“S-shut up!”

Dimitry contemplated asking them about the gray-glowing statue he encountered while invisible, but Samuel was clever and well-connected. Gossip about a familiar homeless man whose invisibility spell was drained by an identical statue would garner suspicion. Besides, the old man mentioned previously that their magical knowledge was limited. The risk of inquiry overwhelmed potential returns.

“It’s nothing serious,” Dimitry said. “Just ruminating while waiting for these bandages to dry. Hurt my foot bad today.”

“I know what you mean, kid.” Samuel pointed to a wrinkly sole covered in scars and calluses. “Fifteen years and my feet still aren’t used to these damn roads.”

Arnest’s head nudged towards the jagged ceramic in the fire pit. “But why do ya need a broken jug?”

“I’m using it to sterilize water.”

“Sterilize?” The young man contemplatively combed his grimy beard.

Arnest’s confusion didn’t surprise Dimitry—the scholars of this era likely haven’t established germ theory yet.

He opted for an explanation devoid of scientific jargon. “Basically, there are tiny bugs that live everywhere, including in the trees, soil, and water. If they get into open cuts, they can cause illness. I boiled the water to kill the bugs inside before using it to clean my wounds. That way, the bugs don’t get under my skin.”

Samuel peeked inside the jug. “I don’t see any bugs.”

“Maybe he already ate ‘em ‘cause he was so hungry.” Arnest astutely deduced.

“You can’t see these bugs because they’re tens of thousands of times smaller than a grain of sand.”

Laughing, Samuel placed his hand on Dimitry’s shoulder. “Whatever you’ve been drinking, I want some.”

Why did Dimitry bother explaining? All their conversation did was make him fantasize about carbohydrate-rich beer.

“As if ya didn’t waste enough coin on mead already,” Arnest said while juggling a handful of rocks he plucked from the ground.

“Better than gambling my money away on a children’s pastime.”

“Lots of men play knucklebones!”

“And when we finish this job,” Samuel said, “you can give away all of your hard-earned gadots to those men. Again.”

“Nu-uh. Even a grumpy old-timer like you admitted that I’m gettin’ better.” Puffing out his chest to brag, Arnest hit himself in the chin with a rock he forgot he threw. “Ow.”

Dimitry’s eyes narrowed. The ‘job’ the two men spoke of—was it lucrative enough to provide money for gambling and alcohol binges? With the earnings from his heist uncertain and reliance solely on magic perilous, perhaps working for Tenebrae remained his only option. Even if Dimitry loathed the thought. “You’re talking about the job you mentioned last time?”

“Why?” Samuel leaned forward, smirking. “You interested after all?”

“I might be if you tell me more.”

“Wait,” Arnest interrupted. “Shouldn’t we ask Agatha first?”

“That hag didn’t nag me when I introduced you to her. If anything, she’d be happy to get another pawn to throw around.”

Arnest crossed his arms over his chest. “But how can we know if he’ll have our backs if things go bad?”

“With my leg the way it is,” Dimitry said, “it’ll make it easier for the two of you to get away were something to happen. Isn’t that good enough?”

“I guess you’re right… but I don’t like leaving people behind.”

Although Arnest appeared a seasoned thug, he was kinder than the initial impression suggested. Poverty revealed the worst in everyone—Dimitry included. Who was he to endanger a kid with his own mistakes? “Not that I plan on holding anyone back, but if I mess up, that’s my problem to deal with. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Sounds good to me. I say we give him a chance.”

Arnest sighed. “Fine, whatever.”

“With that out of the way,” Samuel said, “We were asked to keep an eye on the port. That’s all.”

“We shoulda been watchin’ right now, but old ass here keeps asking to take breaks.”

“We’ve been staring at that rickety piece of shit for days now. No one will notice us taking a small break.” Samuel stretched his arm. “Besides, I’m getting tired in my wisdom years. Breaks do my back good.”

Expecting a devious plot, Dimitry was surprised to hear that people got paid for loitering. “That’s it? You just hang around the port?”

“Yeah, this job ain’t too bad. Just borin’.” Arnest stood to brush ash from his rags. “C’mon, let’s get back before Agatha finds out. I don’t wanna get yelled at again.”

“Guess it’s about time.” Samuel tapped Dimitry’s shoulder. “You coming? We can waste all day talking about what we do, but it’ll make sense once you see for yourself.”

To believe that money came without struggle in a society where many starved was naïve. There had to be a catch to working for a crime syndicate like Tenebrae, a caveat Arnest and Samuel neglected to mention. Joining them was an unnecessary gambit when two gold gadots might await Dimitry in the nooks near Inscriber Works, yet the employment opportunity wasn’t one he could disregard. Not until he had a barber’s certificate in hand.

Dimitry ran a finger along his foot’s bandage—dry at last. He was ready to depart and claim his loot, but first, he had to excuse himself. “The port, right? Give me a moment to think. I’ll meet you guys there when I decide.”

“You’re always thinkin’.” Arnest frowned. “Can’t ya just think on the way?”

“I have to pee, too. Or did you want to watch?”

“Oh.”

Samuel laughed. “We’ll be by the warehouse. See you there, kid.”

Heart pounding, Dimitry glanced into one of three alleys he dashed through while fleeing Inscriber Works.

Neither the shopkeeper nor the city’s armed guards were in sight.

The relief of their absence didn’t last. Tensity constricted Dimitry’s chest tighter with every step past a muddy cheese wedge and a lifeless rat whose morbid stench plagued the narrow pathway. His goal was the gold gadot he jammed underneath a loose timber beam during the escape. Was it still there?

Anticipation and anxiety, amplified by hypoglycemia-induced glucocorticoid release, surged into a adrenal-abusing cocktail as Dimitry pulled the timber beam up.

His gut dropped.

Only dust and dirt lay where the coin once was.

That was okay. That was fine. Dimitry hid money and vol in a dozen crannies throughout the pre-planned route. The shopkeeper couldn’t have found all of them. Just two gold gadots was all Dimitry needed.

He rummaged through a crack between a plaster wall and the ground.

Empty.

Searched for the silvers he tossed into a moldy cloth and straw heap.

Gone.

Behind a shattered plow’s wheel.

Nothing.

Icy winds clawing at his leg, Dimitry rushed from alley to alley, overturning debris and shoveling trash. There had to be something somewhere! Just two fucking gold gadots! With every crushed hope, desperate optimism teetered further into denial, culminating in anger that peaked past rage, catapulting his bare foot into a crate.

Crumbling pain dropped Dimitry into a kneel. He palpated his fifth metatarsal for fractures in the fragile bone, and a quiet sigh escaped his lips upon learning he wouldn’t have to limp for the next twelve weeks. His gaze traveled up.

Then Dimitry saw it—a glimmer of hope.

It lay atop piled cloth scraps beside the kicked crate. A single dark green shard.

Pure vol.

Dimitry would make it count.

10. Tenebrae

Heavy in Dimitry’s palm and dented like iron after a forceful impact, scratches covered the pure vol pellet’s surface. The high density, malleability, and lustrousness hinted that the magic catalyst was a transition metal, which often formed colorful solutions when dissolved in water, but Dimitry couldn’t recall any element on the periodic table boasting vol’s dark green hue while solid. Still, undergraduate chemistry was a long time ago. Brain fog and a throbbing headache didn’t jog his memory either.

A distended groan escaped his stomach.

Efforts to distract himself from hunger ineffective, Dimitry took one last glance at the pure vol pellet he hid beneath outstretched rags and stashed it into his pouch. The green rock was his last hope. No one could know he had it while accepting Samuel and Arnest’s job offer. Not only would having possession of vol broadcast to others that Dimitry knew magic, potentially linking him to his earlier crime, it would also complicate invisall usage. Secrecy was vital.

To avoid suspicion, Dimitry watched the port instead.

Despite stiff winds, laborers wore nothing but white pants and leather shoes as they dragged cargo from the road to the pier and back. Planks squealing beneath their feet, they hauled crates, pulled carts, and tugged on fabric sacks before dumping them aboard a variety of seafaring vessels bobbing up and down in unsteady waters. Compared to two days ago, there was twice the number of watercraft. Most were small, while others had multiple masts and dwarfed the port.

The stench of fresh mud entwined with nauseating fish to create an irksome atmosphere. It reminded Dimitry of the first time he stood on the deck of a sailing ship. His college friends watched him expel breakfast over a yacht’s railings.

Not that he hated water. Dimitry loved nothing more than an afternoon swim. It was that senseless bouncing, the ship’s never-ending rebellion against the tides that evoked the urge to vomit. Luckily, or perhaps not, his stomach was empty now.

Samuel, whose thinning gray hair blew in a quickening wind, turned away from the homeless men he chatted with across the pier. He walked back towards Dimitry. “Kid, you’ll never believe this shit.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Real funny.” The old man joined Dimitry in sitting against a warehouse wall overlooking the port. “Get this. There’s a bum out there who can disappear!”

Dread trickled into Dimitry’s veins. He once asked Samuel about invisibility magic, and he hoped the question wouldn’t return to haunt him. “Are you sure? Is that some kind of magic?”

“Fuck if I know. The rumors say he just… became foggy. Crazy shit, huh?”

“Did anyone see what he looked like?”

Samuel shrugged. “Like a bum, I guess. Not that you can even believe that. By the time rumors get around, people make up all kinds of horse crap.”

Dimitry exhaled an undetectable sigh, thankful that a rag hood hid his distinctive eyes during the heist. Or maybe that was what Samuel wanted him to think. What if the old man knew who he was, intending to turn him in for money? The shopkeeper offered city guards gold gadots for his arrest. Perhaps the reward extended to others.

An unlikely outcome. Were Samuel’s intentions malicious, he wouldn’t hint at his suspicion. Besides, he remembered the old man’s earlier words on what gratitude the guards might bestow on one homeless person turning in another.

“Disappearing bums?” Dimitry said. “Crazy shit indeed.”

Samuel’s thoughtful gaze lowered to admire the longest boat on the pier. “Kid, you got any dreams?”

“Meat pie.”

He laughed. “No, I mean, you know, dreams.”

Guilt struck when Dimitry thought of his alleyway clinic and the patients he promised to help, who were dying while he scraped together two gold gadots. “Not particularly, but with you ogling that boat, am I right to assume you enjoy sailing?”

“Don’t know. Never tried it. Not yet, anyway.”

Turning from a gravel street was Arnest, whose rags blew back in a fierce wind as the young man rushed forth carrying three arched pastries, each atop a circular bread slice. He handed a set to Samuel, then another to Dimitry. “Good ya ain’t starved to death yet. Zera’ll never forgive me.”

Dimitry’s hands begged to bring the pie-like substance to his mouth, but concern afforded him restraint. “What is it?”

“Never had a pasty before?” Samuel asked. “Just shovel it and hope the cookshop didn’t sell us rotten meat. Again.”

Crumbs already fell from Arnest’s lips. “Nah, this time’s alright.”

Cautious to avoid touching portions that contacted dirty hands, Dimitry chomped down. The blend of honey, chicken, and stale black bread brought on euphoria, earning him a newfound appreciation for Arnest’s generosity.

Dimitry finished eating before anyone else. “So, now that I’ve agreed to join Tenebrae, will anyone tell me why we’re watching the port?”

“Apparently,” Samuel said, “a Sundock merchant is buying up all the furs in Ravenfall. Some bigshot hired Tenebrae to steal his cargo. Our job is to wait until he loads his ship, then report to the hag.”

“The job’s easy, but damn does it make ya wanna strangle yourself. We spent three days just sitting here.”

“That long?”

“That’s not even the worst part.” Samuel stretched back. “We’re not the only ones keeping watch. I’d bet the guards are in on it too. We’re just here so they can string us along until they need someone to do the real dirty work. But damn will the pay be worth it.”

Despite the prospect of high pay, a chill slithered down Dimitry’s spine. “You told me before that the dirty work won’t involve assaulting anyone. That’s true, right?”

“Didn’t lie to you, kid. Why would they hire invalids like us to do that when others are guaranteed to get the job done?”

Arnest nodded. “There’s people out there who can kill ya with a pebble from fifty strides away. No sound or anythin’. Ya just die.”

“You mean, like assassins?” Dimitry asked.

“Yup.”

Tenebrae was a crime syndicate in every sense, but if Samuel and Arnest survived without magic, Dimitry would too. Especially after procuring a pure vol pellet capable of turning him invisible.

“Hey,” Arnest said, “ya guys wanna play knucklebones while we wait?”

Samuel groaned. “Just because you got a silver set from your dad doesn’t mean we have to use it all the damn time.”

“You’re just jealous of my skills.” Arnest nudged Dimitry’s shoulder. “How about it?”

Budding regret didn’t put Dimitry in the mood for games, but after Arnest bought him a meal, he didn’t have the heart to decline. “Sure. Don’t know how, though.”

“I’ll teach ya!”

They played knucklebones until the sky turned pink, then obsidian with an ominous moon peeking from behind corrupted clouds. Its green light illuminated the scar on Arnest’s cheek, and with his beard, it gave him a more valiant appearance than he deserved. Like a viking that bathed in dirt.

The young man threw a silver piece, plucked three more from the ground, then caught the one in midair. He slammed them to the ground. “Nineteen!”

Dimitry tallied two convex knucklebones, one concave, and the last concave narrow. “No, that’s sixteen. My score was higher. I win.”

“W-what?!” Arnest dropped to the floor to count.

Samuel bellowed a deep-belly laugh. “You turned the kid into a monster. You’ve only got yourself to blame.”

“I’m just not trying ‘cause there’s no money on the line! That’s all.”

“Sure you are.”

Dimitry doubted there was much skill in a game of chance. Any consideration of him using knucklebones as a moneymaker departed as soon as it was conjured.

Arnest slammed the gambling pieces into his pouch and stood. His foot impatiently tapped the dirt floor, coaxing green-tinted dust to rise from the ground. “Where’s that bastard, anyway? How much longer do we gotta wait?”

“The hag said his boat is the one furthest from the main road, but no one came by all day.”

“What if you two missed him when you stopped by to rest at the fire earlier?” Dimitry asked.

“Well…”

“If that’s the case, we’re fucked.”

After a prolonged silence, Arnest pointed at the road leading from the market. “Look! Furs!”

Two shabbily dressed men tugged a cart filled to the brim with assorted pelts while a third, taller man walked behind them. One arm held a wooden pipe with a long stem, and the other folded against his back. His fur coat and dignified gait distinguished him from everyone else on the docks.

“I hope his dress catches on fire,” Arnest said. “Rich assholes like him strut around all fancy while the rest of us sleep on the streets.”

Samuel held up a finger. “Shut up a moment.”

The laborers pushed the cart onto the port’s elevated wooden platform, traveled across its uneven surface and stopped at its edge. They loaded pelts onto a massive ship, whose sails fluttered in the wind as if to break free from their mast.

Samuel pushed away from the wall. “Looks like we’ve found our guy!”

“What now?” Dimitry asked.

“Now me and Arnest are gonna go see the hag to collect our money. Don’t worry, we’ll introduce you while we’re there. Make a good impression, and you’ll get a cut next time.”

Arnest nudged Samuel. “What are ya gonna do with your payout? Blow it all on booze again?”

“Better than gambling it away on a children’s game.”

“It’s not for children!”

Like an old log cabin in a silent forest, the fireplace’s crackling gave the dilapidated alehouse a rustic charm. However, despite fragrant oak fumes, a musty scent contaminated the air. Dimitry guessed it came from the brownish fungus filling the gaps between the overhead ceiling timber beams. He hoped the people in this world knew that black mold spores were toxic.

He dared not verbalize his complaint. If neither Samuel, Arnest, nor Tenebrae’s thugs ventured to interrupt the deafening silence, Dimitry wouldn’t either. Attracting attention was reckless.

A rugged man with a thick beard stood behind the counter, persecuting Dimitry with furrowed eyes. They relentlessly scanned up and down as if searching for a reason to admonish him.

Something patted Dimitry’s shoulder.

It was Samuel’s hand. The old man sat beside him, a sly yet comforting smile on his face.

Did he think Dimitry was nervous? If so, he was right. They waited for, as Samuel liked to call her, the ‘hag’. Agatha was doubtlessly more well-connected than anyone else in the building and would recognize the ‘holy cleric’ immediately. Perhaps she would surmise Dimitry was the disappearing bum as well, but when his last options were to starve to death or take a chance with a criminal organization, he had to risk discovery.

Sitting on Dimitry’s other side was Arnest, who stared vacantly into his ale.

The sight of a typically emotive young man curling his spine into a stifled posture struck fear into Dimitry. He lifted his tankard to his mouth. The faintly sweet ale touching his lips was tamer than beer, yet he spent great effort fighting the urge to gulp the contents. Maintaining a relaxed appearance trumped calories.

“She will see you now,” a gruff voice resounded from the second floor.

Dimitry downed the rest of his ale and gently lowered the ceramic vessel onto the countertop. The three homeless men climbed up the stairs, walked past a giant man, and entered a cozy room with a desk at the other end.

Sat behind it was a middle-aged woman. Her long, slender nails tapped the table. One finger at a time, they hit its wooden surface, producing a rhythmic tune. On the wall behind her, above a small stained glass window overlooking a crimson-lit street, was a beautiful sword. The weapon didn’t match her elaborate dress.

Samuel was the first to speak. “We saw the—”

“I know what you saw.” She dropped four silver gadots, which rolled across the desk before collapsing. “That’s not why I asked to see you personally.”

Agatha stood, her poise firm and prideful, and stepped away from her desk. One deliberate step at a time, she strolled towards the three men. Passing Arnest, then Samuel, she stopped in front of Dimitry. “Who’s this?”

Arnest stared at the floor. “That’s Dimitry. He’s, um, a friend. I mean, a recruit.”

“Can he do anything useful?”

“M-ma’am, he does, he’s the—”

Was Arnest trying to keep Dimitry’s identity a secret? Although thoughtful, the young man would crack eventually, revealing him as the ‘fake’ holy cleric. Dimitry stepped forward to do the deed himself.

Samuel and Arnest watched him with alarmed eyes, warning him of a single misstep’s perils.

Dimitry wasn’t afraid. The opulent furnishings in Agatha’s office hinted at wealth that spat on any bounty a peeved barber-surgeon could offer. Reporting Dimitry’s crimes wouldn’t be worth her time. What concerned him more was the holy symbolism lying on a nearby shelf: his future employer was a Zeran believer. If Dimitry didn’t distance himself from the Church, his religious transgressions could offend Agatha.

Aiming to introduce himself as a normal surgeon, Dimitry unraveled his rag hood. “I believe I can be an asset to your organization. My capacity to treat wounds, plagues, and infections is unparalleled, and if necessary, I can perform surgeries for life-threatening injuries.”

Agatha swiped her emerald bangs from her face when she leaned forward to examine Dimitry’s eyes. “Pale green like mint. Samuel, is this the man from the rumors?”

“Eh…” Samuel glanced at Dimitry as if apologizing. “Yeah.”

“Where did you find him?”

“At the port.”

Agatha cracked a smile. “Idalia spoke highly of him—the pilgrim who heals with Zera’s grace.”

“Idalia?” Dimitry blurted. “You know her?”

“She’s a maiden at one of my alehouses.”

He recalled Idalia mentioning something similar. “Pardon me for overspeaking, but did she find the cause of her swelling lips and breathing issues?”

“I may have overheard a meandering diatribe against carrots.”

How strange. Carrots rarely triggered food allergies, making oral allergy syndrome more likely. It was a disease that started with an immune response to pollen, which proceeded to cross-react with similar proteins in a wide range of fruits and vegetables. Idalia was at risk of anaphylaxis from multiple sources.

“I know I’m not one to make requests,” Dimitry said, “but I’d be most obliged if Idalia was told to sample other fruits and vegetables, not only carrots, with caution before adding them to her diet.”

“Why is that?” Agatha asked.

“She might suffocate otherwise.”

“And you know that because you’re the holy cleric?”

“No,” Dimitry said. “That’s merely what others chose to call me. In truth, I am an experienced surgeon.”

Arnest’s mouth hung open.

“Very well.” Agatha strutted back towards her desk. “I value my ladies too highly to take risks with their health—especially when an experienced surgeon says I shouldn’t. But tell me, Dimitry. Have you ever performed an amputation?”

“Many times, but removing organs is to be avoided when possible. Why do you ask?”

“The rumors claim you heal with foods, but genuine professionals handle saws and cleavers. There is a demand for skilled barber-surgeons among many circles. If you are as talented as you say, then it’d be wasteful of me to throw you onto the streets.”

Her considerations were logical. Even criminal organizations needed skilled surgeons, and Dimitry had yet to demonstrate his abilities due to a lack of surgical tools and permits.

He would use that to his advantage. “Although I wish to demonstrate my skills, which includes proficiency with far more than mere amputations, the Barber Surgeons Guild forbids me from operating, and I don’t have the funds to pay them off. All I need is a chance.”

Agatha sat with grace, swinging one leg over the other. “While it is not I who requires your talents, I have a colleague who does. She’ll make guilds, venomous rumors, and tool purchases an afterthought. I’ll introduce you to her after you prove your loyalty with an assignment. And worry not about abandoning Samuel and Arnest. They’ll receive a recruitment bonus were my colleague to accept.”

Grinning, Samuel gave Dimitry a congratulatory nudge. Was the old thug expecting to get paid for the reference? It seemed that Arnest and Samuel's willingness to help wasn’t purely altruistic.

Agatha was cunning. Not only did she strike down Dimitry’s every concern, she simultaneously allayed any hesitation Samuel and Arnest might have had. While working for Tenebrae didn’t elicit pride or confidence, the organization’s efficiency offered a plausible escape from poverty.

“With that out of the way, I’ve got a job for you three. An important one. Naturally, the pay is good.” Agatha waved her hand. “Bartolo.”

The hulking mass of a man standing at the room’s entrance pulled a small pouch from his tunic’s pocket. He threw it over Samuel’s head and into Agatha’s palm.

Her long nails moved with precision to untie a string. Two confident fingers reached inside the pouch, pulling out one gold gadot at a time until three lay atop her desk. “My client is a wealthy man. If you do as I ask, these are yours to split amongst yourselves.”

The gold coins sang to Dimitry. If Agatha granted him independence from the Barber Surgeons Guild, circumventing the need for a certificate, just a single gadot would purchase tools like thread and suturing needles while leaving plenty to reintroduce modern medicine! How many patients could Dimitry treat? How much could he eat?

To his side, Arnest licked his lips, and Samuel stared unflinchingly. They must have felt similar excitement.

“Looks like I’ve got your attention. The fur merchant’s ship will likely leave port in the morning, which means the job has to be completed overnight. We were asked to retrieve the product and dissuade the target from returning to Ravenfall.

“Since you three are useless in a confrontation, there’s something else I want you to do. Although we own several watchmen by the port, most are still loyal to the crown. You three will distract those closest to the market road while the others push further in.”

Arnest’s face turned pale. “W-watchmen?”

Samuel’s gaze fixated on the gold coins. “A small fortune for a large risk, then?”

“After we raid the ship, one of ours will activate the warning beacon. The port watchmen will return to their posts. There’s many working on tonight’s job, so you won’t have to distract them for long. Your risk is minimal,” Agatha spoke calmly. “Will you do it or not?”

Meeting her gaze, waves of hot and cold washed across Dimitry. The job was hazardous, but he had dealt with authorities before. A street devoid of gray-glowing statues that drained invisall’s effects improved his odds of survival. There was little danger for him. He was more concerned for Samuel and Arnest.

Dimitry glanced in their direction.

Hesitant at first, all three nodded in agreement.

The door of the dilapidated alehouse slammed shut behind Dimitry, Samuel, and Arnest as they stepped onto a street that shone brightly despite black, overcast skies. Red light from glowing stones flooded every road. Those magical rocks, operating on some otherworldly power, decorated every storefront, horse-driven cart, and fortification in sight. Not even the hunched and cloaked figures skulking through alleys could escape their luminescence.

Dimitry navigated a district of Ravenfall under Tenebrae’s unofficial jurisdiction. A place where anyone could buy anything for the right price.

“Kid.” Samuel walked with his only arm folded behind his back. “I thought you were just out there scamming morons while in reality you were scoring points with the Hag. Since when were you a real barber?”

“Even if I said who I was, would you have believed me?”

“No, but that’s not the point.”

“Who cares?” Arnest let forth an enthusiastic clap. “We’re gettin’ paid!”

“My intention wasn’t to trick either of you,” Dimitry said. “With guards looking for me, I couldn’t trust anyone.”

Samuel sighed. “Just promise to take a look at my back later. It’s been killing me for years.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The wind, fiercer since that evening, blew a mixture of stale perfume and aerosolized sweat from a three-story building down the road. Red light bathed the scantily clad women, who stood outside the entrance. With tantalizing smiles and devious smirks, they beckoned passing men closer.

Among them was a girl whose face was a mess of pale powder and rose-painted cheeks. She waved while running forward. “You guys here for a bath?”

Samuel’s hand shot forward to stop her advance. “Not interested. Sorry, Claudia.”

“Wait, wait,” Arnest said. “Is Beatrice in?”

“Yep!” the girl cheered. “Want me to call her out?”

“Nah, not right now. We’re kinda busy.”

“Fine.” Claudia’s gaze turned to Dimitry. “Who’s the really skinny guy?”

Samuel shrugged. “A bigshot surgeon, apparently.”

“Like, he’s rich?!”

Rushing to dispel anything that might earn him the fancy of a girl no older than sixteen, Dimitry shook his head. “Nope. Not a single gadot to my name. I can’t even afford food or clothes.”

“For now!” Arnest the uncalled for wingman blurted out. “After tonight, he’s gonna make a bunch workin’ for Tenebrae!”

“No way!”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Claudia.” Dimitry bowed out before the conversation escalated. “Keep safe.”

“You too!” The girl waved as the men walked away. “I’ll be waiting, bigshot surgeon!”

Dimitry wasn’t as eager.

Arnest wore a smile befitting a child on Christmas morning. “What do you guys think? Wanna come by later tonight? After we play some knucklebones?!”

“Save feeding your sick addictions until after we get the job done,” Samuel said.

Ignoring Arnest’s overly enthusiastic comment, Dimitry forced their attention onto more important matters. “Do we have a plan to deal with the port watchmen when they come after us?”

“Yeah. Run like hell.”

“Kid, do you have something specific in mind? It’s not like we can fight them off.”

Did these two survive on luck all this time? By preparing the streets beforehand, getting out alive was no longer just a matter of chance. It was possible to tilt the odds in their favor.

Dimitry stepped around a cracked knife blade colored red by magical light. “For example, have either of you considered using obstacles to slow them down while running away?”

“Just how the hell are we supposed to do that?” Arnest spat.

“It’s not like we have much time to set a trap. The hag waited until now to tell us the plan.”

“It shouldn’t take long at all,” Dimitry said. “If we plan an escape route and cram the alleyways with junk, it’d make it easier for us to escape. Our advantages are mobility and the fact that we have the initiative.”

“That makes sense.” Arnest’s face was one of illumination. “If ya move garbage from the streets, it’ll be easier for us to run away!”

“No, you idiot. He’s saying that if we fill alleys with trash, armored watchmen will have a hard time passing through while we can just climb over.”

“Oh.”

“Something like that,” Dimitry said. “How long do we have?”

“The hag said the signal fire will be lit when the moon is highest in the sky, which gives us only a bit of time to work with.”

“Let’s stop wasting it, then.”

The three men rushed to the port to plan an escape route. From there, they traced a path that led through narrow alleys between warehouses, all the way to what Samuel described as a safe haven—a place where densely clustered buildings occluded stray moonlight, providing dark crevices to hide in until the port’s watchmen were forced to retreat to the harbor.

They spent the little time they had finding and stacking debris traps, clearing bits of ceramic, and anything else that would aid them in a frantic chase. Not long passed before several rigged alleyways were complete.

Dimitry returned to the port and crouched behind a low wall. He peeked around the corner.

Three watchmen stood near the market road, glowing cylinders in hand. Those must have been their targets.

Pressed against a nearby warehouse wall was a cloaked man, and, further down the street, was another glancing from behind a barrel-loaded cart. Samuel claimed they were just a few of Tenebrae’s thugs with more hiding out of sight. Not all of them worked for Agatha. The organization comprised loosely allied people, unified under the promise of money and power.

The winds howled, blowing at the men’s rags as dark green clouds raged in the sky. A flash of thunder. Then a raindrop. And another. They fell on Dimitry’s head in tandem but did nothing to extinguish the flames of anxiety in his chest. He had received another chance at life, and it wouldn’t end in regret like the last one.

From somewhere far removed from this charade of medieval life, was the man in the dark hall watching?

A port watchman’s hand rose into the air.

In it, the signal fire.

11. A Job Complete

“Now,” Samuel whispered.

Dimitry’s hand burrowed into the ground and pulled out some wet gravel. He hurled it at the closest watchman.

The mixture of small rocks and dirt hit the back of a leather-garbed man’s helmet. He looked around in confusion and reached for the glowing mace at his waist.

Samuel and Arnest aggravated the other targets.

“Keep throwing until we get their full attention.”

One, two, then three watchmen marched closer.

Hyperventilating, Dimitry had second thoughts, but it was too late to back out now.

Snarled visages in full view, the watchmen picked up speed as they approached. A pebble hit one in the face, coaxing blood from his nose. The sound of their heavy leather boots pounding moist gravel drowned out the soft pitter-patter of rain against the surrounding ground and buildings.

“Run!” Arnest dashed.

Dimitry’s legs froze. He urged them to move; they had to move, but his body refused to listen. Why now?

“Stop fucking around, kid!” Samuel tugged his arm. “Let’s go!”

That was the jump start Dimitry needed. Instant relief. The bandages wrapping his injured foot unfurled when he pushed off the ground, and his wound cried in agony. Thankfully, adrenaline soon numbed the pain.

The road ahead seemed to stretch out forever. His companions’ blurry figures ran ahead.

Panting and stomping boots of three approaching watchmen echoed off of nearby buildings.

Dimitry was close to the first trap. His best chance at escape. Anticipation soared within as he turned into the alley with too much speed, his feet skidding across the ground. Skin ripped from his injured foot’s sole. There was no pain—just the sensation of rocks grinding into exposed flesh.

A watchman shouted, but overwhelming chaos jumbled their words.

Dimitry bolted towards the rigged crates, where his compatriots waited for him. “Arnest! Now!”

“Yeah!”

A stack of wooden crates and loose timber collapsed to block the alleyway. The watchmen struggled to push the wreckage aside.

The three homeless men dashed for the next checkpoint.

Samuel wore a grin when he looked back. “You’re a fuckin’ genius, kid!”

“Compliment me later.” Dimitry glanced back to estimate how much time his trap bought them. Perhaps fifteen seconds—more than enough to get away.

Perpendicular to them, two metal-clad guards strolled down a broad street.

“Shoot! Shoot them!” an irritated voice called from behind.

The guards drew their crossbows.

Dimitry’s heart skipped a beat. Where did they come from? Why did they have to be here now? A bolt whizzed past as he slid into another alley.

Samuel was already there. The aged man leaned against the wall, gasping for breath. “H-hurry the fuck up.”

Arnest rapidly approached. “Almost there!”

“He’s through!” Dimitry destabilized the second trap.

Piled debris collapsed to plug the narrow alleyway, trapping both crossbowmen. However, unlike the watchmen from before, only one dug through assorted trash. The second armed his crossbow with a purple-glowing bolt.

“They’re gonna shoot!” Arnest warned.

“No fucking shit,” Samuel yelled. “Run!”

Dimitry stared at the bolt’s ominous aura. Regardless of the imbued magic, the alley was too long and narrow to dodge a projectile. Disarming the guard was the safest choice.

“You two go on ahead!” Dimitry kicked a rain-soaked crate into the aiming crossbowman’s face.

The container broke against the guard’s helmet. His weapon dropped.

Arnest flashed a victorious smile. “Fuck yeah!”

“Shut-up-and-run!” Samuel said between wheezes.

Relief swept across Dimitry as he sprinted into the next street. There was plenty of time to escape. They would live.

“Fuck, they’re… they’re shooting again!” Samuel yelled. “Watch out!”

Although the guards misaligned their crossbows and were unlikely to score a hit, Dimitry preemptively dodged.

Another bolt darted past.

Ahead, Arnest dove to the side. The projectile narrowly missed, and the young man slipped over wet gravel. Falling to the ground, a jagged beam from a market stall stabbed into his clothes.

“Arnest!” Dimitry said. “You alright?”

“Go, go! It’s just a snag. I’m fine.”

Samuel rested against a wall. “Hurry… the fuck… up. Both of you.”

Wasting too much time fumbling to get loose, Arnest dashed away from the stall, sharp wood ripping away a layer of grimy clothes. A torn pouch flew out from underneath. Over a dozen gambling pieces and coins clanged as they fell onto gravel, glittering green under sparse moonlight.

Dimitry said nothing. They had to keep moving.

Eyes open wide, Arnest patted his rags. He stopped. His head shot back.

“Don’t even think about it!” Samuel said. “We’ll come back for them later.”

“But my gadots… and my knuckle-bones!” Arnest surged towards the alley, where a crowd of armed men pushed away debris.

“Kid! Stop that idiot before he gets himself killed!”

Dimitry grabbed Arnest’s arm. “Samuel’s right. Some gold and silver isn’t worth your life.”

“It’s all I got from my dad and, and my village, and I need—”

“Just buy some more gambling pieces later, you god damn fucking addict!” Samuel shouted. “Stop being a little bitch and run!”

“I’ll just get the knucklebones.” Arnest pushed Dimitry to the floor. “I’mma catch up with you two.”

Dimitry gritted his teeth. Torn between anger at being tossed aside during a deadly chase and self-loathing at abandoning a friend, his priority was staying alive. Helping was suicide. He had to get to the safe haven. Cold rain trickling down his face, he rolled off the floor.

Samuel, however, stood frozen. His bloodshot eyes were wide open. “T-they’re going to shoot!”

“I almost got ‘em—”

The sound of a high-velocity impact with flesh followed by something heavy flopping against moist gravel.

“Arnest!” Samuel ran towards the crossbowmen.

Breathless, Dimitry glanced back.

The youthful man knelt. Hands at his hip, he tugged at a purple glow. Arnest struggled to remove the crossbow bolt entrenched in his lower back.

An oppressive weight solidified inside Dimitry’s gut. He wanted to shout, to tell Arnest he would bleed to death if the bolt came out, but the words didn’t take form.

“Kid, you’re a bigshot fucking barber-surgeon, right? Give me a hand!”

Dimitry hesitated. A lack of surgical tools and disinfection methods made penetrating abdominal injuries deadly. Ruptured organs, bleeding, and shock would kill Arnest before long. If they didn’t, hypothermia would. A rescue was suicide for everyone involved. Why should Dimitry risk similar injury?

Fuck.

If Samuel attempted a solo rescue, both men would die.

Dimitry had no choice. He rushed to help Samuel bring Arnest to his feet, who grunted while limping. They crawled past an alleyway and onto another street. The signal flare Agatha promised was their only hope. Unfortunately, black clouds alone dominated the sky.

Was it sweat or rain that trickled down Dimitry’s face? He hadn’t the time to check. His only concerns were the weight that leaned against his shoulder, the foreboding stench of blood, and the sound of crates being overturned behind.

“Just leave me, ya idiots.” Arnest coughed. “It was my fault.”

“Shut up!” Samuel yelled, his voice strained.

The weight hanging over Dimitry’s shoulder grew heavy. Although the weak breaths brushing his nape indicated Arnest was alive, he wouldn’t stay that way for long. They neared the final alleyway, but the safe haven remained distant.

The sound of boots pounding gravel neared.

“Leave—”

“I said, shut the fuck up!” Samuel shouted. His eyes were bloodshot and desperate, like those of a concerned father hovering over their son’s deathbed.

Despite wanting to agree with Arnest’s request, the lump in Dimitry’s throat choked his words before they could take form.

The sounds of rebounding string and pierced flesh.

Dimitry stumbled when the weight he carried grew twice as heavy.

Arnest tumbled to the ground. His chest rose and sank to the rhythm of labored breathing. Beside him, a wounded Samuel. A bolt pierced the old man’s shoulder. He squirmed on the ground.

Clanking footsteps approached.

Despair washed over Dimitry. Although treating Samuel was a possibility, he didn’t have time to play the hero. There were only seconds before the watchmen caught up. His trembling hand fished inside the pouch strapped to his waist for his only pure vol pellet.

“Invisall!”

Dimitry’s body convulsed. The world spun around him. Magic burned within while icy rain cooled skin without as he pushed off the ground.

A wet leather glove reached for his shoulder, but lubrication from the rain allowed him to brush it off.

“Celeste guide me. There is a bum who can disappear!”

“The Shire-Reeve wants him alive!”

They knew who Dimitry was.

Heaving for breath, he dashed into the final alleyway. Pouring rain bounced off his body, outlining his silhouette. Hiding was impossible. He just needed to get through this alley. He just needed to reach the safe haven!

Atrophied legs made nimble by adrenaline, Dimitry vaulted, ducked, and squeezed through piles of rubbish. The armored guards had trouble doing the same.

His thoughts gravitated towards the men he left for dead.

No.

Now wasn’t the time to think about them, especially when he couldn’t guarantee his own survival.

Dimitry rushed into a densely clustered maze of cottages. Their dilapidated roofs merged into a shield that blocked the rain and whatever green moonlight pierced the upper atmosphere. Water flooded in from the surroundings, forming deep mud pools that drowned the narrow gaps between buildings.

The safe haven.

Back pressed against uneven walls, Dimitry navigated through a labyrinth of houses fanning out in every direction. He clamped his nose to counter the vile stench of rehydrated decaying matter.

Guards and watchmen stomped through puddles behind him.

“Spread out! Whoever finds him gets the biggest cut.”

Protruding wood fibers scratched Dimitry’s legs and neck, further irritated by the piercing wind. Dispersed droplets drummed against his head as they fell from a leaky canopy of roofs.

The chase wore him out. Every movement left Dimitry gasping for air, but he had to push forward. If not for his own sake, then for Samuel’s. He escaped the cottage jungle and emerged onto another road.

From the port’s direction, scattered lights soared into the air, whose luminescence contrasted an overcast sky. It was the signal Agatha mentioned.

Dimitry’s fist slammed into the wall. Why the hell didn’t the flare come sooner? Just a minute earlier and… and maybe it wouldn’t have turned out like this. As he continued to run, one foot stumbling in front of the other, something gnawed at him from inside.

Since the crossbow bolt lacked sufficient force to pass through Samuel’s shoulder, if it hit solely the trapezius and missed every major artery along the way, the old man could be alive. There was a chance.

As the adrenaline wore off, every movement intensified the aching of Dimitry’s bones. Fine stones that covered the ground were knives stabbing into the enlarged gash on his sole. His stomach was an empty pit. Sore lungs heaved for air. The chase drained everything from him; it wouldn’t surprise him if he collapsed.

He returned to the alley where he left his allies behind. Legs too shaky to keep him upright, his arm shot into a wall for balance. Dimitry checked for guards—none were nearby.

Two men lay in the middle of the road, their bodies motionless like marionettes with severed strings. Blood colored the puddle beneath them pink.

Dimitry limped towards Arnest. He brushed away the emptied leather pouch on the young man’s face, then placed two stiff fingers against his carotid artery.

No pulse.

Damn.

Were the knucklebones really worth his life?

His eyes twitched towards Samuel. Although the old man was unconscious, a shallow and rapid heartbeat resisted Dimitry’s fingers.

It brought him little comfort.

The bolt had lodged deep into Samuel’s shoulder, shattering the scapula. Fractured bone alone warranted emergency treatment, yet a more sinister possibility worried Dimitry—vascular injury. The projectile’s sharp broadhead had burrowed itself near the axillary artery. Removing the bolt without proper tools could cause hemorrhaging, and without Ringer’s lactate solution to replace lost fluids, Samuel would bleed to death in minutes. But those weren’t the only concerns.

Vision blurry, Dimitry leaned in for a closer look.

Despite the wound being too fresh for bacterial growth, infected flesh surrounded the crossbow bolt’s entry point. Was it the work of the projectile’s dark purple aura? Pulling it out would cause swift exsanguination, but leaving it in would rot Samuel’s flesh alongside other unknown hazards. Both led to tragedy.

The best choice was to rush Samuel to one of Ravenfall’s barber-surgeons. They may not have known about allergies, but even medieval physicians removed broadheads. Even if they could only contain the bolt’s magic, that was fine. Dimitry would handle the rest.

Carefully stabilizing Samuel over his shoulder to avoid aggravating the wound, he stumbled towards the closest barbershop. Every step was heavy. Every breath laborious.

A mental shock paralyzed Dimitry. No longer invisible, his legs collapsed under the weight of the man he wished to rescue, plunging both into wet gravel and dirt. Feedback sapped Dimitry’s remaining strength.

When the rain stopped, an earthy smell filled the air. It melded with the metallic scent of fresh blood. The moon emerged from behind parting clouds and painted the road a dark green color.

In the distance, oxen pulled a cart. A pair of muscular, barrel-bodied men lounged in the front seats.

Who were they?

What did they want?

Were they hostile?

Dizzy and gasping for air, Dimitry needed to escape. He willed his legs to move, and his knees plodded across pebbles and muddy puddles, but exhaustion slowed him to a crawl. Aching muscles lost their vigor before he could reach an alley.

The vehicle rolled by.

“Whoa.”

At the word, the oxen stopped. Two gargantuan men lumbered out of their seats and looked down at the road. Their bulky figures blocked out the moon, casting a shadow over Dimitry.

One of two men stepped forward. Green backlighting darkened his eyes, leaving only a fiendish grin visible. Gaze drifting from Arnest to Samuel to Dimitry, he gripped a dagger between thick fingers. “Looks like a live one and two corpses. I’ll make it three.”

“We were told to check first,” said the second, whose rounded mustache curled towards his nose.

“Weird piss green eyes, yeah, but look at him. He’s already halfway there.” He pressed the dagger to Dimitry’s neck. His grin widened, revealing a gap where front teeth should be. “Probably just a coincidence.”

“That’s not for us to decide.”

Dimitry gulped, and his Adam’s apple bulged into the dagger’s sharpened tip. He dared not move. Any closer and he could sustain arterial or venous injury. Despite fear, his friend’s fading breaths compelled him to speak.

“W-wait.” Dimitry shook Samuel’s shoulder. “This man is alive. He needs treatment.”

The mustached man stepped away from the cart, then knelt to examine the injury. “Give up on him. There’s a witheria enchantment on the bolt. His flesh will dry into a husk before long and, from what I’ve heard, it’ll feel like maggots are eating him from inside. Keeping him alive will only make him suffer.” He beckoned his twin. “Brother, the dagger.”

“No. I want to see him do it.”

The mustached man sighed. “Have it your way.” Green light illuminated his monstrous physique as he strode towards the oxen.

His gap-toothed sibling tossed the dagger, which arced through the air before piercing gravel with a metallic thunk. “Go ahead. Take it.”

Hesitation protested Dimitry’s fingers as they curled around the weapon’s hilt. The aged man lying beside him was on the verge of death. He had seen it many times before. Body turning cold, irregular pulse, periods of no breathing interwoven with gasps for air.

And the barrel-bodied men didn’t lie. The flesh around the crossbow bolt bloated into a pus-filled gash at an unprecedented speed. Bacterial cultures likely infiltrated Samuel’s bloodstream already, making the infection systemic. How long before sepsis took hold? Septic shock was a brutal death, especially for an older man in a world without antibiotics or IV fluids.

Dimitry’s jaw clenched. “There’s nothing we can do?”

The mustached man shook his head.

“How about with magic?"

“It’s too late.”

The gap-toothed brother laughed as he stood. “Just make sure not to damage the body more than you have to, surgeon. We’ll be needing it.” He leaned back against the cart, savoring every moment.

Between letting a friend suffer an excruciating end and taking their life, there was no choice at all. Dimitry yanked the dagger from the gravel road and pressed the tip to the base of Samuel’s skull. Severing the brainstem would immediately terminate life-sustaining functions including consciousness, heart rate, and breathing—the fastest and least painful death possible.

“Forgive me, Samuel.” Dimitry tucked the old man’s chin to his chest to expose a direct path to the brain. “Hope you get to sail in another life.”

Too weak and fatigued to summon sufficient force to pierce tough tissue with arms alone, Dimitry’s knee dropped onto the dagger’s hilt. Its slender blade plunged beneath the occipital bone, sliced through the atlanto-occipital membrane and penetrated dense meningeal layers to obliterate the medulla oblongata at the base of the brain.

Respiratory arrest coaxed reflexive gasps from Samuel, whose chest neither rose nor fell. Dimitry pressed two shaky fingers against the old man’s neck. His pulse grew erratic and stopped.

The deed was done.

Samuel would never feel pain again.

Fatigued, hungry, and now mourning, a soft whimper escaped Dimitry. Samuel wasn’t the first man he killed. On an operating table, life hung in a delicate balance, never guaranteed. But this was different.

Dimitry struggled to retrieve the dagger, its rusted blade now gleaming scarlet with blood and cerebrospinal fluid, and tossed it aside.

The gap-toothed man clapped as he lumbered towards Dimitry. “Good show, good show! Now let’s get the fuck out of here before the watchmen come. I don’t want to waste my gadots on bribes. Delphine already pays them enough.” He yanked the crossbow bolts out of Samuel and Arnest, threw the two lifeless husks and Dimitry onto the cart, and clambered into the front seats.

“Walk.”

The cart picked up speed.

“These oxen are pissing me off. It’s fucking freezing out. I want to get back and warm up,” the gap-toothed man said.

“Obviously, they aren’t going to be as fast as your horse,” said his twin.

“If you think mine is fast, you’ve never ridden Delphine’s! She really knows how to ride.”

“Did you learn how well she rides from first-hand experience?”

He laughed. “That’s not for you to know.”

Only buildings, the homeless, and scant guards populated Ravenfall’s dark green streets. As if it were just another day, they ignored the fresh stench of blood wafting from the cart.

Dimitry shook. He wanted to run, to flee, but trembling was all he could do. Even if he mustered the strength to move, exhaustion, an injured foot, and invisall’s lingering feedback limited him to a crawl. The brothers would catch him with ease, and they wouldn’t show mercy.

“The moon’s looking like a nice, plump woman,” the mustached man said.

“Yeah, I think I’m going to stay inside the walls for the next few days.”

“You sure you don’t want to come hunt enraged fyrhounds? I’ll lend you my longbow.”

“You’re a crazy bastard, you know that?”

The cart approached a townscape radiating crimson light—Tenebrae’s domain. It flourished even at night. People from all walks of life traversed muddy streets, each searching for some perverse pleasure.

Dimitry’s eyes shifted from the road to the two corpses beside him. In a morbid way, it was funny. He, Samuel, and Arnest left here a few hours ago, and now they returned. Or at least their bodies did. Two were dead.

His troubled smile vanished. Were their deaths Dimitry’s fault? How could they be? He didn’t make them take the job, nor did he compromise the plan. Why should he take responsibility? Rationalization did nothing to quell the unease festering in his gut.

Dimitry closed Samuel and Arnest’s stiff eyelids, concealing wide stares that seemed to discover a shocking truth in the somber sky above. The men deserved their rest. After all, it was a job complete.

“Whoa.”

Wooden wheels creaked as the cart came to a halt. It stopped beside the same brothel the three homeless men passed after they left Agatha’s alehouse. The two muscular men alighted the cart and walked towards Dimitry, who sat cross-legged in the back.

The gap-toothed man scratched his ear, which had a bite-shaped chunk missing. “Get the fuck out.”

Dimitry tumbled out of the cart, and his exposed legs sank into mud. He shuddered. What if some parasitic life form penetrated his open wounds? Could he disinfect them somewhere?

The mustached brother spoke softly. “Can you move?”

“I think so.”

“Take him to Delphine,” gap-tooth said. “I’ll handle the corpses.”

The man twirled the corner of his mustache, then beckoned Dimitry to follow. They walked through the brothel’s front door.

Upon entry, the musk of sweat and faint lavender tainted the air. Blinding crimson light from glowing stones illuminated a vast hall, which overflowed with the banter of half-naked women. They seduced, no, tantalized their drunken prey. Like black widows cocooning a meal, they spun silken thread and whisked their masculine snack upstairs.

“We’re going to the third floor,” said the mustached man.

After an arduous climb up a flight of stairs, they passed through a long hallway. Timber flooring hosted dry and moist dirt boot prints that scattered in every direction. Screaming, panting, and stressed wooden squeaks emanated from closed doors on either side.

Dimitry winced. He had no qualms with prostitution, but the diseases unprotected sex spread was another matter. A world lacking condoms and hygienic practices would… no, it was too early to judge. Maybe they didn’t have pernicious diseases like the ones on Earth.

They reached the third floor. Like a stilted office, it was quieter than the ones below. At the end of a short hall lined with doors was a spacious reception room. As if emulating royalty, it displayed blue-tinted furniture, paintings, and plinths.

The man’s hairless head reflected colored light as he turned to meet Dimitry’s gaze. “Delphine speaks politely, but don’t make her mad like the last few guys. Mind your manners… if you have any.”

Something cold slithered down Dimitry’s spine. What did he mean by the last few guys? Was he replacing someone? Where did they go?

Sat upright at the end of a long table on a silver-trimmed oak chair was a woman. The crow’s feet etched into the corners of her eyes belied the impression of youth her slender figure suggested. “Dominic, who’s this?”

“We rode towards the port like you asked and found him and two other dead men.” Dominic’s mustache flopped with every word. “Pale green eyes like the rumors, right?”

The woman rose from her chair. Her lapis-lazuli-bedazzled dress trailed behind her as she strutted forward. With a graceful gesture, Delphine swept her hair aside to reveal brown eyes that locked onto Dimitry’s. “Indeed. But his appearance hardly befits that of a surgeon. Agatha mentioned your name as Dimitry. Is that correct?”

Dimitry struggled to stay upright. “Yes.”

“She said to give you this if you survived.” Delphine flicked a gold gadot that rolled across the hardwood floor. “For a job complete.”

The coin hit his muddied foot and fell over. A crowned man engraved into its side seemed to laugh at him with an unflinching stare.

Dimitry’s fist clenched. Was this Agatha’s idea of introducing him to an acquaintance? Were Samuel and Arnest’s lives really worth so little? “The three of us were promised three gold gadots.”

“Normally, I’d say one shall have to make do with one, but let it be known that I am no miser.” Delphine snapped her fingers. “Dominic, how much is in your pockets?”

“A few silvers and coppers, madam.”

“Give them to him.”

Coins showered Dimitry’s muddy legs, each metal clang pushing his fury closer to an intractable brink. He reeled in his anger. Now wasn’t the time to make enemies. That came later. “Thanks.”

“Now, on to personal business.” Delphine curled her hair around a finger. “How much do you know about the human body?”

“More than anyone else in Ravenfall.”

“You’re conceited, but most physicians are. Have you ever attended university?”

Dimitry was too exhausted to conceive believable lies. “Seven years.”

“S-seven years?” Dominic’s mouth hung open.

Delphine’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me, which noble household are you from?”

“I’m no noble. Where I come from, university is… more common than elsewhere. Some of my acquaintances studied twelve years before performing their first surgery on their own.”

“Intriguing, but conspicuous. Dominic, report to me after he performs the cuts. If Dimitry is lying, I’m afraid I might lose my patience earlier than usual.”

“Understood.”

“And make sure to muddy those holy cleric rumors like Agatha suggested. We don’t want anyone snooping around.”

“Yes, madam.”

Delphine clapped. “Claudia!”

A young girl, gasping for breath, slid into the reception room. Dense makeup smothered her face like an abstract painting. It was the same girl that approached Dimitry earlier that night. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Get Dimitry cleaned up, some fresh clothes, food, and make sure his other needs are taken care of too.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Claudia smiled as her hand stretched to point the way. “Come with me.”

Dimitry plucked his ‘payment’ from the ground, then followed the girl out of the reception hall. His grip around the golden coin tightened. Unease clawed at him, whispered to him, taunted him, told him that everything was his fault. A job complete? Didn’t feel like it.

“Pretty weird how we meet again, huh?” Claudia asked.

“Yeah.”

“Samuel and Arnest aren’t with you?”

“Yeah.”

They walked down to the second floor.

A thirst for revenge raged within, but who would Dimitry target? Delphine, Agatha, the guards, himself? No. Vengeance accomplished nothing. For now, he had to survive. To heal. To recover. To learn enough about this world to avoid repeating mistakes birthed from ignorance.

Good intentions meant nothing. All Dimitry’s attempts at sparking a medical revolution did was antagonize Ravenfall’s guards, disrupt the Barber Surgeons Guild’s monopoly, apostatize a snaking religion’s beliefs, and kill two men while providing false hope to dozens more.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get you all cleaned up and out of those dirty clothes soon.”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t talk much, do you?”

“Yeah.”

And now, Dimitry was the property of a criminal taskmistress whose ominous words oozed disregard for life. Why did Delphine need a surgeon? What would she make Dimitry do? It didn’t matter. Through gritted teeth, he would appease her while reaping every resource and protection she offered to concoct a plan.

Claudia pointed towards a room. “This way.”

“Yeah.”

“Stop saying yeah!”

“Okay.”

This world wouldn’t push Dimitry around forever. The naïvety had come to an end.

12. Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap

A bath should be a comforting experience on an otherwise frigid night. The dried mud melted off of his body and dispersed. Its soluble components turned the lukewarm water brown, while the more persistent bits accumulated as a thin layer on the bottom of the tub. Soap, which smelled of expired olives, formed a layer of white bubbles on the surface.

Few things embarrassed Dimitry, but if there was one, it’d be getting a bath from a teenage girl. Claudia, who fit that description, scrubbed his back with a washcloth. Her proficiency proved this wasn’t her first time.

“Aren’t you going to say something?”

There was a lot Dimitry wanted to say. ‘Go the fuck away’ came to mind, but perhaps something more polite would be wiser; now was a bad time to make enemies.

“So, have you been doing this a long time?” Dimitry asked, hoping to dissipate the awkwardness in the room. Or, more likely, to drown out his thoughts.

“Washing people’s backs?”

“That. That and other related things.”

“You’re talking about having sex for money then?” Claudia stopped scrubbing. “Is there something wrong with it?”

“I don’t think it’s wrong but—”

“Or do you just dislike me?” Claudia pressed the washcloth against his back with more force than usual.

“That’s not it. I think you’re charming and lovely and I’m lucky to be under your care,” Dimitry lied. “My problem is that you’re a bit young to do it.”

“Truth is, I don’t like it either. I have no other choice.” She rinsed Dimitry’s shoulders.

His voice lowered. “Were you forced into it?”

“No, nothing like that.” Claudia giggled. “When my parents passed away, I had to look after my brother, and this is all I knew how to do. Besides, Delphine can be naggy at times, but she cares about us.”

“Maybe she’s just using you.”

“Maybe. She seems to have a lot of money after all. Though I guess that makes sense for a baron’s daughter.”

Dimitry vaguely recalled the term from his fleeting repository of high school knowledge. It probably referred to some high-ranking noble position. “That’s… important.”

Claudia’s voice transitioned into an excited whisper. “And, well, it’s just what I’ve heard, but she used to be a prostitute too! How crazy is that?”

The moist washcloth retreated.

“Anyway, it looks like we’re done here. That is, unless you wanted something else?” Her finger slid down his back in a snaking pattern.

Dread elicited aggressive coughing from Dimitry. “Actually… there is something. Can you bring me some clean fabric and a razor?”

“Not what I expected, but okay. I’ll get the clothes and food Delphine asked me to as well.” Claudia opened the door, looked back to wink, then scurried into the hall, washbowl in hand.

Dimitry sympathized with Claudia. She was a sweet girl whose affection for him came from hopes that a ‘bigshot surgeon’ could help her escape this profession. Work here couldn’t have been easy—especially when investing in an underweight street dweller was a sound retirement plan.

He squelched the urge to help. Self-preservation took priority, and Dimitry couldn’t leave the brothel. Not yet.

Despite forced moans and stressed furniture squeaks echoing through thin walls, Delphine’s hospitality offered countless benefits. A roof over Dimitry’s head, regular meals, and access to warm water were massive upgrades from homelessness. He had to make use of it all to create a platform for the future.

The door slamming shut when she entered, Claudia rushed closer with a woven basket in her hands and clothes draped over her shoulder. She announced each item as she sorted them onto a nightstand. “I brought you some dried meat, a towel, shoes, socks, braies, hose, a tunic, some cloth, a razor, and this mirror.”

“Thank you. I can handle it from here.”

Claudia didn’t budge.

Dimitry stared at her.

She stared back. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

“Mind getting out while I change?”

“Drats.” Claudia playfully stomped into the hallway. “I’ll be outside, so tell me when you’re ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“For me to show you to your room.” She left the door ajar.

Wishing for more privacy, Dimitry tended to the enlarged wound on his foot by wrapping it in fresh cloth. The bandages weren’t perfect, but until he could properly disinfect the mangled puncture underneath, they would have to do. He shaved the rest of his unevenly groomed face, ate, and dressed. Although the clothes were uncomfortable, anything was better than the torn pilgrim robes lined with rags.

To look like a human again—it felt great.

Bright red streetlight shone through rustic window shutters, outlining the dark silhouettes of a simple nightstand and a straw mattress atop an oak frame. They stood in Dimitry’s third-floor room. Thrashing and chatter from the lower floors loudened the night, but anything was better than an alley full of skittering rodents, their squeaks piercing the night. His quarters were comfier than he hoped.

Yet tranquility eluded him.

No matter how much Dimitry twisted and turned or flipped the feather-stuffed pillow to its cold side, sleep never came. The deaths of Samuel and Arnest replayed in his mind. He tried to calm the racing thoughts with meditation, breathing exercises, and after those failed, counting sheep, but nothing worked.

Dimitry stared at the ceiling with burning eyes instead. They yearned for a moment’s rest, but every time they closed, he saw last night’s events. Every luxury, every comfort he enjoyed resulted from his friends’ sacrifice.

And his patients—at least a dozen were silently dying in dilapidated cottages across Ravenfall, desperately awaiting a surgeon who promised to treat them only days ago. Most couldn’t afford visits to a local barber, and many of the ones that could were suffering from simple conditions only he understood.

All while Dimitry lay here.

Doing nothing.

A guilt-ridden conscience compelled him to return to the streets, but with city guards and the Church continuing their hunt for a holy cleric with distinct eyes, the notion was foolish. Delphine was keeping him safe. Leaving the brothel frivolously would not only undo her efforts, but acting on dangerous whims could also earn her wrath. She didn’t seem the kind to tolerate disobedience.

Dimitry had to maintain a good relationship with his implied ‘owner’. Delphine provided him a chance to gain weight, learn about the world, and generate wealth. Once he earned a small fortune, he would flee Ravenfall and start a proper surgical practice where rumors about neither disappearing bums nor religious dissenters could bring him harm.

It was there that medicine would change forever. Never again would he have to abandon anyone.

But for now, Dimitry would endure. He considered avenues of preparation for escape until the vermilion streetlight filtering through the room’s shuttered windows transitioned into bitter sunlight.

The sound of plucked strings and stomping echoed through the hall. They grew louder until a foot burst open the door.

Stood in the hallway was Dominic’s twin. The giant strummed an instrument that resembled the offspring of a guitar and a violin with a neck too short. His hairless head reflected sparse sunlight as he strolled forward to kick Dimitry’s bed. “Get the fuck up, princess! Time for work!”

If there were two things Dimitry hated, it was pompous assholes and shitty music; this man was an amalgam of both. Couldn’t they send the mustached brother instead?

“Let’s go, sweetheart. Before the customers arrive.”

Dimitry rolled out of bed. “What will I be doing?”

“Curious, aren’t we?” The wide grin on the man’s face revealed a gap where front teeth should be. “Let’s just say you’ll be amputating people who can’t shout out in pain. You’re a surgeon after all.”

Was Dimitry to perform amputations on unwilling patients? The sheer cruelty stole his willingness to budge. “And if I refuse?”

“I’ll break your fucking legs and drag you downstairs myself.” With those detestable words, the moron barged from the room while strumming his warped guitar. His poor understanding of music theory and a reliance on parallel fifths and octaves birthed hollow melodies devoid of harmony.

Seething resentment, Dimitry followed. He yearned to teach the prick a lesson in musicality. A Chopin etude or a Beethoven sonata would drop him on his ass and leave him groveling in inadequacy. Unfortunately, harpsichords were unlikely to exist in medieval society, much less forte pianos. Dimitry wondered if he could reproduce keyboard instruments someday, but manufacturing metal string was—

“Good, ain’t it?”

Dimitry awoke from his musings. “What’s good?”

“My citole playing. Good, right?” The man’s broad back disappeared from view when he turned to face Dimitry.

“It’s certainly music.”

The moron’s vicious smile morphed into a fiendish stare. “But is it good?” Fury accumulated within the man’s eyes as if ready to burst at a moment’s notice. “Is. It. Good?”

Although unkind words foamed to escape Dimitry’s mouth, there was no point in provoking a fight. He would not only lose, but the lingering animosity would hinder his plans. Diplomacy was the best choice. “Yeah, it’s good.”

The man’s wide grin resurfaced. “I’m just fucking with you. Don’t gotta be so serious.” He stabbed his finger into Dimitry’s chest again, and again, and again, each time more forceful than the last.

Dimitry loathed himself for the crimes of his teenage years, and yet, the desire to drown a man swelled within.

They passed through the brothel—littered with remnant garments and stale alcohol from last night’s vigor—before exiting onto frigid streets. Behind the building, the man pulled up a trapdoor. A stench of expired eggs, rotten flesh, and blood oozed from the damp cellar.

Dimitry shuddered. Whatever was down there, he wasn’t excited to find out. He descended carefully to avoid slipping on muddy stairs. They led to a room the size of a classroom, except the ambiance didn’t exude a scholarly charm.

The man retrieved a bright brick from beneath his tunic and placed it on a workbench. Overflowing light revealed walls splattered with congealed blood, a massive wheelbarrow, a worktable, and a glowing pink blanket that concealed a large mound.

“Get chopping, surgeon.” The moron unveiled a stack of corpses. “Or do you prefer butcher?”

Relieved to see cadavers instead of live ‘patients’, a relieved sigh escaped Dimitry’s lips. “What exactly do you want from me?”

“You’re a little daft, aren’t you?” He opened a bag on the worktable, retrieving various implements. “Delphine needs these bodies chopped to pieces.”

Dimitry lost his patience. “Am I making a salad, a carving, a human centipe—”

“Shut up! I get your point.” His arms crossed over his chest. “Delphine needs the appendages and heads removed from every torso. Throw ‘em in the wheelbarrow and cover them with the preservia cloth when you’re done.”

“That’s still broad. Can I get more specific instructions?”

“I’m not the professional here. You figure it out.” The man stomped up the stairs, then slammed the trapdoor shut behind him.

Only the luminescent brick remained to illuminate the room.

Dimitry finally understood why Agatha asked if he had experience with amputations. Just as Delphine’s demeanor implied, neither wanted a caring surgeon. They wanted a butcher.

Although defiling the non-consenting dead elicited disgust, Dimitry preferred it to chopping limbs like some torturer in a low budget horror flick. He would endure. One day, many would benefit from his horrendous deeds.

Dimitry lifted a saw from the table and held it to the light, which struggled to reflect off of rusted teeth. The equipment could have used some improvement. It didn’t seem to get much use. Maybe the men Delphine ‘hired’ before Dimitry used different tool sets?

He glanced at his workload in the cellar’s corner.

A pile of corpses stacking higher than his shoulders, Samuel lay on top, mouth agape. To his side, Arnest.

The sight of his friends, dead and to be chopped by his hand, drained all strength from Dimitry’s legs. He leaned against a filthy wall. Why should he live when they didn’t? No, it wasn’t his fault. Everyone agreed on the job, and that man, the one from the dark hall—he granted Dimitry neither health nor wealth before throwing him into a purgatory where illicit deeds were his only means of survival. What damn choice did he have?!

Dimitry would endure.

He had to.

Samuel’s body weighed heavily on his shoulders, then flopped onto the worktable. Piece by piece, corpse by corpse, friend by friend, Dimitry dissected everyone into neat limbs. The necks were the most difficult. How much time passed before he finished?

Wiping away stale saliva, cerebrospinal fluid, and other undesirables caking his hands, Dimitry leaned back into a chair and stared at his boots, stepped in a thin puddle of blood. The liquidity hinted that most of today’s victims died less than twelve hours ago. Any longer and the blood would have congealed within each cadaver.

Did Delphine regularly murder people for their organs?

A knock came from the trapdoor atop the stairs. It opened to reveal a concerned Dominic.

He pinched his nose while climbing down the stairs. “Can never get used to that smell.” His curved mustache flanked his nostrils. “You alright?”

Dimitry threw a soiled towel onto the worktable. “Not the most fun I’ve had, if I’m honest.”

“It’s not that bad. When you get out of here, you’ll get all the girls you want. Claudia is quite fond of you.” Dominic removed the glowing pink blanket and inspected the body parts.

Gaze plastered to the magical object, Dimitry’s curiosity got the best of him. “By the way, what’s the blanket’s pink glow all about?”

“A barber-surgeon and you never used preservia enchantments before?” He raised an eyebrow. “It keeps things fresh.”

“We didn’t have much magic where I come from.” Dimitry glanced at the brick, whose incandescence resembled those of streetlights. “How about the brick?”

“It has an illumina enchantment.”

Dimitry connected the dots. Spells imparted their effects onto objects through enchantments, resulting in a glow. That gray-glowing statue that robbed invisall’s effects, the purple-glowing bolt that killed Samuel, countless glowing walls and tools around Ravenfall with unknown properties. Learning their precise functioning could help formulate a plan.

“You’re bizarre,” Dominic said, “but who am I to judge? The cuts look good. Much better than the last guy.”

“Last guy?”

“Ah, don’t mind that. I’m sure you’ll be fine.” Dominic spread the cover over the wheelbarrow. “Anyway, you should go get some rest for tomorrow’s job.”

“More corpses, I’m guessing.”

“It’s related but less gruesome. Not to mention, you won’t be alone this time.”

Dimitry took a deep breath. “Is it your brother?”

“No, not Gerbald. You’ll meet her soon enough, though she’s not much for conversation.” Dominic pointed at the trapdoor with a meaty finger. “You coming?”

“Yeah, I think I’ve had enough of this place for today.”

13. Peter Pan, Take Her Back

Streetlight seeped through shuttered windows, painting the bedroom a blood-red hue. Laughter, ceramic clinking, and shrill chatter echoed from below. The brothel’s nighttime operations were in full swing. Besides lascivious guests and employees, one man didn't share in the revelry.

Dimitry shivered. His hands, hiding beneath a woolen blanket, were filthy despite a dozen washings. Dried fluids covered them, coagulated around them, layered them like grease that refused to come off. The grime couldn’t be seen—only felt.

Whenever he was on the verge of sleep, images of the men he let die would flash into his mind, jerking him into wakefulness. His arms and legs would shake. His teeth would chatter. Each time, Dimitry remained in perturbed stasis until the process repeated.

As a trauma surgeon, dozens died under Dimitry’s care. Although an emergency room’s brutality swiftly steeled him against the grief of death, he was once a resident who cried with each untimely passing. A boy who didn’t know what he got himself into. While the hollowness following a deceased patient never fully left, not once had Dimitry felt this way.

It was a feeling foreign and familiar. A sight common in any hospital: cancer patients that survived when a wardmate didn’t, car crash victims that watched fellow passengers die in the operating room right after the accident, parents whose children committed suicide. Pernicious and irrational guilt hung over them all, tearing at their consciences.

Now, survivor’s guilt lingered over Dimitry, too. Why should he live when Samuel and Arnest didn’t? Although the fault wasn’t his, attempts to rationalize his innocence only intensified the sin. Contrary to the oath he once took, to escape his identity as a teenage vandal that robbed elderly women for their sterling silver hoop earrings, he regressed to murder.

All Dimitry wanted was a modicum of self-worth.

To feel ‘good’ again.

There was only one place to go.

Although the plan was to stay cooped up in the brothel whenever possible to avoid suspicion in preparation for an eventual escape, Dimitry threw on his tunic and hooded cloak. He rushed down two flights of stairs, past moaning rooms, a first-floor crowd of patrons and sex-workers, and onto frigid streets. Icy winds brushed his cheek with every step to the spot where the clinic once was.

Two crates of an examination table still stood against a white-plastered wall, yet the quilt that once covered them vanished. Milli’s ‘home’, a sideways timber box, lay empty nearby. Among nostalgic objects, there was an unfamiliar one—a straw basket. It huddled among piled mud. Inside was a half-eaten loaf of bread, some grapes, and a note upon yellow paper. Dry contents despite a recent storm hinted that whoever left the assortment here did so recently.

Dimitry held the note to green moonlight. He deciphered the clumsily scribbled characters with ease.

‘Holy Cleric, I pray to Zera you are safe. Me and some of the others left you food. May Celeste guide you to The Holy Kingdom once more, just as she guides my caravan to Worlstock.

-Madalinde Taylor’

Confirmation of Milli’s well-being brought a brief smile to Dimitry’s face. He hoped the starving woman didn’t overeat too soon, or else refeeding syndrome would bring a swift end to her medical triumph. Damn. Why didn’t Dimitry warn her before it was too late?

“Hey!” a terse and shrill female voice called out.

His head shot up.

Leaned over an overhead windowsill was a tiny pale face with fittingly tiny golden bangs and a long ponytail tied with vegetative fiber. “G-get away from my g-grapes. Y-you and the person s-stalking you!”

Dimitry recognized the shivering creature. He saw her admiring the bitter melon he purchased at the market. Although shocked to discover she wasn’t a hallucination, her words more than her existence pumped dread into his spine. “What do you mean someone’s stalking me?”

“D-dummy.” She pointed past the alley.

Praying that neither guards nor a member of the Church followed him, Dimitry glanced around the corner.

A hooded figure several buildings away darted into a dark passageway.

The creature knew.

“Who the hell was that?” Dimitry asked.

“I d-don’t know, and I don’t care!” she spat. “Just s-s-step away from the fruit!”

Full of questions for the creature, Dimitry would tempt her with food. He plucked a purple grape from the basket. “Are you hungry?”

She stared with wide-open eyes. “None of your b-business.”

“You can have it all. I don’t mind.”

“You d-don’t want to kill me?”

“Why would I want to kill you?” Dimitry asked.

“You’re not lying, so… so…” The tiny creature fluttered down on green wings, her mangled white dress enshrouding a shivering torso no larger than a saltshaker. “P-put the grape down somewhere I can reach it, p-pathetic miscreant.”

“A little beggar calls me pathetic?”

She giggled maliciously. “Anyone with as much g-guilt and self-loathing as you is n-nothing but pathetic. Now drop the grape.”

Her shitty temperance aside, the creature’s ability to discern emotion captured Dimitry’s interest. “I was going to just give it to you,” he said, “but now I want payment.”

“What if I don’t want to? You’re too harmless to threaten me.”

Dimitry couldn’t let that slide. He leaned over, filled his lungs to the brim, and released a gale so strong that the creature could not help but fly across the alley, barely stopping in front of a jagged timber beam.

“What are you t-trying to do, moron?” she asked.

He pressed the grape to a crate’s surface. “Ready to talk?”

The creature frowned, folding its arms across its chest. “Fine.”

“What are you?”

“You d-don’t even know what I am?” She hovered closer. “How c-clueless are you?”

Dimitry pulled the grape back. “Another condition—no backtalk.”

“I’m a faerie! Now, g-give me the fruit!”

Recalling Arnest mention the species before, Dimitry relinquished her reward. “How did you know that I was feeling guilty or that someone was following me?”

“The shame way humansh can be sho shtupid,” she said through a mouthful of purple mush, “we can shensh emoshion.”

Dimitry paced the alley. Not only could the faerie accurately predict feelings, but she also knew the direction of her target—an invaluable skill for tracking pursuers during an escape. Her powers could prove powerful boons.

She gulped down her food. “What are you s-scheming over there?”

“Nothing much.”

“N-now you’re l-lying to me? I just told you I can sense emotion. Such a d-dummy.”

Dimitry’s gaze returned to the creature. Could she detect lies, too?

“Caught your attention?” The shivering faerie grinned. “I have m-many skills, and I can tell you’ve taken a liking to me. Since you’re t-too pathetic to attack anyone, even myself, I wouldn’t mind m-making a deal with you.”

While Dimitry wouldn’t describe himself as ‘liking’ her, he did think she was useful. “And what do you want from me?”

“Things like food and p-protection and…” she looked longingly at his fuzzy cloak. “Other stuff.”

For a budget-priced Tinkerbell to barter in concrete terms shocked Dimitry. But the agreement wasn’t bad. Now that he had some income, he could easily buy the faerie warm clothes and grapes. Protection, however, was another issue. “Is someone out there trying to hurt you?”

“You really are d-dumb, aren’t you?”

“Quit prattling and get to the point.”

“I. Am. A. Faerie!”

“People kill faeries because they’re annoying and refuse to answer questions directly?” Dimitry asked. “Makes perfect sense to me.”

“I’m not annoying!” Her whispers’ shrillness sharpened with every word. “Do you wanna make the deal or not?!”

Dimitry stroked his freshly shaved chin. In addition to her ability to discern emotion, the faerie’s knowledge of this world offered avenues of edification he never considered. The benefits far outweighed the burden of minding a grape-loving critter. “Alright. While I arrange to have clothes made for you, you’ll answer my questions.”

“No need.” The faerie darted into his cloak, then snuggled on his shoulder. Her wings reverberated like tiny wind chimes beside his ear. “Clothes are too heavy for me to fly in, so I’ll just use yours! They don’t call me a genius for nothing.”

“I doubt anyone calls you a genius.” Dimitry briefly considered the implications of her accompaniment, but as long as she stayed hidden, their partnership would be mutually beneficial. “Just don’t let anyone see you.”

“I know, I know. I’ll see them before they see me.”

“Have a name?”

“It’s Precious.”

“Precious?” The absurdity of the situation coaxed a confused chuckle from Dimitry. “Sounds like something someone would name their dog.”

“Oh yeah, what’s your name then?” she asked.

“Dimitry.”

“Dumitry?” A sadistic smile surfaced on Precious’s face.

Dimitry shook his head. “You’re an ass.”

“Only because your despair is soooo delicious.” She patted her belly.

“I take it back. You’re an ass, and you’ve got issues.”

From the time Dimitry returned to the brothel until he reached his room, not a peep escaped the faerie’s mouth. Although annoying, Precious was smart enough to keep silent around customers and sex-workers. Her experience hiding amongst antagonistic humans likely trained her to be cautious. Even after reaching Dimitry’s upstairs bedroom, perhaps to avoid a surprise murder by her new companion, she pretended to fall asleep multiple times before drifting off beneath a thin towel.

Spending countless days in the cold in non-insulating clothing must have exhausted the poor thing. Just like Dimitry. Sympathizing with the inflammatory creature was odd, but when not only humans risked death for comfort, their similarities trumped his grievances.

Insomnia left him awake to ponder alternate possibilities in solitude until sunlight overpowered red streetlight, bringing the grating clangs of church bells and a new day’s dawn. The brothel’s clamorous ambiance transitioned to one of tranquility, only for aggressive and enclosing stomping to disrupt the peace.

Precious darted from under the blanket and into the crevice between Dimitry’s neck and tunic.

“What?” he whispered. “Is something wrong?”

“Good luck,” she mumbled in a sleepy voice while burying further down. Her wings tickled Dimitry’s abdomen as she snaked into a position imperceptible from the outside.

The door flew open.

A barrel-bodied man stood in the hallway. It was Gerbald, Dominic’s less affable twin. “Get the fuck up, time to go!”

Dimitry jumped to his feet, praying Precious didn’t draw the moron’s aggression. He followed Gerbald down the hall to the reception room.

The musclebound moron shuffled towards Delphine, who read a book and sat with a dignified posture across the table. Kneeling beside Dimitry was another person whose jet black cloak disguised their identity. They waited in silence.

Delphine laid down the book and met Dimitry’s gaze. “Dominic informed me that you’ve performed the cuts well last night.” She stood tall and walked towards him, a gem-encrusted dress trailing behind her. “If you told me you were a noble, I would have believed you. I’ve traveled as far as the Sundock Confederacy and never seen pale-green eyes like yours.”

From across the room, Gerbald bore a powerful stare into Dimitry. His scowl, full of contempt, only grew more vicious.

Dimitry did his best to ignore him and the critter shuffling underneath his loose tunic. He forced a smile. “I appreciate the compliment.”

“To tell the truth, when you showed up yesterday, covered in rags, I wanted to leave you in that cellar forever. To be dressed that way and proclaim yourself a surgeon with an education vaster than a duchess’s daughter… I had to suppress my vitriol.” Delphine smiled, and the wrinkles that flanked her eyes entrenched themselves further into her face. She reached to caress Dimitry’s chin. “Fortunately, I didn’t. Although you’re lanky, it’s nothing that can’t be fixed.”

The nearly inaudible chime of Precious’s wings came from below. Although Delphine didn’t seem to notice, the black-cloaked figure beside Dimitry twitched their head. Gerbald’s glare from across the room grew increasingly violent.

Delphine frowned. “But there is one thing that perturbs me to no end. Do you know what that something is?”

Dimitry guessed that the faerie hiding beneath his clothes was that ‘thing’, but he didn’t verbalize his fears. “I am not sure, madam.”

A retributive grin surfaced on Gerbald’s globular face.

“Last night, you snuck out just to mire the clothing I’ve gifted you in some mud and filth infested back alley, but that’s not what I find so insulting. It’s the manner in which you’ve neglected to tell anyone about your nighttime escapades. You best have a reason for your sudden absence.”

Like a child who stumbled into an unfamiliar patient’s cubicle curtain, Dimitry scrambled for an excuse. “Forgive me. It’s just that the dull saw in the cellar made performing high-quality amputations impossible, and I yearned to show my appreciation for your gracious hospitality by doing the best work possible. I snuck out yesterday to retrieve my surgical tools from my old workplace, but when I got there, they were gone. I can’t apologize enough.”

Twirling her hair around a finger, Delphine would have been attractive if not for the wickedness her aged beauty concealed. She stroked Dimitry’s cheek with the back of her hand. “Reliable workers need not apologize. Let it be known that I reward effort. Gerbald!”

The human meat statue stepped forward. “Yes, madam?”

“Replace the saw immediately.”

“Uh…” Gerbald muttered something doubtlessly unpleasant under his breath. “Sure.”

Dimitry suppressed a satisfied smirk that yearned to surface onto his face. His lie covered his ass and pissed off Gerbald. Indeed, the best things in life were simple.

“Good.” She pulled back, and her magnanimous expression bittered as she strolled to the kneeling figure. “Dimitry, today you and Saphiria will do an important job for me. The foolish girl already knows what to do.”

Delphine threw back the silent watcher’s black hood, revealing a young woman’s glossy, raven black hair. Around her neck was an engraved steel collar with an ominous silver glow. Pulling the collar with one hand and reaching inside her dress pocket for something with the other, Delphine’s eyes narrowed. “Servia.”

Saphiria’s pale hands reached to grab her head as if to deal with a severe and sudden migraine.

Despite disgust at yet another use of malicious magic, Dimitry swallowed every complaint. His powerlessness made endangering himself on another’s behalf reckless for all parties involved. He observed silently.

“Saphiria,” Delphine said grimly, “take Dimitry, deliver the cargo, then come back. Understand?”

“Yes,” Saphiria responded with a quiet yet self-assured voice.

“Good. Teach him everything he needs to know and nothing he doesn’t.”

“Yes. Let’s go, Dimitry.”

During the day, Ravenfall’s pleasure district was a depressing sight. Crimson lights fought a losing battle against the sun as filth-drenched alleys struggled to support starving beggars. Thugs would force them out before nightfall.

Standing behind the brothel, Saphiria turned towards Dimitry, her vacant, indigo irises in full view. “We need to lead the oxen out of the stable and load the cart.”

Although he wanted to make the unfortunate girl’s life easier by wordlessly complying with her request, a hazy recollection nagged him about her eyes, cloak, and collar. They were familiar. In a moment of clarity, Dimitry remembered. He ran into her while dashing out of Inscriber works. Whether she knew who he was could alter plans.

“Did we meet before?” Dimitry asked.

“I’ve met no one that traps faeries underneath their tunic.”

Precious’s head popped out of his collar. “That’s… that’s not all he does to me.” Her crocodile tears were bigger than her head.

Saphiria’s indigo eyes opened wide. “It speaks.”

“And lies too, apparently.” Dimitry shook his head. “I just wish she would be quiet when she isn’t spoken to.”

“Hold it still.” Saphiria pulled up her cloak and reached for a dagger within a leather sheath strapped to her pants.

Precious’s arms shot forward. “Dimitry! Our promise?!”

He sighed. “Can you let her off with a warning? She’s important for my surgical work.”

“Yeah, surgical work!”

The girl sheathed her dagger. “It better not get in the way.”

Precious exhaled a relieved breath and tucked her head back underneath his tunic.

“Thank you.” Dimitry took no pleasure in apologizing for the little jerk, but he would need her help. His attention shifted to a different issue—the hole in his foot. Dry bandages and washings in lukewarm water wouldn’t stave off infection for long. “Since we’re taking oxen, I’m assuming we’ll be traveling somewhere distant. Do you mind if I gather some medical supplies before we go?”

Saphiria nodded. “Meet me outside the north gate by midday.”

“Got it.”

Grateful for an understanding traveling companion, Dimitry rushed to the closest barbershop. Traveling through the city in warm clothes rather than rags wasn't something he took for granted. Frigid winds numbed exposed skin no longer, and the faces of passersby were devoid of disgusted grimaces. Their shouts and vigorous laughter resounded in the streets.

Dimitry pushed through crowded streets and dodged piled fecal matter left by horses and pigs until a sign depicting a red and white pole came into view. It leaned against the wall of a small shop. Although this world’s barbers were barbaric, they alone could provide surgical equipment in a timely manner.

Lowering his hood to hide his pale green eyes, Dimitry pushed open an iron-reinforced door.

Sat on a crude stool while leaning against a wall was a man studying a yellowed parchment sheet. Without putting it down, the barber-surgeon spoke. “Haircut, shave, illness, open wound?”

“Neither. I’m here for supplies.”

“We only sell services.”

The front counter played host to a variety of creatures, hooks, needles, saws, threads, bottles, and other instruments.

Dimitry held up the gold gadot he received from Delphine. “I’m willing to pay a high price.”

The barber-surgeon slammed his parchment onto the table. It was an astrology chart displaying unfamiliar constellations. “Shit, for that much, I can’t really refuse, can I?”

“In that case, I need scissors, tweezers, curved needles, thread, boiled water, concentrated alcohol, and a bag to hold it all.”

“We have most of that stuff, but consecrated alkorol?” He leaned forward, cascading wrinkles embedded in his forehead. “What’s that?”

Dimitry rubbed his chin. Did people in this time-period discover distillation? He should have paid more attention in history class. “Something like gin or vodka.”

The surgeon wore a confused expression.

Referencing his brief experience in Agatha’s dilapidated alehouse, Dimitry concluded that they at least knew fermentation. “It’s like ale, except much, much stronger.”

“Ah. You speak strangely. Did you mean to say aqua vitae?” He slid a ceramic bottle across the counter. “Though I’m not surprised. Valuable medicines are unfamiliar to the uneducated.”

Dimitry pulled out the stopper and inhaled its vapors. The scent was that of a powerful brandy. Perfect. “Do you have any needles?”

“Do I.” The barber-surgeon reached for a shallow crate filled to the brim with sharp iron.

Rather than reaching for individual needles among countless rusted and potentially contaminated metal shards himself, Dimitry pointed to those resembling fishing hooks. “Can you grab me four like those?”

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“I have a faint idea.”

“I’d suggest you leave sutures to the professionals.”

Dimitry smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Why do I bother?” the barber-surgeon mumbled. “Youngsters these days don’t listen.”

Leaving the store with a leather bag, Dimitry looked inside. Fabric strips cushioned gaps between ceramic bottles and iron equipment. The arrangement was beautiful and complete, yet its presence elicited only dread.

How many more patients could Dimitry have treated if he had these tools from the start? Even a minor wound could spread infection to the rest of the body and trigger sepsis. What if someone died unnecessarily from his negligence? What if he could have saved Samuel?

He sighed.

14. Night of Repentance

Past the north gate, beyond the city’s towering walls, lay a flat terrain abundant in thatch-roofed shacks and cottages. Many flanked a river branch that shot back to cut through Ravenfall, and even more clustered around the massive river from which the other was sourced. Offering passage across was a stone bridge longer than a modern city block.

Dimitry walked across, stroking his chin. He never expected that a settlement like Ravenfall could construct a bridge this size. Why were the roads so chaotic and shoddy despite architectural capabilities to build massive structures? Were he in charge, the city planner would be the first to go.

Resting on his shoulder was Precious, whose miniature head leaned back against his neck as if it were a recliner chair. She yawned.

“You’re sure Saphiria went this way?”

“Don’t worry so much, Dumitry. I can sense human despair from far, far away.”

“That’s nothing to be proud of. You’re a lot more malicious than I thought.”

“Flatter me all you want, it won’t get you anywhere.”

Dimitry massaged his forehead, reevaluating his decision to bring along the faerie. “Are you so desperate for compliments that you’ll take pleasure in obvious flaws?”

“Desperate?!” Precious pinched his neck, but her feeble faerie hands were incapable of harming superior human epidermis. “If you want to hurt my feelings, you’ll have to try harder than that, Dumitry!”

“I don’t know about that. Sure sounds like I hit the mark.”

“Think whatever you want.”

Their silent march continued until an ox-drawn cart came into view. Crouched beside it was a young woman, whose hood blew with every passing wind to reveal hints of the raven black hair beneath. Saphiria caressed flowers jutting from the roadside.

Whether she was Delphine’s slave or magic-bound servant, Dimitry couldn’t help but think this world was fucked. And he was no better. Perhaps worse. He wouldn’t help Saphiria despite an upbringing amongst modern ‘civility’. Rash naïvety led only to tragedy.

Precious inhaled a deep, savoring breath. “Ah, the two most miserable people in Ravenfall, reunited at la—”

Dimitry swept the faerie off his shoulder.

“Hey!”

Brushing dirt from her black cloak’s bottoms, Saphiria stood. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah.” Lingering soreness in Dimitry’s legs complicated clambering onto the cart’s front seats. He glanced back. A wooden lid covered an attached container. “What’re we hauling?”

Saphiria sat beside him. “Organs.”

Were Arnest and Samuel’s corpses inside? The ones Dimitry dismembered personally? Queasiness punched his gut, and his eyes darted away. It wasn’t his fault. He was forced into it. Why would it be his fault?

“Delicious.” Precious patted her stomach. “More of that, please.”

“Get rid of the faerie,” Saphiria whispered, “or I’ll do it.”

“Exactly what someone wearing a collar of salvation would say. Go on, suck Zera’s teat some more. Beg for forgiv—”

“I’ll kill it.”

Heaving a deep breath to recenter himself, Dimitry held out a hand. “I’m so sorry, Saphiria. Please try to ignore her. Aside from her big mouth, the faerie’s harmless.” He pointed at Precious. “And you, if you keep annoying Saphiria, I might happen to look away next time she draws her dagger. Catch my drift?”

“Loud and clear.”

Dimitry turned his gaze to the gray-glowing, steel band constricting Saphiria’s neck. The so-called collar of salvation. He saw people wearing similar ‘chokers’ around Ravenfall, but they numbered far fewer than slaves burdened by normal shackles. What was the collar’s purpose, and why was it enchanted?

Saphiria’s glare shifted from Precious to the road ahead.

“Walk.”

The cart jerked forward.

Precious landed on Dimitry’s shoulder and used his hair to polish her wings. They produced a soft jingle which meshed with the whistles of gentle breezes, each wafting away the stench of rotting carcasses and replacing it with the smells of wilting grass, oaks, and something mellow.

The moment would have been relaxing weren’t it so strange. An absurd creature flanked Dimitry from one side and a reticent young woman with indigo eyes from the other. They rode antiquated technology packed with corpses down an unpaved road in a land beyond his reckoning. He didn’t know where they were going, why they were going there, or what they would do once they arrived.

Only one thing was certain: now was an excellent opportunity to gather information. Anything helped. Dimitry glanced at Saphiria. “What’s our destination?”

“Vael.”

“What for?”

“To deliver corpses.”

“To who?”

“You don’t need to know.”

“Have you been doing this a long time?”

Saphiria didn’t answer. Her eyes fixed onto the road.

“Don’t bother.” Precious yawned, raising her petite hands to a blue sky. “As long as she’s wearing that collar, she’ll never speak more than necessary.”

“Why’s that?” Dimitry asked.

“When the church isn’t busy hunting corrupted creatures like me, they dabble in the slave trade. Of course, when they do it, they don’t call it slavery. It’s salvation.”

“And I’m guessing the collar helps them do that?”

“See, you’re capable of complex thought when you try.” Precious patted the side of his head. “They don’t dare do anything that might compromise their owner’s orders or agenda. Such nice pets.”

“Why doesn’t she just kill you, then?” Dimitry asked. “I doubt Delphine or anyone else would want an annoying faerie around.”

“I’m only concerned with my task,” Saphiria said coldly. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

Was there a hint of sadness in her indigo eyes, or was it Dimitry’s imagination? He smiled to bring levity to an otherwise bleak atmosphere. “By the way, thanks for putting up with Precious and I. Means a lot to me.”

There was no response.

They traveled in silence until nightfall. To allow two exhausted oxen rest after a lengthy journey, Saphiria set up camp. Dimitry gathered loose twigs and stones for a fire pit.

Luminous light from a full moon illuminated dark skies. However, unlike anything Dimitry had ever seen, green sparkles twinkled midair like stars, filling the forest and roads in countless bright lights that faded in and out of existence.

Saphiria fished for something inside her cloak’s pocket and held her palm towards the fire pit.

“Ignia.”

Flames engulfed the sticks. Their brightness competed with that of the moon, dancing together a violent tango of undulating red and green hues upon the dirt and nearby oaks. The heat was a welcome reprieve from biting winds.

“Stay on your guard,” Saphiria said while stirring a pot of salted meat and grain pottage.

Sat cross-legged on the floor, elbow against his knee to support his head, Dimitry watched the young woman’s hypnotic movements. He recalled the rabid cries he heard during his initial invisall trials beyond Ravenfall’s walls. “I’m guessing the forest is dangerous at night?”

Precious, tired tears in her golden eyes, bundled inside his tunic. “Tonight’s a night of repentance, Dumitry. Don’t you know anything?” She yawned. “You should try leaving the brothel more often.”

Following the faerie’s example, Dimitry yawned as well. The threat of religious superstition did nothing to allay his constricting lethargy. He thought only of getting sleep. Maybe tonight would be the night. “Every time I hear your shrill voice, it’s like you’re drilling into my brain. Can you keep it down?”

“Not if you keep regurgitating dumb questions from your dumb mouth.”

Dimitry was too tired to flap open his tunic and send the faerie flying. Besides, she had a point. From a native’s perspective, he came across as someone with the demeanor and appearance of an adult but the knowledge of a toddler. Only time, experience, and a concerted learning effort could fix that.

He started with a question. “How often do nights of repentance occur?”

“Every full moon,” Saphiria said.

“And I’m assuming that’s bad.”

“It depends where you live,” Precious said. “Places like big, big coastal cities have it the worst. Lots of magic use makes animals and heathens really violent. Some people, too. It was pretty bad in the Gestalt Empire because they burned through so much vol all the time.”

Dropping her ladle at the words ‘Gestalt Empire’, Saphiria stood. “Food’s ready.”

“Do you have any fruit?” Precious asked. “I’m tired of only leaves and grains. It’s been ages since I last had fent.”

“No.”

Was fent the disgustingly bitter melon Dimitry bought from the market? Wondering if a faerie’s differing taste buds made the fruit palatable, he concocted a plan to keep the critter silent. “Mm…” Dimitry brought a spoonful of hot food to his mouth. “So good.”

“The—the nerve!” Precious pinched his ear. “Wipe that smirk off your face! I know you’re scheming to make me jealous.”

“No, I’m scheming to make you act politely around Saphiria and I. Show us the respect we deserve, and I’ll buy you fent when we get back.”

Precious looked up, excitement beaming from her face. “Really?”

Thinking the faerie was adorable when it wasn’t annoying, Dimitry gave her a reassuring smile. “I never make promises I don’t keep.”

Unless he made them to a patient.

Giggles that grew louder, as did the tossing of woolen blankets.

Dimitry’s tired eyelids creaked apart. Above him, Precious hovered midair, hands at her stomach, tears streaming down her red face. She choked, wheezed, struggled to breathe.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Dimitry whispered. He finally managed to fall asleep, but the damn faerie woke him.

“I can’t… I can’t help it… Sa… Saphi… she is.” Hysterical laughter interrupted her speech.

He rolled over.

Saphiria, eyes closed, thrashed inside her bedroll. As if fighting a losing battle against demons only she could see, she turned one way then the other. Her long, raven black hair spilled out from her hood and covered the grass like encroaching vines.

Dimitry’s eyes sank to the dirt floor. What trauma had Saphiria undergone to evoke such violent nightmares? It didn’t matter. Thoughtless intervention only led to misery. The young woman was Delphine’s property, and to disrupt their relationship would result in punishment. Helping might have been possible in his past life, but now, he couldn’t even help a dying old man.

He grit his teeth and ignored it.

And ignored it.

And ignored it.

Then, distant groans.

They came from the bushes encircling their camping spot.

Although unseen, Dimitry felt gazes burning with insatiable hunger. Something hunted them, and a recovering bum couldn’t handle the threat on his own!

“Ther… there—” Precious’s laughter continued to disrupt her speech despite terrified golden eyes. “The… three—”

He crawled slowly from his bedroll and shook Saphiria’s shoulder. “Wake up! Wake up!”

Her indigo eyes shot open, face illuminated by ephemeral green sparkles that burst all around. She rolled into a crouch, reaching into her pocket.

“Hastia.” Momentary green light coalesced around Saphiria’s arms and legs. She glared at the faerie. “Shut it up.”

Dimitry restrained Precious with one hand and silenced her by pressing a finger to her lips. She squirmed before relaxing.

It did nothing to appease the ravenous cries. They intensified instead.

Saphiria thrust back her cloak and slid one of three daggers from the sheath strapped to her leg. The moonlight dyed its glint a pistachio color.

A bush rustled.

“It comes,” Saphiria whispered.

Uncertain of what to expect, Dimitry held his breath. What could he possibly do in a fight whilst armed with only bare fists? He needed a weapon.

An agile paw with razor claws emerged from the foliage before the rest of the wolf-beast jumped out, lowered its body to the ground and galloped towards Dimitry. Two tongues rolled from between sharp teeth and dragged across the dirt.

Dimitry’s arms instinctively rose to shield his face.

The beast lunged forward with front paws outstretched. A flying dagger bore its neck, silencing the animal with a muffled thud and pained whimpers. Wheezing squeals accompanied every labored breath.

“Fyrhounds,” Saphiria said. “Don’t turn your back to them. Even the dying ones.”

Dimitry released Precious and dashed towards the felled beast. He crushed its head beneath his boot while pulling out the dagger embedded in a bloody throat.

The sound of furious paws drifting across the grass came from behind.

He looked back.

“Propelia!”

A rock shot forth from Saphiria’s palm, piercing through the second fyrhound’s abdomen, ejecting ruptured entrails upon exit. The beast curled into a fetal position and looked on with lifeless eyes.

Dimitry turned to thank Saphiria for saving his life not once, but twice that night. Instead, he spotted another figure dash from behind an oak stump. “Over there!”

Saphiria glanced back, but she was too late. The beast pounced at her shoulder, knocking the slender girl to the ground. It aimed its jaws at her neck.

“Illumina!” Precious chanted.

A flash of light erupted from within the fyrhound’s eye sockets.

Target’s balance disrupted, Dimitry dug his soiled dagger into the beast’s upper chest. He dragged the blade across both carotid arteries, then stabbed dozens of holes into where the lungs should be.

Discolored blood flooded grass as the third fyrhound collapsed onto Saphiria.

Heaving through heavy lungs, dread consumed Dimitry as he pulled the beast off of Saphiria’s back, praying he could resuscitate her. What if he killed another person? This time, a slave girl that couldn’t even control her fucking actions! “Saphiria!”

Precious’s head titled. “Think she’ll die?”

Not waiting to find out, Dimitry dashed for his tool bag. “Precious, find where she’s bleeding most and press down as hard as—”

“Stop worrying so much. She’s fine.”

His head darted back.

Sitting upright, Saphiria held out her arm, across which a long laceration sliced through a blood-drenched cloak and the skin beneath.

Dimitry confirmed that the wound’s location made severe vascular trauma unlikely. Relief flooded his body, but it was too early for comfort. “Does anything else hurt? Did you hit your head? Anything like that?”

“It’s just a scratch,” Saphiria said. “It won’t happen again.”

The reticent girl’s judgment couldn’t be trusted. She probably wanted Dimitry to leave her alone. “It’s not just a scratch. Wounds from wild animals have a high chance of infection, and there might be other injuries, too. Will you let me take a look? I promise I do stuff other than butcher corpses.”

Saphiria’s gaze met his, and she stared as if digging into his soul, hesitating for an extended moment before she spoke. “Okay.”

He squeezed her upper arm to stem the bleeding. “Try to relax, and I’ll handle the rest.”

15. Ye Olde Biochemistry

After around ten minutes of direct pressure to Saphiria’s laceration, hemostasis was achieved. The bleeding finally stopped. Only now could wound exploration begin.

Although Dimitry wished for a cleaner environment to work in than a forest floor, he doubted there were more pathogenic microorganisms here than at his clinic in a Ravenfall alley. It would suffice. He rinsed his hands with boiled water to remove excess microbes and gently peeled the bloodied portion of Saphiria’s cloak to reveal the contaminated laceration underneath.

Slender arm in the air, Saphiria watched the cloth tear away. “Must I hold up my hand for long?”

Dimitry nodded. “It’s harder for your heart to pump blood upwards, meaning there’s less to bleed out from your wounds. No point in losing more blood than necessary, right?”

Her straight face made deciphering whether she believed him difficult. Patient compliance that came from understanding rather than blind trust was best, but when faced with a traumatic laceration that traveled from behind the shoulder to the elbow, either was fine.

Pressing a thumb to both sides of the wound, Dimitry pulled back skin for an inside look. A scarlet ravine with blood pooling over a yellow base showed subcutaneous fat exposure. The depth of injury necessitated stitches.

Sat on his head, Precious leaned in. “Yuck.”

“It’s not too bad,” he said. “Looks a lot worse when you see the muscle and bone bulging out underneath.”

An icy wind blew raven hair into Saphiria’s face, which she struggled to brush away with a single hand. “Will this take much longer?”

“Not really, but if your arm is getting numb, feel free to move it around a bit.”

Dimitry reached into his bag for a bottle of crudely distilled alcohol. Aqua vitae, as the people of this world called it. He blotted the transparent liquid onto loose fabric to disinfect his hands and prepared another to drag alongside the gash, careful to avoid leaking ethanol into the wound itself. On contact, alcohol killed healthy cells too.

Indigo eyes no longer overflowing with hostility, but curiosity, Saphiria fixated on his movements. “What’s that for?”

“I’m cleaning the gunk outside the cut so that when I flush out the insides, it doesn’t get recontaminated.”

“I see.”

Discovering a person who was open to novel ideas rather than rejecting them outright brought a smile to Dimitry’s face.

Precious jumped off his head to hover above. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“I don’t know many things, but this is the one thing I’m sure of.”

Dimitry assumed that organic chemistry functioned identically on all planets; only exceptional microorganisms could survive high purity ethanol. Despite the broadened range of human phenotypes in this world, the fundamental biology was probably the same. That logic applied to pathogens too.

After disinfecting the surrounding skin, Dimitry turned his attention to the laceration’s innards. A long and narrow injury like Saphiria’s made wound irrigation the perfect solution, and he had the perfect tool: boiled water. It would flow through the cut, flushing away debris, stale blood, and parasitic microbes.

“If you’re a barber-surgeon,” Precious said, “where are your prayer books and astrology charts?”

“Prayers are only good when the procedure fails. No comment on the astrology charts though.”

“Zerans would murder you if they heard you say that.”

Dimitry poured boiled water into the girl’s wound. “Well, you don’t come across as particularly pious, so I’m not too worried.”

Precious giggled. “That’s because a pious faerie is a dead faerie. But how about her?”

Motionless, Saphiria watched Dimitry’s movements with utmost care.

Dimitry took a moment to decide between continuous and interrupted sutures. The former was quicker and simpler to perform, while the latter allowed for easier fluid drainage and held better under duress. Given that Saphiria navigated unhygienic environments and was nimble enough to dispatch two wolf monsters on her own, the sturdier option was better. He disinfected some thread and a curved needle.

“This will hurt a bit… or a lot,” Dimitry warned.

Saphiria winced as the needle pierced her skin. “It’s not bad.”

“I respect your bravery.” He tied the first suture and cut away the excess thread with a pair of scissors. Dimitry’s gaze moved down her arm.

A gold bracelet embedded with a brilliant purple gem wrapped around her wrist. Collecting gemstones and minerals on Earth, Dimitry recognized the jewel at once. Although inclusions mired the clarity and an unsteady hand botched the cut, the sapphire would doubtless fetch an absurd price.

Dimitry smirked. Sapphires were a fitting gem for someone named Saphiria.

“I was wondering,” Saphiria said. “How did a faerie like you learn to cast illumina?”

Landing on the girl’s shoulder, Precious’s tiny legs swung back and forth as if she were an infant sat on a highchair. “Oh, so you can string together more than three words. Do you really want to know?”

“And how are you capable of speech? And why do you wear clothes?”

“What will you give me if I tell you?”

Saphiria glared at the faerie. “Your life.”

Dimitry tied another suture on her arm. Although it would be a shame if the faerie died, he agreed with Saphiria. Who was Precious? Were her abilities unique? “Answer her questions.”

“And what will you give—”

“Did you forget our promise?”

Precious puffed up her cheeks. “Let’s just say they are a gift from an old, old friend. Good enough?”

“No, but it’s a start,” Dimitry focused on the half-closed laceration on Saphiria’s arm.

“Well, that’s all you’ll get until I see the goods.” Precious fiddled with the plant fiber hair tie that kept her golden ponytail together. “Fent first, chat later.”

Dimitry hooked the needle into Saphiria’s skin and scooped it through her flesh. Tonight’s events confirmed his suspicions. While invisall allowed him to evade anyone Delphine asked to tail him, leaving Ravenfall alone would fling him into a hostile and unforgiving place where disaster lurked around every corner. He would have been dead was it not for Saphiria.

Although he dreaded returning to the brothel where soul-draining work and insufferable assholes awaited, he had to endure to bide time for preparation. Dimitry needed to learn about everything and anything: magic, fundamental truths, combat. Supplies like vol, food, horses, and money were similarly important. Without them, death was always a step away.

“All done.” Dimitry finished the last suture and snipped the thread with crude scissors.

Saphiria held her arm out beside the fire. A pale finger traced the railroad pattern. “Was this necessary?”

Watching her recontaminate her skin, Dimitry sighed. “Sutures keep the skin closed while the wound heals so that bacteria and viruses can’t get inside.”

“What are viruses and bacteria?”

He recalled when Samuel and Arnest asked a similar question. The knowledge didn’t help them survive. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Tell me.” There was an uncharacteristic spark in her otherwise vacant eyes.

“All around, in the dirt, in the water, and in the air, there are these tiny bugs that want to invade your body. That’s where disease comes from. Just a while ago, I used distilled alcohol to kill the ones living on your skin and my tools.”

Saphiria leaned forward. “What’s alcohol?”

“That’s a tough question; there are so many types out there. The most common one is ethanol. It’s what you find in ale.”

Her eyes traveled up as if in deep contemplation and fixed back onto Dimitry. “What does it look like?”

“It looks exactly like water, but if you had a cup of ethanol, it’d be lighter than a cup of water.” Dimitry’s hands moved up and down as if imitating a scale. Although having pure ethanol was impossible under normal atmospheric conditions, he kept it simple. “They smell different, too.”

“How do you take ethanol out of ale?”

“It has a lower boiling point, so you can evapora—”

“There you go, making things up again,” Precious said. “He just makes it up as he goes.”

Like someone who remembered a sad truth, curiosity drained from Saphiria’s face. She stood. “I… have to go check on the oxen.”

Dimitry stared at Precious. He finally found someone interested in science, but the faerie had to ruin the moment.

“Sorry, did I do that?”

“You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t choose to be this way, you know.”

After a half day’s journey, the ox-drawn cart reached a decrepit bridge leading to their destination—Vael. The village roads were uneven with shallow trenches flanking either side. Every dirt ditch contained rotted butchered animal remains, discarded food, and feces, their accumulated stenches blending to produce one more vile than any sewage plant.

Disorderly houses with tiles sliding from their roofs filled all except the market square, which played host to several dozen stalls. Aside from the occasional merchant or traveler, those who roamed counter to counter wore battered tunics and gowns. Rickety cart wheels creaked past them and halted beside the manor at the village’s rear.

“Stay inside,” Dimitry spoke to his cloak.

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” Precious wriggled, stuck between cured leather and human skin. “Just keep me away from those Zeran freaks.”

Satisfied, he turned to face Saphiria. “What now?”

“We wait.”

Beyond the rusted iron gate, a man in a bright blue tunic emerged from the manor and strolled closer. He lifted a metal strip from the gate clasp and pushed it open.

“I assume this is a delivery from Baroness Delp—Lady Delphine?” The man walked past Dimitry and pulled up the cart’s wooden cover. “Young master isn’t home right now, so I will examine the goods myself.” He peeled back the preservia blanket and nodded at the exposed mound of body parts. Among them, Samuel and Arnest’s.

Something sank within Dimitry’s stomach. Was he going to watch someone buy his friends’ organs without so much as a word? The men he dissected personally? Although stopping the transaction was foolish, the least he could do was learn the rationale behind the madness.

“Excuse me.” Dimitry placed his hand on the side of the cart. He avoided looking directly into the storage compartment.

“What?”

“The organs… do they have a use?” Dimitry asked.

The man scowled at Saphiria. Saphiria looked at Dimitry, pleading with her eyes for him to stop asking so many questions.

Dimitry’s heart dropped. He didn’t want to trouble Saphiria; she had enough problems of her own. “I ask because I’m the one who prepared them. I’m trying to perfect my craft, you see.”

The man turned to him. “Ah, are you the new butcher?”

“That’s me.” Dimitry didn’t let his discomfort show.

Careful not to dirty his blue tunic, the man grabbed a severed arm from the top of the pile and held it to the sunlight. “The quality this time is quite good. The joints are neatly severed, and there are no chunks of flesh missing. I am impressed by your devotion, if not slightly perturbed.”

“I could do better if I knew their purpose.”

The man placed the limb back inside and paused. “That’s something you’ll have to ask the master yourself, but unfortunately, he’s away on business at the moment.” He withdrew a silver gadot from his pouch and pressed it into Dimitry’s hand. “Buy yourself some ale while we carry the cargo inside.”

Dimitry glanced at Saphiria, who nodded back. Guess that meant he had some free time. He headed towards the market.

Giving away cadavers without the consent of their owners was reprehensible. Dimitry knew that. But they haunted him as if he was the corpses’ protector and keeper. A weight lifted from his shoulders now that they were gone, but an uneasy emptiness remained in its place.

“You were this close to convincing him,” the voice emanating from Dimitry’s tunic said.

“You can tell that much?”

“My many talents know no bounds.”

“Good. Now add them to your resume, below ‘annoying’ and ‘does nothing useful’.”

“My what? Making up words again, Dumitry?”

The market came into view. An abundance of horses indicated people traveled from afar to purchase supplies. A stall with bark strips lying across its counter stood out.

Dimitry wandered closer. Who the hell bought bark? Whether driven by cynicism or curiosity, he approached the stall.

“How do ye, sir.” The man beneath a thin fabric rubbed his hands. “Interested?”

“I’m not sure what I’m looking at.”

“This here is the finest willow bark you’ll find in the whole Amalthean Kingdom, sir.”

Dimitry raised an eyebrow. “And it’s used for…?”

The man at the counter picked up a brown and green strip, bobbing it up and down. “You put it in hot water and drink it. The tea it makes is a medicine that makes pains and maladies go away.”

Willow bark? During his undergraduate education, Dimitry read about it; something related to pharmacology. What was it? The vendor said hot water, which meant the active ingredient was a water-soluble compound. Could it be an acid? A base? Polar-covalent?

“What exactly does it alleviate?”

“All sorts of maladies, sir. Some people use it for headaches, others for aching joints.”

Aching joints, headaches?

Dimitry’s eyes shot open.

That was it! He remembered. It contained a precursor for acetylsalicylic acid!

Aspirin!

Could Dimitry pioneer aspirin in this world? On Earth, it was one of the most popular medicines of all time. As long as willow bark was around, he had a medical breakthrough and a potential moneymaker for when he established his practice.

The issue was converting the precursor compound in willow bark into Aspirin, but that was a problem for another time. Simple extract was good enough for now; it had similar properties.

Dimitry slammed five coppers and one silver onto the counter. “Give me as much as that’ll buy.”

This was no time to haggle. It was a time for experimentation.

“Yessir!” The elated merchant filled Dimitry’s bag with willow bark.

He wandered off to a secluded spot. Precious sat on his shoulder, a tuft of Dimitry’s dirty blonde hair in hand, polishing her wings while they waited for Saphiria.

An opportunity to think.

Dimitry could extract the active compounds in willow bark with boiling water, but the solubility would be too low, and it would take up too much space. Would alcohol be better? Maybe aqua vitae could—

“You know he ripped you off, right?”

“Did he now?”

“Yep, I can smell the merchant’s excitement all the way from here.”

“I’m happy for him." Dimitry grinned. "I've got my own things to be excited about."

16. Doubled Pawns

Faster now that it no longer carried severed corpses, the ox-drawn cart bounced along an uneven dirt road, across a bridge, and through Ravenfall’s northern gate. Charcoal clouds filled the sky as it trudged towards the pleasure district, arriving at a stable down the street from Delphine’s brothel. Luminous scarlet lights illuminated eager-faced passersby who crept down the road in search of cheap thrills. The smell of horse droppings and ale tainted the air.

Dimitry turned away from the street and towards Saphiria. The young woman, perhaps in her early twenties, caressed the bridge of a weary ox’s nose. She led it to a stall beside one that housed two horses: a black one, and the other white with brown spots.

“What are we going to do with the cart?” Dimitry asked.

“Just leave it here.”

“But it’s full of stale blood. If someone finds it—”

“It’s Delphine’s stable.” Saphiria fastened a latch on the stall’s door. “She’ll handle it.”

Among several stables in the city, sheer size made this one unique. Four cottages could take its place with room to spare. How rich and influential was that woman to own so much property? Delphine was vile, but Dimitry had to stay in her good graces until he completed his escape plans.

When they reached the brothel, Gerbald, a man whose gargantuan frame was matched only by his ego, leaned by the front door. He noticed them, and a foul smile crept up his giant face. “Saphiria, you’re back. Did that fuckwit slow you down?”

Saphiria acknowledged neither Gerbald’s question nor his existence as she passed through the front door.

“I’m fucking talking to you!” His enraged words echoed throughout the brothel’s vast first floor, leaving silence in its wake. “Don’t you dare turn your back on me!”

Prostitutes and customers with blushed faces halted their forced romance to watch the commotion with anticipation and bated breath. Few things could detract attention from sex. Violence was one of them.

Dimitry didn’t look back. He didn’t want to give Gerbald the attention he craved. Not only would that encourage the moron, watching him chase validation was too much damn fun. How long had it been since Dimitry hated someone as much as him? Let that fucker suffer.

From behind, boots struck faster against a plank floor. Gerbald’s meaty hand grabbed Saphiria’s shoulder, her black cloak protruding between his thick fingers, and pulled the woman back.

Gerbald towered over her, looking down as if prepared to crush an insect under his heels. “Answer. Me. Did he fuck up?”

Should Dimitry get involved? Nah. Saphiria could handle herself.

She turned to face the bear of a man. Her eyes, vacant moments ago, burned with the callous fury of a seasoned murderer. A killer. Saphiria stepped towards him, unflinching.

“Stop. Talking.” Her words were mild but bore lethal hostility.

Gerbald teetered back. He probably wasn’t used to backtalk from girls two heads shorter than him. “What the fuck happened to you? Your collar’s enchantment, did it—”

“I don’t take your orders. Interrupt my task again, and even Dimitry won’t be able to piece you together.” Black cloak swinging behind her, Saphiria turned away and climbed up the stairs.

Dimitry savored the sight of the broken man. It filled him with elation and a newfound respect for Saphiria. Precious squirmed beneath his tunic, probably struggling to hold back laughter. He would high five the faerie were it not for dozens of observers.

Gerbald snapped out of his trance to glare at Dimitry. “What are you looking at?”

Dimitry grinned. “Nothing much.” The ecstatic shuffling beneath his tunic intensified. Although teasing the oaf was fun, he wasn’t here to deal with a man-child. He followed Saphiria to the reception hall on the third floor.

Glass-coated enchanted stones hung from the ceiling, infusing all with an azure hue. Delphine sat, hand supporting her chin, across a long table. A brown ponytail hung over her shoulder, tied at equal intervals with golden ribbons. Dominic stood beside her.

She lifted her head to glance at Dimitry. “How was the trip?”

“We completed the transaction successfully.”

“That’s good. But I wanted to know if it was fun.”

“Fun?” Dimitry asked.

“‘Travel is only as good as the company you keep’.” Delphine patted her hair. “My mother used to say that.”

“I’m afraid I still don’t understand.”

“I’m merely asking about your company.”

Dimitry glanced at the black-cloaked girl beside him. He had only respect for Saphiria, but a nagging sensation told him Delphine wanted praise for herself.

His answer was half true and half appeasement. “Saphiria saved my life in the forest multiple times. In my humble opinion, she’s a capable fighter and deserves praise for her efforts. You’ve made an excellent choice choosing her as my company.”

Delphine rose from her chair with grace. Her primitive high heels clacked against the wooden floor when she strolled past Dimitry to stand over Saphiria. Her hand, adorning clanging golden bangles at the wrist, reached to grab Saphiria’s chin.

“A woman that can fight is useful, but her life is meaningless if she lacks grace.” Delphine stroked Saphiria’s cheek. “A rigid, antisocial woman like her can’t possibly rule a people or a land. Don’t you agree?”

Rule a land? The man Dimitry delivered corpses to let slip that Delphine was once a baroness, but how did that relate to Saphiria? Was it just pompous noble banter? Poor girl.

Although Saphiria’s words were indeed sparse, curiosity was her charm. For Dimitry to slight the only person who afforded modern thought consideration was unforgivable. He needed a diplomatic response—something a politician would say to reconcile both parties.

“It’s possible.”

Delphine shook her head. “That’s no answer. By sparing the girl’s feelings now, you only injure her pride. Tell her what she needs to hear.”

Damn. What the fuck was Delphine’s issue?

Dimitry glanced at Saphiria.

She looked back at him out of the corner of her eye. They shared a silent conversation that transcended the need for speech. It told him to get it over with.

Grateful for Saphiria’s mercy, Dimitry begrudgingly lied. “You’re right.”

“See, it is better to be frank.” Delphine’s smile pressed her cheeks upwards, coaxing wrinkles from her temples. “Not only does she lack social grace, she’s too powerless to take back what she lost. But I’m different. That’s why I’m standing here, and you’re not. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” Saphiria muttered.

Delphine’s cruelty, Gerbald’s power trips, the glowing collar around a girl’s neck that forced compliance. Saphiria was a pawn trapped in a brutal world just like Dimitry. Although watching her take abuse pained him, he was powerless to help. Lashing out now would achieve nothing except compromise any chance of escape.

The only person to show remorse in the room stood silent in the back. Dominic averted his gaze as if to not get involved more than necessary. He twirled his curved mustache instead.

“Now, onto business.” Delphine retrieved a dark green pellet from her pocket and yanked Saphiria’s collar. “Servia.” The vol vanished. “Was our client impressed with the shipment?”

“Only the steward was present,” Saphiria said.

“Then they didn’t see the cargo?”

“No.”

Delphine frowned. “Let’s hope they’ll be there next time. Saphiria, speak to our suppliers and tell them to have their shipments ready by tonight. We have an idle surgeon in desperate need of work. Understood?”

“Yes.” Saphiria marched out of the reception hall.

Staring at his boots, Dimitry pondered why a wealthy lord needed dissected corpses and why Delphine wanted him to deliver them when Saphiria was perfectly capable on her own. It was probably another power play—a competition of who owned the most slaves amongst nobles.

“Is something bothering you?” Delphine asked.

“I’m just fatigued from the trip. That’s all.”

“It’s not a simple task to be on the road for days without a proper bed or meal.” Delphine scooped his hand in hers and pressed a gold gadot to his palm. “Use your leisure time to put some meat on your bones. An inn or alehouse or whatever you fancy. I need you to look presentable for your next trip. And no wandering off. I’ll know if you do.”

Days ago, having enough money for a barber’s certificate would have exhilarated Dimitry. Now that he did, he felt nothing. Tenebrae wasn’t an organization that would allow him to leave even if he joined a guild.

He feigned gratitude to maintain appearances. “Thank you.”

“Now go.” Delphine waved him away.

Eager to use the chance to begin escape preparations, Dimitry exited the brothel and emerged onto luminous red streets. He needed a secluded place to draft a plan. Somewhere he could consult with Precious without alarming Delphine or the person she would send to trail him.

Dimitry lowered his cloak’s hood to conceal his eyes and tapped the clumped faerie beneath his tunic. “Get inside.”

“At last!” Precious clambered up to his nape. Her wings, like innumerable tiny chimes, rung alongside his ear. “Air!”

“Why complain when you’re the one who asked to come along.”

“Whatever you say, Dumitry.”

Something weak clamped his earlobe.

“You know your pinches don’t hurt, right?”

“Yeah,” Precious whispered, “but they make me feel better.”

“I’m glad, but I need you to focus. Remember you sensed the guy that followed me when we met in the alley? Can you do it again?”

“Since you asked so nicely, I’ll keep a lookout.”

“Thanks.”

Dimitry scoured the pleasure district for an establishment that permitted private conversation and fit Delphine’s requirements. Alehouses were cramped and boisterous, with rowdy patrons shouting at neighbors. Inns were calmer, but their small dining halls hindered privacy. Neither sufficed.

“Found someone stalking us,” Precious whispered. “A few strides back.”

“Well done. Tell me if they get too close.”

“Yup.”

Jutting from a street corner, a wood-framed two-story building blended into the scenery. A sign depicting grapes and oats leaned against a plastered wall. Above the door, a weathered board displaying strange yet decipherable characters proclaimed the location to be ‘Thamor Tavern’. The quaint atmosphere and a massive second floor to explore made it the perfect option.

Excited breaths exhaling faint mist, Dimitry rubbed his hands. “Precious, you hungry?”

“Don’t forget you still have a promise to keep.”

“You mean the fent we agreed on? What makes you think you deserve it after annoying Saphiria and I for two days straight? Why should only I have to hold up my end of the bargain?”

“I… I really tried! When emotions get intense, I just can’t help myself sometimes!”

Were faeries prone to mental illness? Dimitry offered her a chance at redemption. “Will you try harder in the future?”

“Yes!”

“I know you can sense me pitying you, but if I ever feel you’re taking advantage of me, I’ll never buy you fruit or anything else ever again.”

“I’m already trying my best, okay?” Precious’s whispers grew somber. “Cut me some slack…”

The sadness in her voice drained all anger from Dimitry. Cursing his empathy, he entered the tavern and walked past a waitress who poured wine into a customer’s mug.

“It’s a tavern,” he whispered to the faerie lying in his hood. “Should I sit down and wait or go to the counter?”

“How am I supposed to know?”

Hearing sass already, Dimitry raised his voice. “You’re useless.”

The waitress turned to face him. “Were you talking to me?”

“Say yes,” Precious whispered.

“Ye—no. I was just asking if I should wait to be served or—”

“Take a seat anywhere.” The waitress walked towards the bar. “I’ll be with you shortly.”

Dimitry clicked his teeth. “Couldn’t help yourself there either?”

“It was easy embarrassment,” Precious said. “What did you expect me to do? Not take advantage?”

“I know I said it before, but you have issues.”

Each step eliciting a soft creak, Dimitry climbed a set of stairs to the second floor—a spacious room filled with tables and stools. Although customers populated the space, they were distant enough that he could whisper to Precious in relative secrecy.

“Did they find the disappearing man yet?” a man two tables away bellowed.

“Nah, guards’re still lookin’,” said another.

“Imagine what we could do with all that money!”

“But hows’re we to find him?”

“Fuck if I know.”

Dimitry sat in a dark corner and wriggled on an unstable chair. People still hunted him. Fortunately, no one discovered that the green-eyed holy cleric was also the disappearing man. His distinct irises wouldn’t reveal his invisall capabilities to anyone at the brothel, and since he no longer dressed like a beggar, no one else would know either. The gossip merely complicated magic usage. He had to carefully consider each spell.

“The human stalking us is downstairs,” Precious whispered.

“Are they coming any closer?” he asked.

“Don’t think so.”

Were corpse butchers so valuable that Delphine hired spies to prevent Dimitry from attempting escape? Or were they simply making sure he didn’t aggravate the Church or city guards further? Regardless, their presence afforded him little secrecy. Every preparation had to be swift and secretive.

Now that Dimitry had basic medical supplies, which he used to mend the deep puncture in his foot during the trip, he would focus on attaining necessities like vol, food, and maps. Most vital, however, was saving enough to purchase a barber’s certificate upon reaching a foreign city and to hire a trustworthy caravan to help Dimitry navigate hazardous woodlands. Fyrhounds nearly killed him last night. What else lurked beyond Ravenfall’s walls?

“Sir?”

Startled, Dimitry looked up.

It was the yellow-gowned waitress from before. “What do you want to eat?”

“Ah.” Although Dimitry no longer consumed less than a thousand calories daily, refeeding syndrome remained a threat. A sudden drop in magnesium, phosphorus, and potassium levels after a filling meal could kill him. He opted for nutrient-dense foods packed with essential minerals to counter electrolyte loss. “Anything with lots of beans, leafy greens, and red meat.”

“And fent,” Precious whispered into his ear.

“—and fent.”

The waitress’s eyebrows rose. “Fent?”

Recalling the vile bitterness of the melon, one that no sane person could enjoy, Dimitry concocted an excuse. “Strange as it may sound, fent helps me with my bowel problems.”

“Good to know. And how do you eat it? Whole, cut, or diced?”

“Diced,” Precious whispered.

“Diced, please.”

“If that’s what you want.” The waitress walked away, shaking her head.

“You better be worth the humiliation,” Dimitry breathed into his hood.

“It’s just fent. Don’t be such a baby.”

“Keep up the attitude, and I’ll eat it all myself.”

“W-wait, there’s no need to be so rash.” Precious climbed onto his ear. “I’ll make it up to you with information.”

“What kind?”

“For example, how Delphine feels about you.”

Impressed with the faerie’s bargaining skills, Dimitry leaned back into his unstable chair. Identifying the taskmistress’ emotions could simplify navigating conversations with her while taking advantage of potential weaknesses. “Go on. I’m listening.”

“She loves you.”

He winced. “Loves me?”

“Maybe love isn’t the right word. More like ‘prizes’. Like I prize fent, except more sinister.”

No wonder Delphine treated him like a family pet. “How about Gerbald—the guy we met outside the brothel? Think he’ll ever attack me?”

“Maybe. He not only hates your guts, but he’s also jealous of you.”

“Jealous because Delphine shows me affection?”

“How am I supposed to know?” Precious whispered. “You humans are all weird.”

“Can’t deny that.” Dimitry’s thoughts shifted to a girl who literally slaved away while he enjoyed a relaxing evening dinner. “How about Saphiria?”

“Aside from self-hatred, guilt, and shame, her collar dulls her emotions too much to tell. But she doesn’t hate you… probably. I think.”

The sinking sensation in Dimitry’s gut exited with a sigh. Just days before, he yearned to rescue slaves that were being sold at the market, but upon meeting one whose company he enjoyed, he prioritized his safety over her freedom. It was for the best. Dimitry’s involvement only hurt others. Helping Saphiria would not only endanger both of their lives but those of countless patients who may rely on him someday.

Precious giggled.

“What’s so funny?”

“You! I already told you I can’t help myself, so can you at least try to control your guilt? And, by the way, I’ve been trying my hardest not to bring it up, but what have you been scheming all this time? It better not have anything to do with me.”

That was right. Dimitry never told her. “I want to escape Ravenfall.”

“Escape? But you’re doing so well here. You’ve got whores, a comfy job, a boss that loves you. What’s not to like?”

“Oh, shut up.”

The waitress dropped off a tray of food, shot Dimitry a disgusted glare, and hurried away. A familiar diced fruit lay on a plate. It had leathery green outer skin and a fibrous brown top.

“Fent!” Precious tugged his ear. “Gimme!”

“Since you’ve been annoying me nonstop, I think I’ll enjoy it myself.”

“Noooo!”

Dimitry popped a piece into his mouth. His face contorted. The bitter fruit formed a pasty, persistent layer that stuck to his tongue. Why would a tavern stock something this awful?

“You know that I know that you don’t even like it!” A little arm reached from his hood towards the plate. “Give! Me!”

“What are you talking about? It’s delectable.” Dimitry chomped another piece, struggling to ignore the bitter taste. “Soooo good.”

“You’re such a jerk.”

“I’m the jerk?”

“Yes!”

Dimitry found himself pitying the faerie once more. “Fine. Here.” He plucked a small, square chunk from the tray. “Just don’t get any on my tunic.”

Tiny teeth munching sloshy fruit beside his ear, Dimitry’s thoughts returned to Saphiria. What if freeing her proved an asset rather than a detriment? She was a formidable fighter, could cast spells, was knowledgeable about the world, and no doubt wished to escape Tenebrae’s clutches.

Perhaps Dimitry could come to an agreement with her. But before then, there was another problem to handle. “Is it possible to get rid of Saphiria’s collar?”

“Not unless you can cast dispelia and cut through steel.”

“Explain.”

“The dummies at the Church engrave every collar to say where the servant comes from, who their master is, and what bishop at which church does the re-enchantments.” The faerie reached from underneath his hood once more.

Dimitry placed another fent chunk into her outstretched hands. “Go on.”

“Her collar is made from steel, so even if you disenchanted it with dispelia, they’ll hunt her down forever.”

“In other words, even if the collar stops glowing and Saphiria regains free will, the Church and their zealots will target her whenever they see it?”

“Yup.”

“And how many people follow the Church’s teachings?”

“Almost everyone.”

17. Isekai Anatomy 101

Despite overhead rustic timber beams like that of a log cabin deep in a wood far from the troubles of life, Dimitry couldn’t fall asleep. Whenever he tried, he would stare at the ceiling, eyes wide open. Perhaps a stroll through the room could ease his troubled mind.

Every slow step elicited stressed creaks from the floorboards. Did Dimitry gain weight? A quick examination supported that conclusion. His arms and legs were thicker, ribs no longer protruded from his abdomen, and accumulated soreness and aches had begun to dissipate. The high-calorie diet paid dividends faster than he thought.

All thanks to the brothel.

There was much to be grateful for; however, for everything the brothel offered, it took twice in return. An employer that treated him like a pet, a coworker with anger issues, another who was enslaved, soul-crushing work, and chronic insomnia. Every day was a haze.

Dimitry stumbled to the shuttered windows which, although closed, leaked crimson light from the street. He pushed them open, and a cold gale entered the room. The clamor of passersby fused with passionate screams and rustling furniture from the floors below.

Unfortunately, he had to endure until one of two plans came into fruition.

The first involved paying a caravan to convey him to a distant city where he was anonymous. With enough money saved for a certificate, Dimitry could start a surgical practice without fear of persecution. But there were flaws. What if the people he hired were loyal to Tenebrae or the Church? Would they turn him immediately, or wait until they left Ravenfall to rob him and sell him into slavery? No one could be trusted in this world. Extensive vetting was necessary.

His other option relied on Saphiria. Unlike Arnest, who compromised an escape for a few silver gambling pieces, she was competent and reliable. The clear-headed girl wasn’t one to sway under pressure, and like Dimitry, she had every reason to despise Delphine and the Church. She would be the perfect ally were it not for her collar. Although a long cloak could hide the steel to avoid detection by religious zealots, the enchantment remained a problem. Saphiria couldn’t speak freely or consent to his plan until he dispelled the magic. Conversely, the enchantment and ‘servia’ would force her to squeal his intentions to Delphine.

His conscience yearned to help the girl, but caution advised he consider all options. Dimitry would make headway into both plans until either became plausible.

He sighed, shut the window, and turned his gaze to the nightstand. A hooded cloak draped over a satiated faerie, who snoozed as if free from all the world’s troubles. How enviable.

Dimitry lay down and closed his eyes.

As expected, sleep never came.

Clamoring church bells resounded, and searing sunlight seeped through the shuttered window’s cracks, painting the room’s plastered walls with discombobulated shapes.

Dimitry counted the gadots in his pouch, which produced grating metal clangs as they clashed against one another, and threw on his cloak. The sudden loss of warmth alarmed Precious. She scrambled into his hood, curling into a ball behind his neck.

Before anyone could bark orders at Dimitry, he rushed into Delphine’s study to ask for permission to shop for supplies, citing the near-death encounter with fyrhounds as an excuse to better prepare for the next delivery. She agreed, even allowing him to purchase vol to become acquainted with magic as a ‘proper’ barber-surgeon should.

So he did.

The first stop was a market square counter with magic catalysts on display. He purchased a small stack of mixed aquamarine and dark green pellets. Access to invisall increased his odds of escape, and the extra vol would help if Dimitry brought Saphiria along. She was a competent magician. With the remaining silver gadots, he roamed stalls for anything else that might help in a pinch.

Precious yawned. “Dumitry, why did we have to leave that warm, cozy room?”

He pulled the cloak tighter to his body to keep heat from escaping. Mornings were freezing. “I need supplies for the escape.”

“But all you bought was a stack of vol.”

“Yeah.”

“And you don’t know any spells.”

For the time being, it was best to keep his knowledge of invisall hidden. After overhearing yesterday’s conversation at a tavern, Dimitry preferred not to trust anyone with his secret. Even Precious.

“That’s true.”

“I can tell you’re lying.” She lazily tugged his ear. “Does that mean you actually know magic?”

A faerie that deciphered emotion was a double-edged busybody. “Yes, I know a spell… I think.”

“You don’t even know how much magic you know? How?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Huh.”

Dimitry massaged his eyelids. They burned from the accumulated fatigue of a week’s worth of sleepless nights. He warmly recalled the only rest he got—two nights ago on a forest floor. If only Precious didn’t wake him up. Then again, fyrhounds may have killed him and Saphiria while they slept.

Dimitry stepped around a mom pandering to three crying children. “Hey, Precious.”

“What?”

“I never thanked you for your help that night in the forest.”

“You mean when I cast illumina to save Saphiria?”

Right, she also used magic to distract a mutated wolf. Precious saved Saphiria and Dimitry not once, but twice. “Maybe somewhere inside you, there’s a tender soul yearning to come free. Thanks.”

She paused, and her voice lowered. “… I was just securing my human investments.”

Dimitry wondered if he heard timidity in her tone. “By the way, since you know so much magic and I so little, mind teaching me?”

“And what will I get out of it?”

“Secure human investments?”

“No. Nice try.”

His eyes darted around the market and landed on a produce stall. “How does a lifetime supply of fent sound? After all, you seemed to really enjoy it last night.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“What’s not simple? Is there something else I could bribe you with?”

“That’s not the point.” Precious’s sigh tickled his ear. “The point is you need vol, but I don’t.”

“How does that work?”

A group of townspeople shot fleeting glances at Dimitry, whispering amongst themselves as they navigated around him. The sight of a man mumbling to himself piqued their animosity. Dimitry was too tired to care.

“You ask too many questions…” Precious’s voice trailed off.

“Does that mean you don’t know?”

“Too. Many. Questions.”

Among the dozens of stalls lining the market, one sold dried meat—a reliable product for extended travel. The merchant was a woman wearing a thick white tunic. Deep wrinkles formed ravines in her face; scars from a lifetime of hardship. Her eyes met Dimitry’s. She beckoned him closer.

A migraine’s throbbing pain distracted Dimitry, nearly tripping him over a rock as he approached.

“This meat’s the best you’ll find in the whole county.” She waved a strip in front of Dimitry’s face and leaned in to whisper. “Don’t tell anyone, but it came from the fawns of a countess’ private hunting grounds. And don’t ask how I got it.”

“As long as it’s cheap, I don’t care about the details.”

He looked down to inspect strips of dried meat, but something else caught his eye. At the table’s corner stood a miniature granite statue of a veiled woman holding a cane to the sky. Just like the identical piece at Inscriber Works, which drained invisall’s effects from Dimitry’s body, it glowed gray.

“This statue—”

“Not for sale,” the woman spat. “Let’s get back to business.”

Dimitry bought a sack of dried meat and exited the market square. “Precious,” he whispered.

“What now?”

“What does it mean if a statue glows gray?”

“I already told you so much and got nothing in return,” Precious said. “Information isn’t cheap.”

“All you told me was that you didn’t know what to tell me. And did you already forget about the fent I humiliated myself to treat you to yesterday?”

“Look, that was a long time ago!”

Patience gone, Dimitry shook his head, rattling the unsuspecting faerie that lay at the back of his hood.

“St—stop!” A small weight hung for dear life from the neckline of his tunic.

Like a dissatisfied mountain god that held the fate of a weary traveler in their hands, Dimitry was drunk with power. “Ready to talk yet? I can do this all day.”

“Okay, okay! I get it! Didn’t anyone ever teach you manners?” Precious climbed his shoulder and snuggled into his cloak. “Remember what I told you about dispelia?”

“Something about a spell that removes enchantments?”

“Kinda. But dispelia doesn’t only remove enchantments, and just like any spell, it can be cast or enchanted onto something. For example, Celeste statues. Their gray aura comes from a dispelia enchantment. Make sense?”

Dimitry stopped to stroke his chin, whose stubble pricked his fingers. If he had an item enchanted with dispelia, he wouldn’t have to risk asking potential Zerans to cast the spell directly onto Saphiria’s collar. The enchantment’s mobility also allowed him to sneak it onto a corpse-delivery trip, far from Delphine’s stalkers or any witnesses, freeing Saphiria from her brainwashing while providing them an ox-drawn cart to escape with. Days would pass before anyone at the brothel found out. It was a flawless plan.

“So if I had one of those dispelia statues, it would disenchant Saphiria’s collar?”

"Not that easy. The first thing you have to consider is the strength of the collar’s enchantment. If it’s wearing off, which it probably is since Delphine’s pet was curious enough to believe your babbling, then a strong enough dispelia enchantment will probably work.”

The faerie spoke sense. Because the collar inhibited emotion, Saphiria’s night terrors and her uncharacteristic rebellion against Gerbald meant its magic was faltering.

“You mentioned a second thing,” Dimitry said.

“The second thing is, unlike dispelia spells, dispelia enchantments don’t nullify magic completely. They only suppress it.”

So that was why Dimitry’s invisibility gradually returned after he fled Inscriber Works. Unfortunately, permanently taping a glowing statue to Saphiria’s neck to mute the collar would be ineffective. “Can we enchant any object with dispel—”

A bell rang in the distance despite an already awake city.

Dimitry’s head turned. “What’s—”

Another bell clamored nearby. Soon, dozens chanted their disorienting cacophony from every direction.

“It’s—” Precious spoke, but the barrage of sound overpowered her voice.

“It’s what?” Dimitry yelled.

Civilians dashed to the edge of the road and pressed their backs against building walls. Mothers clutched their children, shielding them from some unknown threat. Men pushed crates and carts to clear a path. Like a team of physicians and nurses, the people of Ravenfall worked in unison.

The patrolling guards didn’t stop to help. They ran towards distant objectives, weapons at the ready.

Seconds later, men in enchanted gray garbs, perhaps ceremonial gear, dashed through the streets. Glowing lances, spears, crossbows, and strange long pipes in hand, they rode on the backs of stallions whose hooves stomped against the road, footsteps barely audible in the ruckus.

The horses, too, wore armor. Partitioned iron segments that protected their upper body glowed either gold or green. Enchanted bangles of variously colored auras snapped around their legs.

Dust and dirt rose from the road, filling the air with a pernicious mist and the smell of earth. Dimitry backed up against a wall, pulled his cloak over his nose, and gazed down the street.

“It’s the Zeran Knights,” Precious screamed into his ear, her exact words now distinguishable amongst resounding bells. She buried deeper beneath his tunic. “Keep me away from them!”

Before long, the Zeran Knights disappeared from view, the bells stopped clanging, and normality returned to Ravenfall. People returned to their routines as if nothing happened.

Dimitry searched his surroundings and tapped where Precious lay buried to signal her to resurface. “What was that about?”

“The Church probably chased someone down.”

“Where did they come from?” He received uncomfortable glances as he whispered into his cloak. “I never saw them around before.”

“They hide in monasteries. Whatever you do, keep me away from them. Understand? Good.”

Dimitry paused. “Do you mean those giant buildings that look like small palaces? The ones with a statue of a woman out in front?”

“Yes! Stay away from the statues!”

“And what if they found me with you in tow?”

“I’ll be purged, and you’ll be forcefully recruited into Zera’s Chosen to repent.”

Steady light from an enchanted stone illuminated the slender knife as it cut through yet another deltoid muscle, exposing bone, tendons, and ligaments underneath. In one of the cellar’s corners were piled bodies that waited for dissection by a weary surgeon, and in another, a cart half full with chopped limbs lying under a red-glowing blanket. Although preservia kept organs fresh, it didn’t stop the stench of raw human flesh, leaking bodily fluids, and smeared blood from fouling the air.

Gerbald, who waited by the brothel’s entrance, led Dimitry here as soon as he returned from the market, hurling a hail of insults as they walked. A gruesome job lay in store.

“I know people sold their bodies in brothels,” Precious said, “but to think they’d take it so literally… it’s kind of funny. Don’t you think?”

Hunched down, Dimitry focused on severing a tendon. An otherwise silent cellar made the blade’s incisions audible. “Are you trying to upset me, or is your sense of humor really that bad?”

“Hmm…” She paused and, finger on her mouth, turned her head towards the ceiling. “Dunno.”

Dimitry cut the final ligament to reveal the ball and socket joint that connected the arm to the shoulder. “Aren’t you disturbed in the slightest?”

“Are you disturbed when you see a pig get slaughtered?”

Dimitry lowered his knife, which produced a soft thud when it hit the table. “Not really. I guess you have a point.” He reached for an iron rod to break the joint apart. “But I do feel some pity.”

“Right now, you don’t seem to be feeling much at all.” Precious sat on his head.

He dissected cadavers before; it was a rite of passage for medical students. The difference was that willing participants donated those bodies. His current “patients” didn’t have that luxury. Delphine gathered them from every corner of Ravenfall just to sell them to a mysterious client. Just like she harvested Samuel and Arnest.

An accidental elbow swing knocked a severed arm off the worktable and to the ground. “Ah, crap.” Dimitry knelt to pick it up. His eyebrows furrowed. “What the…”

“What the what?” Precious asked.

Jutting out from under thin pale skin, a purple bulge ran down the limb’s side. The other bodies had it too, but in this specimen, it didn’t appear to be a vein—it was too close to the surface and kept its shape too well. And it couldn’t be an artery either. The brachial artery was the only one nearby, but it ran closer to the bicep tendon. Whatever this was, it wasn’t human.

Dimitry picked up the arm, examined the strange vasculature closely, and tossed it towards the bright brick on the worktable. He picked up the slender knife again. With several well-practiced strokes, he sliced a thin layer of skin from the triceps, revealing the dark red muscles and yellow subcutaneous fat lying dormant beneath.

“What, what, what?” Precious peeked down from atop his head.

Dimitry sliced lengthwise along the purple vessel. With the help of a towel, he mopped up excess extracellular fluid that leaked from exposed flesh. There were the arteries, those were veins, but what was that? Livor mortis and pooling blood stained the corpse a similar shade of purple, making it too easy to miss. He traced the vessel down the upper arm, into the forearm, and through the carpal tunnel.

“Just say something already!”

“Shh.” Dimitry excised a thin, square-shaped piece of skin from the palm, then pierced and scraped a tough strip of tissue that concealed a layer of fat, muscles, veins, nerves, and arteries underneath.

Precious flew from his head and hovered over the dissected limb. Her golden ponytail hung over her shoulder as she thrust her neck out. “I don’t see anything except nasty meaty stuff. Tell me! I wanna knoooow!”

“Don’t block the light.”

They were too dark to be arteries. Dimitry poked them with the blunt end of the knife and they rebounded immediately. The vessel walls were too thick, resilient, and rubbery to be nerves or veins. He pierced one, and a blue liquid oozed out. What was that?

Dimitry carved away excess fat to uncover a network of dark purple vessels whose pattern resembled a rose seen from above, centered at the palm. They clustered in the middle and grew sparse as they approached the edges.

His breaths hastened as he wiped alien fluids and flesh from his hands and placed them by the light. For once, his malnourished body was a boon; a lack of fat exposed the underlying vasculature. The warm air from his nose tickled his wrist as he leaned in for a closer look.

Buried deep below his pale skin was that same mesh of purple vessels, almost imperceptible from above. They traveled through his hands, arms, legs, chest, and neck. Was it used for blood transport or to maintain tissue fluid levels like the lymphatic system? No. Blood was red and lymph was chalk-colored. The blue liquid was something new. Perhaps another sample could shed light on the mystery.

“Precious.” Dimitry’s fingers performed a beckoning motion. “Your hands.”

She pulled back, then turned away. “No! You can’t cut them open!”

“I’m not going to cut them open,” Dimitry said, perhaps lying.

Her arms slowly stretched out. “If you…”

Aside from pale white skin, five tiny digits, and fingernails like golden specks, he saw nothing else. “Useless.” Dimitry ignored the insulted expression on the faerie’s face in favor of a severed leg. His hand shot forth towards the knife and his fingers curled around the handle. Just as the blade’s edge contacted decaying skin, he hesitated.

One missing limb was suspicious. Two would be insulting.

18. Fire Opals from Africa

The straw mattress atop the oak bed frame emitted an overburdened rustle as it resisted a sudden weight. Red streetlight dominated the sun, which gradually burrowed into a dark horizon. Angered and pleasured screams rose from below. The brothel was open for business.

Sat in his room, Dimitry’s elbow dug into his quadriceps as the palm propped up his head. Precious perched on his shoulder and, with the corner of his fresh tunic, polished her wings.

“What were those purple vessels?” he mumbled to no one in particular.

“You worry about the weirdest things, Dumitry.”

People in this world exhibited strange phenotypes like green hair, golden eyes, and silver skin. It wasn’t unthinkable that their bodies differed anatomically as well. But what was strange, what bothered Dimitry, was that those purple vessels buried beneath his skin, too. Did he have them all along? Were they recent additions? What was their purpose? All questions without answers.

Precious rubbed her hands in excitement before diving into his tunic. “Something pathetic is coming.”

A slow knock, like that of a messenger bearing funeral invitations, tapped on the door.

Dimitry glanced around the room to confirm nothing peculiar lay strewn about and opened the door.

Stood in the hallway was a girl whose generously applied makeup had streaks of bygone tears. They ran down her cheeks and curved to her chin. Smeared pale powder made it obvious she tried to conceal the red-purple bruise on her swollen eyebrow.

“You’re a bigshot surgeon, right?” Claudia asked with a muddled voice.

Dimitry strode forward to examine her face. Someone had hit the poor girl. With traumatic brain injuries from blunt trauma as deadly as they were, he couldn’t let her leave without a brief examination. He turned to get his medical bag but stopped midway. “Should I call Delphine?”

“She isn’t here.” Claudia wiped her eyes with the cuff of her loose dress. “I left her a message.”

Ignoring the faerie convulsing with subdued laughter beneath his clothes, Dimitry pointed into the room. “Get inside and take a seat.”

“On your… on your bed?”

“Anywhere you’re comfortable.”

Sniffling, she stumbled over and sat.

Dimitry administered a neurological exam to rule out a concussion, palpated Claudia’s face for bony deformities, assessed ocular motility, confirmed proper lid movement, then eliminated potential blowout fracture and hidden bleeding by checking that both eyes were identical in size.

Relieved that there wasn’t a reason for closer inspection, he smiled. “It’s probably nothing serious. You’ll be fine in a few days. Let me take care of the rest.”

“Thank you.” A feeble laugh accompanied Claudia’s reciprocative smile. “It’s funny. Only a few days ago I took care of you, but now you’re taking care of me.”

Dimitry reached for the medical bag that rested under his bed. “That makes sense since I’m much older than you.”

“Really? I thought you were only a little older.”

Right, he forgot about that. Although Dimitry was in his mid-thirties, in this world he looked like a male in their early twenties—a fact he confirmed by looking at a mirror. “A few years can feel like a long time.”

“That’s true.” Claudia paused as if remembering a long-forgotten truth. “Three years ago, I was home with my family. It’s weird to think that I ended up here.”

“Guess we have a lot in common.” Dimitry dropped the heavy bag onto his bed. “I’ll clean your face first.”

“O-okay.”

He soaked a piece of fabric in water and wiped away makeup to reveal a slight cut atop the bruise. Fortunately, it was too small and shallow to need stitches.

Two sets of footsteps, graceful and heavy ones, pounded down the corridor. They loudened as they approached.

“Let me guess,” Dimitry said. “Delphine got your message?”

“I don’t think so.”

Delphine, whose trembling hands belied a restrained face, strutted into the room. Behind her was a stone-faced Dominic whose well-managed mustache curled towards his nose. Arms across his chest, he stared at Dimitry.

Delphine pushed Dimitry away and grabbed Claudia’s head. She leaned in to look at the girl’s eyebrows. “Who did this to you?”

“A-a customer.”

“What room?”

Claudia pointed down at the floor. “Two-seven.”

“What did he look like?” Delphine’s voice grew fierce.

“He had short blue hair and… and a scar across his eye.” Claudia sniffled. “Also, he was tall like Dominic, b-but not skinny.”

“Dominic, get a hammer and saw and meet me downstairs.”

“Got it.” He uncrossed his arms and stomped away.

Delphine glanced at Dimitry, crow’s feet creeping from the corners of her eyes in full view. “And you—take care of her face. When you’re done, I’ve got another job for you.” She raised her gem-encrusted dress from off the floor and stormed out of the room.

Dimitry sighed. What the hell did she think he was doing? He dabbed a piece of fabric in alcohol. “This might sting a little.”

“Okay.” She winced as the fabric made its way around a small cut. “Ow.”

“Don’t touch it.”

“Okay.” Claudia rested her arms back onto her lap.

“Would be nice if we had some ice…” Dimitry mumbled. If he ran a hospital, it would definitely have ice. But then again, how did someone get ice in a world without refrigeration? He missed Earth’s comforts.

“I’m tired of this place,” Claudia said.

“You and me both.”

She frowned. “I wish I could find that disappearing man.”

Dimitry pulled back. “What disappearing man?”

“Didn’t you hear? His Royal Majesty Gregorius is offering a big, big reward for the man who can disappear into the air! If only I could get my hands on that money…”

Dimitry sprinkled boiled water onto her wound. “But how do you find someone who can disappear?”

“I… I don’t know.” She furrowed her eyes and looked back at Dimitry with a smile. “Think he frequents brothels?”

A shiver shot down Dimitry’s spine. “Anything’s possible, I guess.”

“I hope he does. Then, when he least suspects it, I’ll nab him.” Claudia wrapped her arms around herself. “And never let go.”

“Sounds terrifying to be that guy.” Dimitry packed his bag. “Anyway, we’re done here. Try not to touch your forehead, okay? And be safe.”

“Got it, thanks!” Claudia jumped off his bed, dashed out of the room, peaked back in, waved, and rushed down the hall.

“Do you want to catch him too, Dumitry?” said the voice beneath his tunic. “Imagine all the fent you could buy for me.”

“Personally, I think we should leave the disappearing man alone.”

“Why are you so scared all of a sudden?”

Dimitry’s elbow rested on a hay bale in Delphine’s stable. Eyes strained by early morning light pouring through open walls, he redirected his gaze towards a dark-cloaked Saphiria, who led two oxen out from their stalls and towards a feeding trough. He yawned.

“Keep your mouth closed,” Precious said from underneath his cloak. “I can smell the wine all the way from here.”

“It’s not wine.”

And it was true. Why would he drink wine when he had aqua vitae, this world’s brandy equivalent, at his disposal? Although Dimitry wasn’t an alcoholic, he indulged on the rare occasion to fall asleep. Last night was such an occasion. Insomnia’s onslaught made it difficult to resist the temptation, and while the result included a mild hangover, the trade-off was worth the glimpses of restful sleep.

Dimitry stretched while two horses peeked at him from a nearby stall. “You can ride a horse?”

“I often did when I was young.” Saphiria secured a block of wood that adjoined the necks of two mopey-faced oxen with iron chains. “Not so much anymore.”

“Then whose are those?”

“The black one is Delphine’s. The other is Gerbald’s.”

Mental imagery of Delphine ensnared in her long dress while struggling to balance on a horse elicited a smirk from Dimitry.

After a lengthy assembly, they boarded the cart, which lumbered past the north gate, across a bridge, and onto an uneven dirt road. The sluggish pace and the corpses’ mass kept rigid suspensions from bouncing over every pothole. Soft clomps from oxen feet accompanied the smooth ride. A frigid breeze shook the leaves of nearby oaks, their overbearing figures hiding vast crop fields on the horizon.

To Dimitry’s side was a girl whose glazed eyes displayed not a shred of appreciation for a breathtaking sun that painted their surroundings a pink hue. The poor girl couldn’t enjoy the view even if she tried. The collar robbed her of emotion.

A nagging urge yearned for Dimitry to provide her hope with a chance at freedom, to coax a smile from an otherwise stony face, but Saphiria’s forced loyalty to Delphine made revealing his ideas dangerous. He didn’t even know if she wanted his help, and Dimitry was too early into preparations to initiate any plan.

Today’s only goal was to gauge the viability of escape with Saphiria. But asking directly risked failure. Dimitry would probe her thoughts through unassuming conversation, gradually uncovering how she might react to a disenchanted collar. Maybe a lighthearted topic to start with.

“Do you like animals?” Dimitry broke the silence.

Saphiria nodded.

Not the excited response he was hoping for. “I just figured I’d ask since you take such good care of the oxen.”

“Only because they do their job well.”

“They must be exceptionally hard workers if you brush and pet them every chance you get.”

No response. Saphiria was a tough customer.

Dimitry looked down at the two-horned beasts dragging the cart. “I don’t blame you. In their own way, they’re pretty cute.”

“I think so too.”

At last, something to work with. “Foxes are my favorite,” Dimitry said. Despite not having seen one in this world’s wilds, judging by the furs sold in the market square, they definitely existed.

Her gaze met his. “Red foxes are adorable. I wish people stopped hunting them for their pelts.”

“Not everyone does. Where I come from, some people have them as pets,” Dimitry said.

“Really?” Saphiria’s indigo eyes widened. “But wouldn’t they hunt the chickens and geese? Surely the local lord would ban the peasants from owning them.”

Her sudden aristocratic tone coaxed a laugh from Dimitry. “No one there keeps live poultry in their homes.”

“And what of the neighbors?”

“Neither do they.”

“You hail from a strange land.”

Dimitry could tell her about facilities that processed hundreds of thousands of chickens every day, but the conversation would deteriorate into an unbelievable, morbid tale. Ravenfall, her idea of a modern city, had at most a hundred thousand citizens. To suggest a single factory could supply everyone with an entire chicken daily and still have leftovers was absurd.

“We have farms that make enough food for everyone,” he said. “Merchants sell them in grocery stores.”

“In Malten, my family traded vol and iron for livestock, but…” Saphiria’s nostalgic voice trailed off. Her faint smile vanished, and she turned back to the road. “It was a long time ago.”

Damn.

Dimitry lost her. Was it because of the collar, or did he make a mistake? Sparking another conversation immediately wasn’t an option. It would feel forced.

“Nice try,” Precious whispered into his ear. “And here I was, doing my best to stay out of it.”

“Guess that’s as much help as I can expect from you.” Dimitry sighed. At least he learned Saphiria longed for her home, wherever it was. Maybe there was hope for this plan.

The journey was quiet until Saphiria expressed concern for the oxen. They found a secluded clearing in the wood and set up camp. Unlike last time, there were no green specks of light phasing in and out of existence. Only a waning moon hung in an onyx sky.

Dimitry busied himself with a copper pestle and mortar set he “borrowed” from the brothel’s modest kitchen. They produced metallic rumbles as they pulverized willow bark shavings into green and brown dust.

Saphiria stirred a cauldron of oats and dried meat whose tantalizing scent filled the air. She shot the occasional glance at the bronze tools Dimitry held, but despite curious eyes, said nothing.

He emptied the willow dust into a small ceramic bottle and washed it down with aqua vitae. They mixed to form a thick slurry. It would remain that way for a week until the therapeutic compounds inside the willow bark diffused into alcohol. Dimitry capped the bottle with a makeshift wooden plug, shook it, and placed it by the fire.

Saphiria set aside her spoon and reached for the ceramic bottle. She looked at Dimitry, who gave her a nod of approval. After popping open the plug and inhaling the alcoholic vapors, her face distorted.

“It’s medicine,” Dimitry whispered, careful not to disturb the faerie snoozing underneath his fireside cloak.

She closed the bottle. “What for?”

“It’s good for pain, swelling, and headaches." Dimitry took the concoction from her and placed it back into his bag. "While we're on the topic, how are your sutures healing?”

Saphiria rolled up the black cloak covering her arm to reveal a partially healed wound. There didn’t seem to be an underlying infection or drainage, but they needed more time. Once the injury healed, Dimitry would remove the threads embedded in her skin.

He leaned back, supported by his arms. “Still needs time to heal.”

“How long?”

“Probably another few days. Try not to touch it more than necessary.”

“Understood.”

Wrapped around her arm, a golden bracelet with a sizable sapphire caught Dimitry’s attention. The same one from before. It was strange for a slave to own jewelry, not to mention something that expensive.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Dimitry said, “where did you get that bracelet?”

As if out of reflex, Saphiria dropped the cloak back over her arm. “It was a gift.” She resumed stirring the pottage.

How strange. When confronted by Gerbald, Saphiria stood her ground unfazed. And yet, whenever the conversation became personal, she retreated like a toddler at the sight of needles. Did that bracelet hold special meaning? If he could get her to open up, maybe he could lay the foundation for an alliance.

“I used to collect gemstones and rocks back at home,” Dimitry said. “My favorite was a collection of fire opals from a place called Africa.”

Saphiria didn’t respond.

“They weren’t the most expensive, the rarest, nor did they have the highest clarity. But they had something no other gem had. An orange coat that shined as if a rainbow was trapped inside when you held it to the light.”

“How about sapphires?”

“Did I have any sapphires?”

“Did you?” Saphiria looked at him as if expecting a specific answer.

“Many.”

“I don’t believe you. Only nobles can—”

“Red ones, green ones, purple ones, orange ones, black ones, yellow ones. Some were clear like diamonds, others blue with a white star across their surface.”

“Those aren’t sapphires,” she said, her voice louder. Saphiria released the spoon, which collided against the metal cauldron’s side. She watched him, eyes engaged, as if ready to defend her point to the bitter end.

“Of course they are.”

“How could a sapphire be anything other than blue?”

“Because a sapphire’s color comes from what’s inside of it. For example, what people call a ruby is actually just a red sapphire. The difference is due to slightly different contents.”

“What does a blue sapphire have that a red one doesn’t?”

“Iron.”

“Iron?” Saphiria retracted her black cloak and held out the bracelet on her arm. Embers reflected from the navy gem. “Like from a mine?”

Dimitry stroked his chin. “You can say that.”

Saphiria withdrew two worn spoons and bowls from a bag. She ladled pottage into both. After handing him his share, she sat beside him. “Are you knowledgeable regarding mining as well?”

While he picked up on some facts like flooded mines and harvesting ore with pickaxes from miscellaneous sources, Dimitry didn’t know how it was done. Did she assume he was a miner from his spiel about gemstones? “Unfortunately, I only know the basics. I’ve never been in an actual mine before.”

“Back home we had lots of mines,” Saphiria said. “My father taught me how to manage them.”

“Is he the one who gave you that bracelet?”

“Yes.” She took it off and held it in her hand. “He said that when I was born, my eyes reminded him of his most precious gemstone. He set it into this.”

Maybe she was the daughter of a wealthy gemstone merchant, but that didn’t explain why she worked for Delphine. He needed to find a roundabout way to ask. “Your father collects gems too?”

Saphiria smiled. “Maybe not as many as you.”

Dimitry, stunned for a moment by a pretty face that at long last remembered joy, turned his attention back to the pottage. “Our circumstances are different, that’s all.”

“That’s true. Although Malten has vol and iron mines, there aren’t any with precious gemstones. Father told me it’ll be my job to find them when I inherit the fiefdom’s ore industry.”

Dimitry resisted the urge to spit out pottage. “F-fiefdom?” Although much about medieval life escaped him, the concept of feudalism did not. Was Saphiria’s family influential enough to manage vast areas of land?

He reeled in his shock. “If you have such an important duty to uphold, why are you here and not back home?”

Saphiria looked deep into the bowl on her lap, as if gazing at distant memories. “We were caught in a war… then the Church came.”

The collar around her neck started to make sense. Even so, more questions cropped up. Did it mean that her family fought a war, but the Church intervened? If so, why would they enslave a nobleman’s daughter? And how was a religious organization so powerful as to interfere in politics? Then again, religion on Earth wasn’t different. Regardless, now was his chance to ask.

“Do you want to go back?” Dimitry shoved a spoonful of pottage into his mouth.

“What?” Saphiria blurted, as if the suggestion was ridiculous.

“Do you want to go home to Malten?”

She snapped the bracelet onto her wrist and her voice drained of emotion. “Whether I do or don’t isn’t important. I learned well that dreams of the impossible only lead to regret.” Saphiria placed her half-eaten pottage bowl by the fireside. “All that matters for us, both of us, is that we do the jobs we’re given. I advise you cast aside your dreams before they burn you too. I’ll get the bedrolls.”

"... Right."

Saphiria marched towards the oxen and stopped to look back. An uncharacteristic sadness mellowed her face. “But I hope we can still talk about gemstones and ore… someday.”

“Anytime.”

Her gaze—gloom as if parting with a terminally ill patient—fell to the forest floor, and she walked away.

19. Rickety Infrastructure

A cart ready to be boarded stood on a dirt road. On one side were dense trees. On the other, vast misshapen fields tended to by nameless peasants. They dug dirt channels, paying no heed to idle oxen. White mists escaped from the beasts’ noses as mismatched bird songs filled the air.

The scenery was beautiful, but Dimitry afforded it little consideration. His thoughts returned to last night’s events. In some ways, he related to Saphiria. She was also passionate about mineralogy and yearned to return home, yet a void existed between them. It was the learned helplessness birthed when forced servitude mandated inescapable torture. Saphiria was passive about her circumstances.

Dimitry wasn’t. He would rather escape than mutilate unwilling strangers’ bodies just to deliver them alongside a slave who cared more for animals than she did herself. His conscience didn’t allow it. The gnawing guilt intensified every moment.

In all likelihood, Saphiria would feel similarly emboldened were it not for the collar around her neck. Everything from her combat prowess to her wilderness survival skills screamed competence and determination. She wouldn’t be like Arnest, who risked Dimitry and Samuel’s lives for sliver gambling pieces. The girl was too clear-headed for that.

But Dimitry needed as much certainty as possible before endangering himself and others with uncertain odds. Whether it was about his companions or the rules of the world, every data-point increased his chances. Now was another such opportunity to learn.

Rubbing his hands for warmth, Dimitry glanced at the girl to his side. “Do you mind if I drive today?”

Saphiria caressed the nose of a playful bull. “Have you ever driven before?”

“Never. I’m eager to learn, though.”

She paused. “I’ll show you how it works.”

Precious’ yawn tickled his ear, and she rubbed her eye with a small fist. “I’m trying to take a nap, so be careful.”

“That’s the plan,” Dimitry said.

“Use this to tell them to move.” Saphiria held out a whip. “Be gentle.”

Despite serious intentions, Dimitry couldn’t help but smile at her excessive concern for the oxen. A whip this small couldn’t hurt a beast with skin that thick. “And I have to say ‘walk’?”

She nodded.

“Walk.”

He guided the oxen across winding roads for hours until they arrived at a rickety bridge overpassing a narrow river. Years of erosion and abuse wore away at the timber beams, leaving them brittle. They were in a worse state than the last time they came to Vael.

“Whoa,” Dimitry commanded, and the oxen stopped. “Does it look safe?”

Saphiria leaned forward. “It… should be fine.”

“Walk.”

An ox hoof landed on the bridge’s edge, and it shuddered. Another step and a timber beam fell into the raging river below.

“Back!” Saphiria yelled.

The bridge collapsed through the center, and its two sides slammed against opposing river banks. Saphiria’s command reached the oxen in time, who stood on their back legs and tumbled backward. Although they avoided plummeting into the river, they fell to the side, as did the cart. Dimitry rolled out of the driver’s seat and across dirt.

Precious hovered over his head. “Dumitry, you okay?”

“I’m fine! What about Saphiria?!”

“She’s having a worse time than you, that’s for sure.”

Saphiria knelt beside two panicking oxen. She tugged at various cables, struggling to get the yoke off of their necks. “Help!”

“Coming!” Dimitry dashed towards her.

After a concerted effort, they detached the equipment from the oxen and calmed them down. Fortunately—as Dimitry was a surgeon and not a veterinarian—the animals were uninjured. The cart, however, lay on its side. It was too heavy for a faerie, a slender girl, and a recovering homeless man to lift.

Dimitry considered hauling dismembered organs out of the storage compartment to lighten the load, but not only would that coat their hands with congealed blood on a public road, the product’s quality would also deteriorate.

“What now?” he asked. “I don’t think Delphine would be happy if we just left it here.”

Saphiria stepped forward. “Get ready to help me lift.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’ll make it lighter.” She retrieved a dark green pellet out of her pocket and approached the cart. “Floatia.”

Nothing happened when the vol disappeared from her hand. The ability didn’t flip over the cart, empty its contents, nor did it float in the manner ‘floatia’ suggested it would. Same as before, their transportation lay sideways.

Pondering the spell’s precise effect, Dimitry approached the cart, squatted, gripped a wooden beam, dug his boots into the ground, and pushed up with all the force he could muster. However, instead of meeting overwhelming resistance, they lifted a cart containing ten dissected adult corpses as effortlessly as if it was empty.

How was that possible? Did the spell create another force pushing off the floor, unseen? Or did it decrease the mass of the cart? Wait. Could it have nullified the effects of gravity itself? Capabilities that powerful could change industry forever.

“There doesn’t seem to be any damage.” Saphiria stood and wiped dirt off her hands. “Now we have to find a spot where the river is shallow and wide.”

“What if the oxen tip over again?” he asked. “It’ll be harder to recover the cart if it gets caught in the current, and the oxen might drown.”

“Water isn’t the problem,” Saphiria said. “They’re afraid of heights.”

Precious landed on Dimitry’s shoulder. “Be careful. Despite their calm appearance, they’re terrified.”

“You can read animal emotions too?”

“Aren’t I great?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he said.

They reattached the yoke, harnesses, and cart to the oxen. Afraid to let Dimitry drive across a river, Saphiria rode through a point she thought was safe, and to the small town that was their destination.

Vael, same as before, was a disarrayed maze of dilapidated buildings. The only difference was that a man in gray robes whacked a rummaging pig with a stick outside of a small stone church. Zeran institutions were everywhere.

If Dimitry escaped with Saphiria, even towns wouldn’t be safe. A disenchanted collar, like a homing beacon for the pious, would draw attention anywhere they went. She probably knew that.

Saphiria looked at Dimitry. “Can you handle the transaction while I purchase supplies for our return trip?”

“Do you know how much I need to collect?”

“You don’t have to worry about that.” She jumped out of the driver’s seat in a single, smooth motion. “Delphine handles the payment.”

“Got it.”

Saphiria nodded before heading towards the market, her cloak flapping in the wind.

“So easy even you can do it,” Precious whispered. “Isn’t that great?”

“Want to come to the Church with me? I heard that deep-fried faerie is a delicacy around these parts.”

“Deep-fried? What’s that?”

“You’ll find out if you keep bothering me.” Dimitry ignored the faerie pinching his earlobe, picked up the whip, and drove towards the mansion.

A man with a vibrant orange tunic exposing his ankles and a fur-trimmed overcoat strolled from the mansion towards the rusted gate. The gold thread and gemstones decorating his clothing told Dimitry that it wasn’t a mere servant who greeted him. The man’s confident gait yelled ‘power’.

“Are you the butcher Gavin told me about?” He said, unlocking the gate clasp.

So Dimitry was a butcher. “... That’s me.”

The man lifted the wooden panel and the preservia blanket concealing the corpses. “A fine job, just like last time. The cores and circuits don’t seem to be damaged—it makes my work so much easier.”

“I’m glad.”

“Tell me, how many others did Delphine parade your work to? Who am I bidding against?”

Dimitry’s brow furrowed. Were severed corpses a popular item for auction in this world? Was his trip here part of Delphine’s marketing efforts? It didn’t make sense. If she intended to advertise his abominable product, wouldn’t she have allowed others to sample it? Or maybe she did.

He glanced at the cart’s stacked carcasses.

Solidified blood oozed from severed vessels and open wounds, filling the air with an iron stench. Coagulated liquids caked the sides. Organs bathed in its scarlet color like a macabre fondue, but grotesqueness wasn’t what stood out most. Today’s pile of mangled cadavers stood smaller than the amount Dimitry chopped over the past few days. Not every corpse was there. Were some sold previously?

If so, the man’s concern was evident. He was just one of Delphine’s clients, and she intended to demonstrate Dimitry’s skills broadly before auctioning bulk organs to gouge the highest prices. Shrewd, but disgusting.

“Delphine didn’t tell me about any bids.”

“What’s she planning now?” the man grumbled to himself. After staring at his gold-threaded boots in silence, he glanced up. “Look, I don’t know what Delphine wants, but winter’s coming, and there’ll be lots of bodies piling up. I’ll secure your… services here and now.”

Was he trying to hire Dimitry? His offer held little appeal. A city like Ravenfall had more opportunities to plan, fund, and prepare an escape than any small town ever could. “I appreciate the offer, sir, but—”

“Shut up and listen.” The man leaped towards Dimitry. “I have more than enough to feed you wine and mutton for the rest of your life. All you have to do is work. With product this clean, our study of magic could outpace—” The man cleared his throat. “It could help defeat the heathens once and for all. If you meet His Royal Majesty’s demands, I guarantee you’ll be the one living like royalty. It’s better than what any other will offer. I’ll take care of you. You won’t have to worry about a thing. What do you say?”

Dimitry didn’t know how to respond. Who were the heathens? Why were his services in such high demand? Were corpses used in magic? Partially convinced that a comfortable life here could offer better prospects than Ravenfall, he gave an answer that didn’t limit his future options. “I’ll consider your offer.”

“Good.” The man dropped a gold gadot into Dimitry’s hand. “Put in a favorable word with Delphine for me. You won’t regret it, and neither will she. Tell that Saphiria fifty golds if we can skip the bidding this time.”

“For the corpses?”

“I’ll call Gavin to handle the rest.” Hands in his narrow pockets, the man strolled back towards his mansion. “See you soon.”

The man’s words echoing through his mind, Dimitry drove towards the meeting spot. Their conversation nagged at him. But why? Was it the fact that someone bought butchered corpses for fifty gold coins, or that they would be used to ‘defeat the heathens’?

No.

While both concepts puzzled him, something more sinister lay underneath. It made little sense. Why was Dimitry out delivering corpses when he could be generating more profit for Delphine back at the brothel? What did the ‘other’s offers’ refer to? Were people really bidding stacks of gold over butchered carcasses?

Dimitry didn’t know, but he aimed to find out. “Hey, Precious.”

The faerie yawned. “Yeah?”

“Did you sense anything off about that guy?”

“He’s scheming something.”

“But was he lying?”

“Nope.”

Damn. That didn’t help. Whether the man plotted against Dimitry or Delphine was unclear. Thankfully, another avenue of questioning remained. “You said Saphiria’s collar has to be re-enchanted on occasion, right?”

“All enchantments run out, eventually. Even Church ones.”

“How’s Saphiria’s?”

Precious didn’t respond immediately. “It looked dull, and she obviously has some emotion, but with the silver aura against steel, I can’t be sure.”

Faint hope among inexplicable dread trickled through Dimitry. “The man told me to tell Saphiria fifty golds. Chances are she knows what’s going on, and if her collar’s glow is weakened, I’ll ask her.”

“What if she attacks you? You saw what she did to those fyrhounds.”

“I don’t think she will. I’m clearly too valuable a commodity to Delphine, and Saphiria’s not that kind of person. She would’ve killed you the moment you’ve met if she was.”

“Good point, Dumitry.”

After trudging across a town’s uneven, muddy roads, the cart came to a stop.

Dimitry alighted. He approached a cloaked girl with raven black hair.

Saphiria crouched by a rotting fence whose aging wood gave way to green mold. She turned her head, alerted by the sound of rustling grass. One hand held a half-filled bag. The slender fingers of the other wrapped around a violet flower that struggled against the wind.

“Are we ready to go?”

“Almost.” He crouched beside her. “May I ask something first?”

“…”

Hoping her nonexistent response was a hesitant ‘yes’, Dimitry examined her collar. It had a faded glow like Precious mentioned. Now was his chance to gather all the information he could. “When I was delivering the corpses, I was told to tell you fifty gold coins if you skip the bidding.”

Saphiria’s indigo eyes held a hint of regret before her gaze returned to the flower she held. “I see.” Her somber tone hinted that not all was well.

“Are there people bidding on the corpses?”

She said nothing.

“Why are there other bidders if we already delivered them?”

Saphiria looked up. As if fighting against an unseen and suffocating force, her lips struggled to part, and her breathing grew tense.

She knew something.

Although it pained Dimitry to pressure a girl who already seemed to carry the world’s weight on her shoulders, the foreboding sensation in his gut impelled him to continue. “Can’t you tell me?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Please?”

She clutched her head as if suffering from a migraine. “I… I can’t.”

“I’m sure it’s difficult.” Dimitry leaned closer. “But I really need to know.”

“It’s…”

“It’s?”

She bit her lip. “You.”

“What?”

“They’re bidding on you.”

Dimitry froze. “What?”

“T-they’ll put a…” She winced. “A c-collar on you. Just like me.”

Open-mouthed, icy waves of revelation crashed into Dimitry as everything clicked into place. He understood. For once, everything was clear.

Corpses were never Delphine’s product.

Live people were.

She didn’t nurse Dimitry to health out of kindness, but to make him appear robust before sending him to deliver organs to an especially wealthy client. One that sought to enslave a new butcher. He was no more than a traveling salesman advertising himself and his skills.

To keep Delphine’s merchandise safe, Saphiria was forced to tag along on every trip, protecting him even on the night of repentance. And Dimitry wasn’t the first to suffer this fate. After his first job dissecting bodies, Dominic mentioned Dimitry was a much better butcher than ‘the last guy’, who mysteriously vanished before his arrival.

How many others had Delphine trafficked before he came along? Was he an exceedingly expensive product if someone offered fifty gold gadots and a lifetime of luxurious meals to secure his employment? Would he become a slave? If the ‘collar’ comment held truth, the answer was yes.

“Precious,” Dimitry said. “Is she lying?”

“I-I don’t think so.”

He jumped to his feet.

“Don’t run.” Saphiria withdrew her dagger and a vol pellet. “If you do, I won’t be able to stop myself. Please. I don’t wish to kill you.”

Dimitry considered disarming her, but in all likelihood, he would die trying. Even if he didn’t, could he live with himself after harming a slave who couldn’t control her actions? And what punishment would Saphiria receive if he fled? Where would he go? Would he survive in the wilds on his own?

Escape wasn’t the solution.

Not yet. Dimitry had much preparation to do, and he needed all the time he could get. But how much time did he have? “I promise I won’t run if you answer one last question.”

Saphiria nodded.

“When is my auction?”

“After tomorrow. On market day.”

Dimitry’s fist clenched. There wasn’t much time at all! Only one evening of freedom would remain when he reached Ravenfall, and he still needed supplies, maps, and weapons for surviving outside city walls. His preparations weren’t complete.

His heel restlessly tapped the ground as his gaze fell to the crouched girl with alert eyes. A capable girl. His jailer and his salvation. Although Dimitry considered asking Saphiria to accompany him before, she was now his only hope. There was no more time to vet personalities. No time to hire a caravan or plot a course. He had to act.

There were risks, but liberation was a possibility.

For both of them.

Unfortunately, a problem remained.

Despite Dimitry’s preference to let her in on a scheme that involved her future, if he divulged his plan to flee now, Saphiria would tell Delphine. Their fates would be sealed. The best he could do was provide a nonspecific warning.

“Saphiria.”

“I’m sorry. I was ordered not to say anyth—”

“Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault. Just stay alert and be ready for anything.”

20. Public Entertainment

A trimmed oak cabinet stood by the wall, its surface reflecting soft blue light. The source was an array of enchanted stones affixed to the ceiling, each by lustrous metal cables. They hung over a long table. At the far end, Delphine sat beside Gerbald. The plates in front of them displayed foods, including a species of roast bird akin to a turkey, except it had two sets of wings.

Saphiria and Dimitry sat at the other end. After a long journey back to Ravenfall, they waited to report their success. If a trip to deliver severed corpses to a prospective slave owner could be considered a success.

Delphine wiped her hands with a cloth napkin and spoke from across the table. “I’m assuming everything went well?”

“Yes,” Saphiria said.

“Did anything unusual happen?”

“The bridge to Vael collapsed, the cart flipped over, and…” Saphiria glanced at Dimitry.

He squirmed in his chair. The enchantment on Saphiria’s collar prevented her from disobeying Delphine. If she revealed Dimitry knew his fate as a slave, their situation would complicate further. He grabbed a pure vol pellet from his cloak pocket and prepared to chant ‘invisall’.

“And?” Delphine asked.

“… Sir Ernwin offered fifty gold gadots for the transaction.”

Dimitry exhaled a relieved sigh. Saphiria covered for him.

“Interesting, but it’s not like you to hesitate.” Delphine beckoned the girl forward.

Saphiria walked to the other end of the table.

Delphine’s eyes furrowed, exposing the crow’s feet lurking in their corners. She leaned forward to inspect the collar. “Isn’t it a little dull?”

Gerbald gnawed on a grilled avian drumstick. “Yeah, it would explain her attitude from the other day.”

“Attitude?”

“She threatened me when I asked her a question.”

“The enchantment must be wearing off. It’s about time.” Delphine grabbed the collar, pulled Saphiria in with one hand, and reached into a small pouch with the other. “Servia. Get ready for the ceremony and wait outside the stable.”

“Understood,” Saphiria muttered. As she walked out of the reception room, her head tilted down. She moved her mouth silently as if to say ‘I’m sorry’.

Dimitry’s fist tightened, the vol pellet’s uneven surface digging into his palm. Saphiria had no reason to apologize: she did nothing wrong. The blame belonged to that damned collar and anyone responsible for its existence.

“Dimitry,” Delphine said, “what happened during your trip that Saphiria hesitated to mention?”

To avoid a slaver’s suspicion, he conjured the most believable half-lie he could. “Sir Ernwin bribed me to convince you to let me work for him. Perhaps Saphiria wanted to avoid needless confrontation.”

She grinned. “Does he want you to work for him that much?”

“Don’t trust him, my wondrous lady.” Gerbald’s infuriated gaze found a home on Dimitry’s face. “Those two are getting awfully close. They’re conspiring against you.”

Delphine’s expression grew grim. She launched several silver gadots at Dimitry from a large stack. “We’ll find out the truth after the binding ceremony. For now, keep your distance from Saphiria. The traveling troupe is performing in the market square this afternoon. Go have some fun and enjoy a hearty meal. I’ll know if you leave.” She waved him away.

Was she keeping Dimitry occupied with food while she re-enchanted Saphiria’s collar? If so, the girl would be forced to reveal the full truth by tonight. Dimitry thought he had until tomorrow to plot an escape, but it seemed he had only a few hours.

Damn.

If only he had known sooner. His only options were to attempt an escape now or live life as a magically bound servant. The choice was obvious. Dimitry bowed, pocketed all five small coins, and left the reception hall. He rushed into his room and shut the door.

“The old woman’s suspicious of you, and the oaf hates your guts,” Precious whispered into his ear.

“Obviously.” Dimitry threw his leather bag onto the bed and crammed a small stash of metal tools and dried meat inside. “I need you to keep an eye out for whoever will be following us.”

“As always.”

“Delphine told us we need to go to the market square. It’ll probably be crowded. Would you be able to sense someone spying on us, anyway?”

“Humans trying to stay hidden are the easiest to find,” Precious spoke like a hunter about deer.

Dimitry stacked strips of fabric between bottles of aqua vitae, boiled water, and willow bark extract. “Let’s go then.”

“But what about me?”

He strapped the bag over his shoulder. “What about you?”

“What do I get out of helping you and your wife escape?”

“My undying gratitude, secure human investments, and all the fruit your little heart could possibly want.”

“But I might be risking my life,” Precious said, tugging on his ear. “You gotta give me something better than that!”

“Well, what kind of things do you like?”

“Shiny things.”

“If you’re talking about gold, forget it. I barely have money as is.”

“Gold? I can’t even lift that. Try to be more creative.”

Dimitry’s biggest weakness—guessing what women want. “You know that grass ribbon you use to tie your hair into a ponytail? I’ll get you something a lot nicer.”

Precious paused for a second. “That’s… not bad.”

“Keep track of anyone following us.” Dimitry pushed the door open, looked both ways to confirm that the hallway was empty, and left the brothel.

Aside from alleyways filled with homeless, the pleasure district comprised desolate streets. The sun’s rays drowned out the light of glowing crimson stones bound to timber-framed walls. Hopefully, it would be the last time Dimitry saw them. He headed towards the market square.

“Anyone?” he whispered.

“There are lots of shady characters around here. It’s hard to tell.”

“I’m counting on you.” The words reluctantly slid out of his mouth.

Dimitry suppressed the urge to run, strolling through the streets instead. Head held high—but not high enough to expose the faerie concealed underneath his hood—he melded into crowds. Before long, they arrived at the market square.

“Two suspects,” Precious said.

Aside from food stalls lining building walls and women carrying trays of meat pastries, the open field the size of a football stadium no longer contained people hawking their products. Instead, a crowd comprising the poor and well-off, young and old, hollered excited words at a central platform. On it stood a group of performers wearing tights enchanted with a light pink spell.

“Tell me when one leaves,” Dimitry said.

“Yep.”

Dimitry placed two sweaty fingers against his carotid artery. Pulse was rapid. Although he was no stranger to adrenaline, this rush was different. He had spent his life running from test to test, surgery to surgery, but none of it ever posed a tangible threat.

Now he was in a world far away from friends and family and held three lives in his hands. He preferred if they were trauma patients. His current task went beyond his skill set.

The cheering crowd bumped into Dimitry, waking him from his musings. He gave two stifled shouts to appear entranced by the show. It would be suspicious to be the only downcast faced man in a vibrant audience.

On stage, two performers held a third, while another stood in front of them.

“Slipia!” a performer yelled.

They launched a man across a rough wooden floor, and, like a penguin sliding along a snow-covered hill, he glided across the stage effortlessly, then up a ramp and flew into the sky. After several flips in mid-air, the performer landed unharmed in his coworkers’ arms.

The crowd erupted into cheers.

Dimitry guessed that ‘slipia’ reduced the coefficient of kinetic friction between the stage and the performer, allowing them to slide uninhibited across a wooden stage.

“Ooh, I want to see!” Precious’s face peeked out from under Dimitry’s hood. Her golden ponytail brushed against Dimitry’s cheek.

“We’re being watched. Focus on tracking,” Dimitry whispered. “When we get out of here, I’ll bring you to all the shows you want.”

“You worry too much, Dumitry.”

Dimitry tapped his foot against the floor. Didn’t she express concern for her life a short while ago? He tried to hold his head still while scanning their surroundings, but the sheer population density made it challenging to identify pursuers. Dimitry forced his attention back on the show.

Each performer held a long iron rod and, one by one, chanted “Attractia!”. They approached each other, rods facing forward like jousters, but an unseen force repelled them at the last moment. A boy beside Dimitry screeched an ear-shattering laugh.

The crowd went silent when a performer held out a finger. Iron rod held out, he dashed across the central platform and cartwheeled over another rod perpendicular to the ground. The two rods stuck to one another and, like a flag at half-mast, the performer held onto its side. Deafening shouts came from every direction.

The iron rods repelled and attracted one another. Did ‘attractia’ magnetize them?

Precious’ excited breaths tickled Dimitry’s ears. “What happened this time?”

“Are the pursuers still there?”

She stayed silent for a while. “I can’t sense two anymore.”

“I asked you to tell me as soon as one left, didn’t I?”

“No need to get so mad.”

Dimitry took a deep breath. “I know the show’s exciting, but I really need your help.”

“Fine, fine.”

The crowd grew in size and density, flooding the entire market square. Forceful shoves from onlookers pushed Dimitry further towards the center. That was good. The more packed the venue, the easier it would be to sneak out undetected. He wiped a sweaty palm against his pants and turned his gaze towards the central platform.

Every performer on stage clapped, and the crowd followed suit. The speed and volume rose until shouts and hands slapping against one another drowned out individual voices. A dozen men in tights held hands, forming a circle. They spun round and round as if preparing for a dramatic finale.

Dimitry’s heart rate soared; the muscular organ pounded against his chest. He clutched the leather bag strap tighter into his shoulder, ready to barge through a compact cluster of people.

“Noisia!”

Screams and claps grew thrice-fold, as if to tear out Dimitry’s eardrums. He slammed a finger into each ear to repel encroaching tinnitus and hearing loss.

“Hold on tight,” Dimitry tried to shout into his tunic. The vocal cords in his larynx vibrated futilely.

Like someone at a rock concert, a man whose throat bulged vasculature raged alongside countless cheering masses that shuffled and thrust their fists into the air.

Dimitry rammed through narrow crevices between people and forced his way through the crowd. Like an ideal gas, they shoved from all sides and cut off every exit. Precious clung to his neck to avoid getting crushed. After a minute of tunneling, a cool breeze swept away the humid air of urine and sweat.

“Are you okay?” Dimitry whispered into his cloak.

“I can barely hear you!” Precious hissed. “My ears are ringing!”

“Cover them next time. Are we still being followed?”

“T-they’re pushing through the crowd right behind us.”

21. Magic Toilet Paper Cartons

Main street. A monstrous road leading from Ravenfall’s southern gatehouse towards the center of the city. Civilians shuffled through the middle while booths managed by merchants lined the sides. Unlike those in the market square, they didn’t peddle cheap junk. It was the historical equivalent of a prosperous downtown area of a modern metropolis—just as crowded, but with a stench ten times as vile.

Dimitry scoured the area for something to enchant with dispelia, something that could wrap around a girl’s collar. If he found a suitable piece of apparel, Three Brothers’ Magic was close by. He peeked inside while exploring the city shortly after his arrival. Everyone from merchants to artisans and peasants entered with common tools, only for them to glow upon exit. If they processed other people’s items, they would process his too.

A guard bumped into Dimitry. “Watch it.”

“Sorry, sir.” He bowed low to placate law enforcement and conceal his eye color. Prostration didn’t bother him. Getting arrested for impersonating a holy cleric did.

After a disgruntled groan, the guard strutted away.

“How far are they now?” Dimitry whispered.

“Like… five buildings away,” Precious said. “Still trailing us.”

Delphine was a terrifying woman to prepare spies on short notice. If they delivered a report on Dimitry’s disobedience, he would be forced into slavery. Dimitry would never see another patient again. But avoiding capture wouldn’t be easy. Tenebrae lurked everywhere, whether it was an alleyway, the pleasure district, or a guard’s pocket.

Dimitry resisted the urge to glance back. Nervous ticks aroused suspicion. Instead, his gaze fixed on a nearby stall.

Cloaks, hoods, and clothing accessories lay on a carved stone counter. Behind them stood a giant man whose fat-glazed muscles resembled that of a winter-starved bear. He ogled at the passing crowd with arms crossed over his chest and noticed Dimitry’s approach.

The man pressed his hands into the counter and leaned forward. “What you want?”

Dimitry ignored the man’s misguided hostility. “I need something that can wrap around someone’s neck to keep them warm.”

“A scarf?”

“Sure, just give me anything.”

The man slapped a fur-trimmed rag onto the table. “Good quality. Five silvers.”

Dimitry reached into his pouch. He paused. While not the occasion for petty concerns, didn’t Saphiria like animals? “Do you have one not made from fur?”

The man grunted. “You said anything.” He swiped the scarf off the table and dropped a small wooden crate in its place. “All cotton. You pick. Three silvers.”

He chose a long, indigo cloth and dropped three coins onto the counter. “Thanks.”

The man snorted as his gaze shifted back towards the crowd.

Dimitry walked away from the stall, turned into an alley, and gagged. Although it was broader and cleaner than the one he slept in when he arrived in this world, drainage more pungent than raw sewage flowed through the gaps between the walls and ground.

“How far now?”

“Twenty paces behind us.”

Good. Every moment the pursuer followed Dimitry, they weren’t reporting back to Delphine. He needed to deal with them soon.

It wasn’t long until a sign advertising ‘Three Brothers’ Magic’ came into view. He passed through the shop’s open door. Racks filled with strange equipment—rods, a weapon resembling a wooden musket, enchanted metal weapons—leaned against the walls and led to a counter.

A horseshoe-shaped bald spot disappeared from view as the shopkeeper looked up. “Yes?”

Thinking this man resembled the one at Inscriber Works, Dimitry threw the indigo scarf onto the table. “I need this enchanted with dispelia.”

“And what for, may I ask?”

“Is there a problem?” He tried to pace his hastened breathing.

“That depends, why do you need it enchanted? The Church requires us to ask.”

Damn it. Dimitry didn’t come prepared for an interrogation. He threw his bag onto the counter. “I’m a surgeon. It’s for my job.”

The shopkeeper frowned. “Yes, but you didn’t say what for.”

“Do you know the witheria enchantment?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I have a patient with a witheria enchanted bolt lodged in their shoulder. If I don’t remove the enchantment, they’ll rot from the inside. And I can’t remove the bolt because they’ll bleed out. If you don’t enchant the damn scarf, their death will be on your hands.” Dimitry slammed his palms onto the table. “Don’t waste my fucking time.”

The shopkeeper’s cheeks jiggled as he wobbled backward. “S-sorry, sir. They make us ask. Give me two gold gadots, and I’ll take care of it.”

“Two?” Dimitry opened his coin pouch to find three coins: two silver and one gold. “This is an emergency, will this do?” He displayed the contents to the shopkeeper.

“While I want to help, I have a family to support.”

“I have it at home. I’ll come back to pay the rest later.”

“Sorry, sir. I can’t trust that.”

Dimitry didn’t need this right now. He had some asshole trailing him and a girl on the cusp of losing her freedom forever. Not to mention his own.

Something caught his attention as he stormed out of the store. The rods on the shelf. They resembled the magical tools market guards held when they burned a baker alive with incendia. Could they debilitate a pursuer?

“Actually,” Dimitry said as he walked back to the counter. “Do you have something that could tranquilize a person?”

The shopkeeper’s eyes shot open. “S-sir?”

“You see, some of my patients squirm around during surgery. I need something that would knock them unconscious for a short time. You know, so they don’t feel any pain. Like an extended nap. Perhaps with magic.”

“Would voltech canisters do?”

“… what exactly do you mean?” Dimitry asked.

The pudgy man shuffled around the counter, to a shelf, and stood on the tips of his toes. “This canister is sealed with snoozia.” He pulled out a rod and gave it to Dimitry. “And this one with relaxia.”

Both ‘canisters’ were stubby rods the size of toilet paper cardboard tubes except solid and made of crude iron. Two rectangular blocks of wood lay embedded in each. They lay side-by-side on the handle and had mazes of intricate teal lines engraved into their surfaces.

“Which one do you recommend?” Dimitry asked.

“They’re both used by guards. Relaxia prevents movement and sensation but keeps the target conscious. It could kill if you don’t use it carefully. Snoozia puts them into a deep sleep. I don’t know which one you need.”

Dimitry rubbed his chin. The relaxia canister sounded dangerous; his lacking expertise could end up killing someone. “Does snoozia keep the vict—patient asleep even through pain?”

“I-I think so.”

“For patient safety, I have to make sure. How is it used?”

“Hold the canister in your right hand.” The shopkeeper pointed to the wooden blocks embedded in the hilt. “And keep the seals under your palm. They will only absorb as much vol as they need—usually a little less than a crude for non-mages. Get close to your patient, point it at them, and chant snoozia to activate the spell.”

“How much?”

“One gold.”

“Before I make my purchase, do you happen to have a canister with dispelia?”

The rotund man sighed. “As if the Church would ever teach us how to make seals that powerful.”

This world made nothing easy. “That’s a shame.” Dimitry threw a gold gadot on the counter and hid the snoozia canister under his cloak. “I’ll be back.”

“G-good luck.”

Dimitry stepped out of the store and onto a gravel-laden road. “Are they still following us?”

“Ten paces to your left,” Precious said.

Time was short. Was there somewhere he could dump a sleeping body midday without them being discovered?

There it was—the dead-end alley where it all began.

“Precious.”

“What?”

“Whatever happens, don’t freak out.” He took a pure vol pellet out of his pouch.

“What?”

Although he didn’t arrive in this world all that long ago, the alleyway ahead was nostalgic. Timber-framed plastered walls, accumulated scrap, the stench of rotting matter. And the fire. Caretakers gone, its charcoaled remnants scattered in every direction.

Dimitry cut into the alleyway. “Hold on tight and don’t let go.”

“Can you stop speaking in riddles?” Precious tugged on his ear.

“Invisall.”

Like flames following a gasoline trail, magic surged through his palm before spreading to the rest of his body. When it reached his head, a short bout of dizziness spun the world around him. However, unlike the first few times, the effects weren’t debilitating. Had he grown accustomed to them?

“D-Dumitry. Where did you go? Where am I?!”

“You’re fine. Stay quiet.” He reached into his pouch for a vol pellet and pulled the invisible snoozia canister from his cloak. His palm felt its way around and gripped the embedded wooden seals.

A cloaked figure peered into the alleyway three steps away. They stumbled backward as if faced with an impossible truth—their target was ‘gone’. They took a hesitant step forward, then another.

Dimitry thrust the canister into their gut.

“Snoozia.”

He caught the unsteady figure in his arms, then dragged them to the alleyway’s end. His foot hovered over their neck. If Dimitry stomped now, he could keep vital information from slipping out. No one would ever know.

Out of morbid curiosity, his boot’s tip lifted a stained hood to reveal a slender face. Dirt clumped the man’s hair, and his cheeks caved into his mouth. Ghastly pale skin confirmed he was a victim of malnutrition. His circumstances doubtlessly forced him into criminality.

Just like Dimitry.

It changed nothing. Minimizing threats was the safest route. Doing otherwise lowered his chances of escape, and his decision didn’t concern Dimitry alone. Precious and Saphiria relied on him, too.

Dimitry’s boot pressed against the man’s throat. Leaning in with the full weight of his body could fracture the hyoid bone and laryngeal cartilages, but immediate death through asphyxiation wasn’t likely. Fully obstructed airways weren’t guaranteed even in car crash patients presenting with a tracheobronchial injury. He would have to stomp until pooling blood plugged every gap that permitted airflow to the lungs, vascular damage resulted in eventual hemorrhagic shock and arterial hypotension, or retaliatory force from the ground mutilated the cervical spine. Either outcome was silent and required only a brief effort.

Precious shook with barely suppressed laughter.

“What now?!”

“I-I can’t help it! Just… just do something already!”

Dimitry held out his arm, which trembled in midday light. He should ignore the guilt. He had to do it! If he didn’t, someone might awaken the spy.

His foot retracted. He couldn’t do it.

Instead of murder, Dimitry stuffed the man into a narrow crevice far beyond the sight of any passerby and hid his exposed feet within a sideways crate. Dimitry would ditch Ravenfall long before they awoke. He dashed into the streets and towards the pleasure district.

“I get it now,” Precious’s voice still quivered. “So that’s why you bought vol. You’re the disappearing man.”

“You caught me.”

“Do you think the king would give me fruit and a personal attendant if I turned you in?”

“Feel free to find out,” Dimitry said between labored breaths. “Hope they don’t squash you at the palace gates.”

Invisible leather boots pounded into gravel, their crunching audible to passersby. They looked at the ground in awe as small stones and dirt flew into the air. Most shook their heads in disbelief, but several ran as if rushing to lay claim to a newly discovered gold mine.

Even if they told the authorities, it didn’t matter. Dimitry’s limited time was already ticking away. He had to get money, enchant a scarf, find Saphiria, and escape Ravenfall. Failure to accomplish any would forsake all of his efforts and hopes.

As for money, what target better than his employer? Delphine was rich, and aside from dazzling illumina stones, the brothel lacked enchantments that could trip him up. Or so Dimitry thought. He never visited her bedroom—the place she likely stored her valuables. What awaited him?

He swerved into an empty alley on the pleasure district’s outskirts and slammed his back against a building wall. Invisall’s effects should run out soon. Dimitry would recast the spell before entering the brothel to use the spell most efficiently.

“Tired, Dumitry?”

“We’ll be waiting here for a short while,” he said through heaving lungs.

“By the way,” Precious asked, “why does your spell end in ‘all’?”

“What?”

“Human spells end in ‘a’ like illumina and snoozia, but you chanted ‘invisall’.”

Although the question had merit, now wasn’t the time to ponder it. “It’s a secret.”

“Sure it is.” Precious tugged his ear. “Didn’t you learn by now? I know that you don’t know.”

“Then let’s leave it at that.”

“You’re a strange guy.”

“You have no right to call anyone strange.”

A daze, like that from a basketball colliding against his skull, hit Dimitry. Every muscle lost its strength, and, for a moment, his legs struggled to uphold his weight. Feedback. Why were invisall’s side effects so powerful, whereas snoozia’s almost imperceptible?

Dimitry retrieved another dark green pellet out of his pouch. “Ready for round two?”

“Try not to die. You still owe me a present.”

“Die?”

“I’m saying don’t overload your body with vol.”

“You could die from that?”

Precious gripped the neckline of his tunic. “You’re hopeless.”

It was too late to worry about that.

“Invisall.”

22. A Not So Humble Heist

Dimitry leaned against the brothel’s wall beside the entrance. It would be foolish to burst in unprepared. Although he was invisible, rumors regarding the ‘disappearing man’ spread throughout the city. Everyone, like hopeful lottery players dreaming of riches, remained on alert.

“Sense anyone?” he whispered.

“Two on the first floor forty paces away, more above,” Precious said.

“Are Delphine and Gerbald inside?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure.”

Dimitry clicked his teeth. Precious’s emotional sense had blind spots too. He pressed his ear against the door and listened for footsteps from the other side. There were none. He creaked it open to make a gap just large enough for himself and stepped into the bright red hallway. The stifled stench of lavender oozed from spent candles throughout the wide-open space.

The first floor of the brothel was broader than a tennis court. Aside from four stone pillars supporting the ceiling and the many tables and cushioned chairs resting by the walls, it was unremarkable. Two cozily dressed women of the night sat, exchanging pleasantries during their daytime break. They didn’t notice the door that seemed to move on its own.

Every step elicited a weak squeak from the timber walkway.

This wasn’t Dimitry’s first time sneaking around. He learned from his past mistakes to avoid wooden planks curving out from the floor. They squealed the loudest. Unfortunately, his best efforts couldn’t prevent them from squeaking altogether, but the girls’ conversation was lively enough to make up for his lack. Dimitry reached the stairs on the other side, and his foot pressed into the first step. It sunk under the sudden weight.

A clamorous creak resounded through the lobby.

The chatter from behind cut out mid-sentence.

“One is looking at you,” Precious whispered.

“Julia, what’s wrong?” a concerned voice asked.

“I thought I heard someone coming down the stairs.”

“There’s no one there.”

“Really? Ugh, my head’s been hurting since last night.”

One giggled. “That’s what you get for drinking too much of a customer’s wine.”

Breaths frozen, Dimitry waited for their conversation to engross them once more. Under the veil of the girls’ babbling, he crept up the stairs.

“Four on this floor, two close by.”

The second floor was a narrow corridor lined with open rooms on both sides. Down the center, a woman scrubbed the muck from wood flooring. She hummed to herself as she worked—doubtless a method to maintain her sanity after days spent mopping bodily fluids.

“Do you see this?” A refined voice echoed from a room just ahead. It was Delphine’s. “This is the kind of people we host.”

“That’s disgusting,” a booming voice resembling Gerbald’s said. “How did they manage to get it on the ceiling?”

The last people Dimitry wanted to encounter. If they found him sneaking around, he would face a fate worse than death. He could take the initiative and put them to sleep with the snoozia canister, but it was too risky. Especially since Delphine and Gerbald wore enchanted accessories with unknown properties. And even if it did work, they weren’t alone in the building. The commotion would attract attention. The best course of action was to ignore them until they became a threat.

Dimitry snuck by and fixed his gaze on the woman blocking his path. The narrow corridor made it impossible to walk around her. He quietly pulled the canister from underneath his cloak and a vol pellet from his pouch.

“Getting someone to clean it would be impossible before tonight. Not to mention, we need to make a trip to the Church,” Delphine said from behind.

“What should we do then?” Gerbald asked.

If those two left the room now, Dimitry would be trapped. He lunged forward with the canister, and before the cleaning woman could look up, whispered “snoozia.”

Her eyelids lowered, and her muscles loosened. Dimitry caught her before she tumbled to the floor. He dragged her into a nearby room.

“Smooth,” Precious whispered. “The two from behind are moving; the fourth is still.”

The sound of boots tapping against timber planks and a door slamming shut.

“Lock the door,” Delphine commanded.

“Yes… but where did Laura go?”

“Woman problems, Gerbald. Try to show some sense. Let’s go get the horses.”

They stomped down the stairs.

Dimitry hyperventilated. Delphine told Saphiria to wait for her in the stable. That meant they were on their way to the Church. Dimitry’s time was running out. If they completed the ceremony, he and Saphiria would remain slaves forever.

“How many upstairs?”

“Just one.”

Dimitry snuck into the corridor, up the stairs, past a long hall, and into Delphine’s bedroom.

A massive four-poster bed crafted with trimmed oak and gold embroidered crimson textiles embellished the room’s center. On every side, similarly lavish furniture crowded the walls. Some had marble foundations. Others, exotic woods.

“Search everything.” Dimitry pulled out a nightstand’s drawer. “We need money.”

“It’s all too heavy for me.” Precious squeezed underneath the bed. “I’ll tell you if I find anything.”

He ran towards a bookshelf and swiped his hand between tomes. Damn, nothing hidden there. He glanced into vases resting on the windowsill. Nothing! Scoured every nook and cranny inside Delphine’s desk. Besides scattered papyrus, nothing!

There was nothing here! Despite every luxury, the room contained not a single valuable. No gems to sell, no silver goblets, not even a copper coin! Delphine always had money in her possession. Was she more frugal than he imagined?

“Anything, Precious?”

“No!”

“We have to hurry!” Dimitry rummaged through Delphine’s closet, but it held none of her gem-encrusted dresses. Just simple rags. He lifted feather-stuffed pillows and a cotton mattress to reveal a barren bed’s oak platform. Nothing there either.

Precious struggled to suppress her laughter. “Di-Dimitry… co-control your emotions.”

As frustration welled within, something prodded his boot’s sole. Something solid and clumpy. Dimitry looked down to see a small lump trapped under a carpet’s thick fabric. He stepped on it again and heard the stifled clashing of metal pieces.

Could those be coins?

Furniture weighing down the carpet, he couldn’t lift it to glance underneath. Dimitry chipped a vase as quietly as possible and picked up a jagged glass shard, ignoring the pain as it cut into his hand. He ran towards the trapped object and carved a square-shaped hole. His last hope.

The door swung open.

“Delphine, can I—”

Dimitry looked up.

Stood in the doorway was a girl with disheveled hair and smothered makeup. “I thought I heard…” Claudia’s hand reached to cover her mouth. “What happened here?”

Dimitry froze. Should he wait until Claudia walked away or continue his misdeeds? Before he could decide, his vision blurred and his muscles lost their strength. The feedback from abusing invisall struck him all at once. The hand that held a glass fragment revealed itself, blood oozing from an open wound.

“D-Dimitry and a faer—” Claudia retreated, and her shoulder bumped into the door frame. “You’re the disappearing…” She scurried away.

“Precious, why didn’t you tell me someone was coming?”

“Because you couldn’t control your emotions! It’s like trying to see through a solid wall.”

Dimitry groaned. There wasn’t time to chase after Claudia. He excavated the pouch from under the carpet and looked inside. Ten gold gadots. If only he had them ten days ago. “We found what we came for, let’s go!”

“Coming!” Precious dove under Dimitry’s cloak and gripped the neckline of his tunic.

He lifted his leather bag and tossed the strap over his shoulder. “Invisall.”

The palm that held the vol pellet went numb, and a fire raged inside his limbs and trunk. This was the third time he used it today, and the pain intensified with each consecutive cast. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to rely on magic anymore.

Dimitry dashed down the hallway, shoved past a concerned co-worker, left the brothel, and sprinted to Three Brothers’ Magic. Before stepping inside, he waited for his invisibility to wear off in a nearby alley.

The feedback worsened. He collapsed. Roads and buildings vanished into a gluttonous abyss, and the bustle of the street went silent. Dimitry was conscious of himself but unaware of his surroundings. The world ceased to exist around him. A vast pitch-black nothingness where only he lived and nothing else. Just like his coma on Earth. Maybe the fantastical world was all a drug-induced dream; one last fling before he transitioned into eternal darkness.

Timber-framed walls flashed into existence before him. On his shoulder, an adorable yet annoying creature. Its petite hands’ golden fingernails tugged on his collar.

“D-Dimitry? Say something!”

“I thought I was Dumitry.” He grinned. “Since when did you worry about anyone?”

“Shut up, idiot!”

“How long was I out for?”

“Just a little while.”

“Come on, we have a job to finish.”

He pushed off the ground; his body worked fine. Was feedback a psychological phenomenon? Dimitry burst through Three Brothers’ Magic’s doors, slammed the indigo scarf onto the counter, then dropped two gold gadots beside it.

“Get enchanting.”

“Y-yes, sir.” The shopkeeper pulled the scarf down to a large table, spread it out across the surface, and flattened it. He reached into a bowl on the counter to grab a handful of pure vol pellets before placing them beside the scarf. “By the way, have we met before today?”

“Why do you ask?”

“When you visited our shop just a while ago, I thought you looked familiar. Only when you left did I realize why.”

“Do you frequent the pleasure district? I work as a surgeon there.”

“N-no, sir. Nothing like that.” The shopkeeper retrieved an object with a beige glow from his desk, then fit it into his eye socket. It resembled a tiny lens. “You see, a man came to steal from my brother.”

His brother?

Dread stuck Dimitry’s feet to the floor. He realized why the owner of Inscriber Works resembled that of Three Brothers’ Magic. They were twins, or if the name of the store carried truth, triplets. Were they operating a medieval chain store?

Fortunately, Dimitry’s clothes, beard, and even his lanky facial structure differed since the theft. He didn’t reveal his eye color, either. There wasn’t a way to identify him. The best option was to feign innocence.

His heel bounced restlessly against the floor. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because that man had strange brown and blonde hair like yours.”

Shit. They could identify him. Without time to retreat and plan, Dimitry committed further with unabashed anger. “Are you accusing me?”

“W-well… I’ve worked in Ravenfall for decades, and I’ve never seen—”

Dimitry frowned. “And what exactly do you think I stole?”

“We f-found everything except a p-pure pellet, so…”

“Really? Do you honestly think I’d risk having my back scorched by guards just to steal some worthless trash?” Dimitry held out his coin pouch. “I just paid you two gold gadots with plenty to spare. Why would I steal something I could buy in bulk at a market stall?”

The shopkeeper looked down, dejected. “I just had to know for sure, sir. You see, there’s a disappearing man, and—”

“If I knew magic extravagant enough to make myself disappear, I wouldn't need you to enchant this scarf for me, would I? Now get it done! Lives are at stake."

“Of course.” The shopkeeper placed one palm over the stack of vol pellets while the other hovered above the scarf. “Dispelia.”

The hand glided parallel to the table. It went from one edge to the next, leaving a gray aura that fused into the cloth as if filling unseen gaps. The pile of vol shrunk until the enchanting process was completed.

“Y-you’re all set.” The shopkeeper handed over the goods. “Go save that patient’s life.”

“She’ll make it.” Dimitry took the enchanted scarf from his hand and turned to walk out of the store. “I’ll make sure of that.”

23. The Pious, the Enslaved, and the Desperate

Thin clouds sliced through the sky, filtering out the light from a sun falling from its apex. It failed to illuminate the cityscape. Instead, half-faded shadows crept through Ravenfall. They enveloped all in a shade that was neither bright nor dark, but something in between.

Among its many victims was Dimitry. Despite the sudden revelation that he would be sold into slavery, he had almost everything necessary to escape Ravenfall, including a source of dispelia, food, supplies, money, and even a faerie. Now only one thing remained: freeing the only person who could guide him through the world.

But first, he needed to find her.

“I need you to locate Saphiria for me,” he whispered into his cloak’s hood.

“How am I supposed to do that?” Precious asked.

“You said you can sense people with intense emotions. She should be worried, depressed, or something.”

“And do you know how many people fit those criteria? Ravenfall is filled with sorry losers.”

Dimitry clicked his teeth. Thankfully, he wasn’t out of ideas yet. “How about Gerbald and Delphine? They should be with her.”

“That doesn’t help. There must be hundreds of groups like that, and we can’t look through them all!”

A guard ran by whose head twisted and turned to scan every direction. They were out in droves. Among them, ominous knights in crimson armor wielding nasty weapons.

Were they looking for someone? Was that someone Dimitry? While invisible, he rushed through the streets kicking up dirt and gravel. It made sense that the city was on high alert, looking for the ‘disappearing man’.

Time was running out.

Dimitry kicked a loose rock, which pounded into the wall of an inn. There were multiple churches in Ravenfall, and he didn’t know which one Saphiria was in. He didn’t have the luxury of visiting them all. By the time he found her, the re-enchantment ceremony would be over. She would tell all, and their futures would be slavery.

His foot pulled back to punt another rock when a mounted horse galloped past him. He pivoted, ready to run. Instead, the animal dashed away, leaving behind a cloud of dust.

Dimitry’s face shot up. Why didn’t he think of it sooner? “How about horses?”

“Is this really the time for dumb games?”

“Remember when you sensed the oxen’s emotions? Can you do the same for horses?”

Precious paused. “Yeah, but how does that help?”

“The two horses we found in Delphine’s stable—they should be together. I want you to look for them.”

“Oh, that’s pretty smart. So the prideful one and the nervous one…” she trailed off as if entering a meditative trance.

An ally with the ability to detect animal emotions was indispensable. Ravenfall didn’t house many horses. Since they required food, shelter, and maintenance, they were expensive assets affordable only to the rich. To people like Delphine. That made it easy to locate her, and by extension, Saphiria.

After a brief silence, Precious spoke. “I think I found something a few hundred paces that way.” She tugged on his collar to show direction.

“Precious.”

“Yes?”

“You’re wonderful.”

“I know.”

A frigid gale irritated Dimitry’s nostrils when he quickened his gait. Although time was short, he couldn’t run. Excess speed would only draw unwanted attention from patrolmen. Anxious thoughts bombarded him the entire way.

Was it guaranteed that the scarf would negate the enchantment on Saphiria’s collar? If not, she would incapacitate Dimitry herself. And if it did, they had to escape Ravenfall afterward. That meant confronting Delphine and Gerbald, then dashing past every guard in the city. Casting invisall on himself and his horse couldn’t hide them since Saphiria’s dispelia scarf would be nearby. It was a lesson Dimitry learned when he was a beggar.

But he couldn’t stop either. Claudia knew his identity. If he returned to the brothel, she would turn Dimitry in for a reward and he would become a prisoner, a slave, or worse. Leaving Ravenfall alone was equally reckless. Fyrhounds and patrols would maim him as he blindly navigated through endless forests and fields.

Dimitry needed Saphiria’s help.

Although he scrounged together a plan along the way, he wished there was more time to prepare. Unfortunately, life was full of surprises.

Dimitry’s pace slowed when he reached a three-way intersection. A church with chiseled stone walls towered over him. By its entrance, two horses stood in wait—one black and the other white with brown spots. Identical to those he saw in Delphine’s stable.

Exhilarated by his success and anxious at his prospects, Dimitry hoped he wasn’t too late. If the re-enchantment ceremony ended, his chances of rescuing Saphiria would plummet.

He snuck around the church’s side.

“Are we r-really going to do this?” Precious asked.

“How many inside?”

“F-five. Saphiria’s near the back.”

His pulse grew wild. “Here’s the plan. I’ll eliminate the one closest to Saphiria, and you’ll cast illumina on whoever tries to attack us first. That’ll buy me enough time to wrap the scarf around Saphiria’s neck. She’ll help us disable the rest, then we’ll escape on those horses. Can I count on you to make this work?”

Precious shivered against his shoulder. “But what about me?”

“If anything goes wrong, you have my permission to fly away. No hard feelings.”

“Don’t tell me about feelings! Just promise that you’ll get me my reward!”

Dimitry wore a shaky grin. Was that the faerie’s method for coping with anxiety? “I promise. Ready?”

“Y-yeah.”

Snoozia canister in one hand and an enchanted scarf in the other, Dimitry rammed his boot into stone double doors.

They burst open to reveal a gray interior. Delphine and Gerbald jumped from a back row of pews. Blond pigtails twisting across her face, Josephine the priestess twitched her head towards the entrance.

Kneeling in front of a statue was Saphiria.

A hooded figure held their palm to her neck.

That was his target.

Dimitry sprinted, thrusting the canister forward. It was a dense brick in his hand when it collided into the hooded figure’s face.

They collapsed with a thud. Long blue hair and blood spilled out from their hood onto a stone tile floor.

Ignoring his guilt, Dimitry wrapped the enchanted scarf around a kneeling Saphiria’s neck and tied it into a knot. Mouth agape, she looked up at him with wide indigo eyes.

“Reverend Mother Marianne!” Josephine uttered. “I’ll get help!” Her boots skittered across the floor and up a staircase.

“Kill him, Saphiria!” Delphine roared, pointing at Dimitry.

Saphiria stood. “Understood.” She reached for the sheath strapped to her leg.

Dimitry stepped back. Was he too late? “Saphiria, snap out of—”

“I knew you were a conniving prick.” Gerbald approached, dagger in hand. “A prick that slugs a bishop, no less.”

Back against the wall, Dimitry’s eyes shifted from side to side. Every escape route was sealed off. A knot formed in his throat.

Saphiria pulled out her dagger, pivoted away from Dimitry, and tossed it across the room.

It pierced Delphine’s throat. Mouth open, the slaver grasped at the blade and dropped to the ground. Her body convulsed before going limp.

Dimitry remembered to breathe. “Precious, do it now!”

“Illumina!”

Light coalesced in Gerbald’s eye sockets. He stumbled backward.

Dimitry pummeled the snoozia canister into the monstrous man’s gut.

Gerbald clutched his abdomen and collapsed onto a granite floor.

“Saphiria, the horses!”

Saphiria sprinted to open the doors. She beckoned Dimitry to follow. Bells rang from the roof as they rushed into the streets.

She climbed onto the black horse and held out her hand.

Dimitry pulled himself up. “I never rode a horse!”

“Hold my waist and get as close as you can!”

He scrambled up the horse and scooched closer to Saphiria.

Before long, church bells clamored from every direction.

“Go!” Saphiria shouted.

The horse picked up speed.

Zeran knights in enchanted vestments and armor flooded into the streets. They rode atop steel-clad horses.

Dimitry bobbed up and down with the animal. Air rushed faster and faster, slamming into his eyes, making them difficult to keep open. Saphiria’s hair—exposed now that her hood flew off—scoured every crevice of his face. Precious squirmed beside his chest as she burrowed deep under his tunic.

“Where are we going?” Saphiria yelled.

Dimitry had a plan but no idea if it would work. “Are horses like oxen?”

“What are you yapping about now, Dumitry!?” Precious’s shout struggled to cut through the uproar of church bells.

“Are horses afraid of steep falls?”

“Yes!” Saphiria said.

“North exit!”

Saphiria tugged on the horse’s reins. The animal swerved into an adjacent street.

Dimitry’s hands clamped around Saphiria’s waist to prevent him from falling off the beast. He glanced back.

Gerbald chased them atop a spotted horse with Zeran knights in tow. One man per horse, they rode faster than Saphiria. In all directions, citizens pressed themselves up against building walls.

Dimitry grabbed a handful of vol pellets as they pummeled through a patrolman blocking the road. “How far?”

“Just a little further!” Saphiria said.

He steeled his nerves.

The north gate ahead was half-closed, and the gap narrowed by the second.

“Faster!” Dimitry shouted.

Saphiria leaned forward and pushed her legs into the horse’s sides. “Come on, Julia.”

The black horse accelerated. It galloped through the city gates with a second to spare.

Dimitry struggled to keep his balance as he looked back to see Gerbald and two Zeran knights close in on them. City gate sealed shut, his pursuers wouldn’t get reinforcements.

The dirt road they followed led to a long stone bridge. One that Dimitry crossed twice with every corpse delivery. He clenched the vol pellets tighter. “Drop me off on the other side!”

Saphiria’s head shot back to glance at him. “Why?!”

“I have an idea.”

“R-right.”

That was all it was. An idea. Dimitry knew that invisall affected his clothes and therefore his surroundings, but what were its limits?

The horse dashed across the bridge and slowed when it reached the dirt road on the other side. Dimitry jumped off and ran to the bridge’s edge. He placed a palm onto its stone roadway.

“Precious, go with Saphiria.”

“But I don’t like her.”

“I don’t care!”

The faerie climbed out from under his tunic. “Just… don’t die.” She spoke while hovering back. “You still owe me and stuff.”

Gerbald’s horse galloped onto the bridge, an angry giant on its back.

Dimitry’s chance.

“Invisall!”

The vol mound in his hand drained into his palm. Dimitry winced. At first scalding, but soon, like molten lava surging across his chest, it traveled into his other palm. With every bit of vol absorbed, the pain intensified. His organs felt like they were doused in oil and lit. He vomited and shook, but Dimitry didn’t remove his hand from the bridge.

His eyelids burned as they opened. Dimitry saw neither his hair, hands, or the bridge—only a raging river and a desperate man.

Gerbald clung to the reins of a panicking, upright horse. It danced on an invisible platform, let forth an ear-piercing neigh, and teetered into the waters below. Swallowed up in its current, the gargantuan man and his steed drifted away to some distant location. On the other side of the unseen bridge, two Zeran Knights wrestled for control over their armored horses.

Dimitry shuffled to his feet and limped towards his comrades. A large segment of dirt road beside the bridge went missing. Although he felt it contact his boots, it looked like a meteor crashed into the ground, exposing deeper layers of soil under a massive hemisphere of nothingness—invisall’s unintended side effect.

“Dimitry, are you okay?” Precious asked.

“I’m not sure,” he muttered.

“I hear him,” Saphiria said, “but I don’t see him.”

“He’s right here. We have to get him out of here before the feedback hits.”

The girl with raven black hair held out her hand. “Get on.”

After several failed attempts, Dimitry clambered up.

The world around him melded together. Cloudy skies and green grass and brown dirt all fused into a murky kaleidoscope of colors. They slowly faded into the distance, leaving no trace behind.

“Stay awake!” a muddled voice commanded.

As if under the effects of local anesthesia, he couldn’t feel his arms. Were they still there? Even if they weren’t, it was a fair price to pay. He was no longer anyone’s pawn. And neither was she. All was peace.

The world faded to black.

24. Rich Noble Slave, Poor Noble Freewoman

Stone walls enchanted with protectia’s rich, gold color formed the throne room’s hall. Their lustrous glow complemented that of illumina stones embedded in the ground. Arranged into orderly rows, they lined the sides of a wyrm-scale carpet whose silver down led from the banquet hall. Any peasant’s wet dream. No, even a wealthy voltech military supplier would think twice before committing to the purchase of such an exquisite good.

However, despite every luxury, Gormund’s ass squirmed on a warm incendia pillow. He awaited news regarding the disappearing man. Doubtlessly a user of rare and powerful magic. Gormund ordered his capture over a week ago, and yet the bumbling morons under his command couldn’t find a single wizard. Idiots, the lot of them. If Ravenfall wasn’t so vital to his business, he never would have agreed to rule it.

He loved wine. Not politics.

A watchman ran down the hall, his dirt-caked boots selfishly staining Gormund’s beloved carpet.

He subdued his rage. They better have good news, or someone would suffer.

They knelt. “Your Grace.”

“What’s the situation?”

“A witness claims they saw the disappearing man in a brothel. Apparently, he goes by the name of Dimitry. Someone fitting that description was found riding through northern main street earlier this afternoon.”

Finally, some promising news. “And where is he now?”

The moron stalled. “W-well… past the north gatehouse.”

Gormund suppressed the urge to rise to his feet and slap the watchman’s face. His fingers tapped restlessly against the cushioned arms of the throne instead. If His Royal Majesty Gregorious caught wind of this, it would crush any chance for Gormund to expand his wine emporium throughout Amalthea.

He grunted. “And how did he get away?”

“The guards atop the northern gatehouse spotted him making himself and the bridge disappear. He mounted a black horse with another cloaked person and rode away. They headed northwest.”

Useless bastards. Gormund tugged at a tunic that suddenly felt all too tight around his neck. “Is that all?”

“The monastery knights lost sight of him too.”

Blood rushed into his face, and an overbearing pressure rose from within as if to burst from his plump cheeks. He jumped off the throne. If the Church caught this ‘Dimitry’ first, Gormund’s head would hang on a wooden pike outside Estoria’s main gatehouse. “I need to meet this witness now.”

“She’s locked in the castle dungeon, Your Grace,” the watchman said.

“Tell me if anything else comes up.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The fumbling moron scurried away.

He twitched his head to the right. “You. Accompany me to the dungeon.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the knight said, stepping forward.

The figure beside him wore impressive red armor, as if dyed with wine fermented from the darkest grapes. Each piece glowed with the color of a different spell: protectia helmet, reflectia breastplate, and hastia cuisse. The crimson knights. A gift from the king and the pride of Amalthea’s military. Armed with voltech rifles and longswords, they boasted formidable strength. Their numbers, however, were few.

Gormund’s footsteps echoed off of stairway walls and a musty scent came from below. It grew stronger as they descended the carved stone steps. Lit only by the scant light of scattered illumina lamps, they entered a humid dungeon. Boots squished against the floor—still muddy from last week’s downpour—until they stopped in front of a dark, iron-barred prison cell.

A wench, her hair and white gown streaked with dirt, huddled up inside its filthy corner. Frightened by Gormund’s might, she shivered.

“You!” Gormund bellowed. “Are you the witness?”

The wench turned her head to reveal a face smothered in white makeup, rose powder, and dried mud. The countenance of a street-peddling commoner.

“Y-yes,” the wench said.

He was polite enough to resist the urge to spit on her. “Come, girl. What is your name?”

“C-Claudia.” She tried to put on a brave face but could not control her mannerisms. Just what one would expect from the rabble.

The crimson knight kicked the iron bars. “You dare refer to the Duke of Ravenfall without his title? Do you want me to come in there and cut off your tongue?”

The wench stepped back. “I’m s-sorry, Your Greatness. F-forgive me.” Fresh tears ran down her face.

Gormund raised his hand to pacify the dutiful knight. “Calm now. She lacks the upbringing to understand her situation.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The knight bowed.

“Now, wench. I need to know everything about this man called Dimitry. Everything.”

The wench stepped forward. “H-how about the r-reward?”

Gormund curled his hand into a fist. “Help me first, then I might help you too.”

“He was k-kinda tall and had dirty blonde hair. His eyes. They were pale green, like those old rumors. Dimitry worked as a s-surgeon an-and—”

Caring little for the gossip of commoners, changing by the day, Gormund wanted facts. “You said his eyes were pale green? Did he ever mention where he was from?”

She sniffled. “N-no, never.”

“Are you sure about the color of his eyes?”

“Yes.”

That was the clue he needed. Wherever the man came from, it was an exotic place. His obscure magic and pale green eyes would make him easy to find.

Gormund turned to the knight. “I want you to assemble couriers at once.”

“Whereto, my liege, and bearing what message?”

This Dimitry escaped north of Ravenfall, meaning one of two things: he intended to flee north towards Zera, or west towards Estoria. Being the capital of Amalthea, Estoria was unlikely to be his destination. That meant Gormund had to stop Dimitry before he reached The Holy Kingdom of Zera, where the Church would torture him until they learned his strange magic. The worst-case scenario.

“I want you to send couriers to every northern and western Amalthean city, town, and shithole village. Tell the populace to look for a man with pale green eyes accompanied by a cloaked conspirator and a black horse.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The knight bowed and dashed up the stairs.

The wench couldn’t stay quiet. “H-how about me?”

Gormund turned away. “You wait patiently until I need you again.”

She would stay here for a long time. The Church would never learn what the wench knew.

The song of a wild aerfowl. A high pitch hinted that it was a female, and the loudness meant it roosted nearby. A skill Saphiria learned while hunting with her father.

Bushes rustled around her when Saphiria stepped over the trunk of a fallen tree. She stopped to listen. The aerfowl’s song came from above. Saphiria’s gaze traveled up a tall oak tree, examining each branch until she located a large nest resting beside its trunk.

Although the bird hid out of sight, the birdsong gave away her position.

Saphiria retrieved vol from her tunic and picked up a pebble. She aimed upwards. Judging by the thickness of the branch, the rock should pierce it, and lodge itself in the bird’s body.

“Propelia.”

The vol flowed into her arm, and the pebble shot forth. Wood crackled, leaves stirred, and a bird fell onto the forest floor with a stifled thud. She squirmed, trying to generate a magic gale to fly away. But it was too late. The poor creature didn’t react in time.

“I’m sorry.” Saphiria knelt. “I’ll end it quickly.”

A long neck snapped.

She lifted the snow-white bird, caressed it in her arms, and made her way to the camp.

Ever since Dimitry wrapped the enchanted scarf around her collar, emotions long forgotten flooded back. Most of them unpleasant. She considered taking it off to return to her numbed state, but her goal stopped her. Saphiria wanted to go home. However, even if she reached the Gestalt Empire, would her brothers and father wait for her with open arms or cast her aside like the filth that she was?

She brushed her hair back behind her ear. Her previous master had it cut often, but Delphine liked to see it grow long—a sign of a ‘proper’ woman. Saphiria’s teeth clenched at the thought. From now on, she would make her own decisions.

A lit fire in a forest clearing came into view. Beside it, a black horse grazing grass, a leather bag, and a cloaked man. Sat on his chest was a faerie, who hadn’t moved all day as if awaiting correspondence from a local lord.

“Did you find any berries?” it asked.

Saphiria didn’t intend to get involved with a demonic creature. However, according to the Church, she wasn’t much better. An escaped Zeran servant that killed their master defied every teaching in the scripture such that even the magnanimous prophet Celeste wouldn’t have forgiven her. She pulled her collar, which seemed to tighten around her neck.

“You’re no fun. I hope Dumitry wakes up soon…”

Saphiria placed the aerfowl on a stone by the fire and walked towards Dimitry. Like engorged purple veins, circuits jutted from his hands and chest; one of the worst cases of overload she ever saw. Probably from when he used that strange magic in their escape. Not only his magic, but everything about him was strange. He seemed to know nothing and everything at the same time. Was it wellbloom fever? Did he hit his head somewhere?

“Precious,” Saphiria said.

“Oh, so you decided to speak after all?”

She looked down at the faerie. “Have you ever heard of a place called Africa?”

“And what if I have?”

“Dimitry said he purchased gemstones there before.”

It curled its golden ponytail around its finger. “Hmm… I don’t think so. Maybe it’s some village deep in the countryside. Though I doubt escaped servants would be safe even there.”

Saphiria’s eyebrows furrowed. “I’m not anyone’s servant anymore.”

Even so, she felt indebted to Dimitry. He charged into a church and assaulted a bishop to help her escape Ravenfall. The least she could do was look after him until he awoke. Her first ‘humane’ deed in a long time. But they couldn’t stay there forever. The Church would come soon, and they wanted nothing more than to capture an escaped servant and a man who ventured to attack a bishop.

“So how do you intend to get away with that collar around your neck?” it asked.

Saphiria’s eyes fixed on a curious blue emblem on Dimitry’s wrist, one resembling a shrine in Estoria. She gently lowered his hand before turning her attention back to the felled aerfowl by the fire. “By running.”

It drifted towards her. “I guess that makes us like sisters. Always running from the Church.”

Without answering the faerie, Saphiria plucked away the aerfowl’s feathers. Before long, she had defeathered the aerfowl, including all four wings, and roasted it. Their food supplies were limited to dried meat, so they had to forage for food frequently.

She glanced at Dimitry.

Besides, it would be uncouth to discuss ores, gemstones, and rocks with her companion on an empty stomach. Despite being away from the castle for so long, she never forgot what it meant to be a gracious host. Rules that a duke’s daughter should abide by, even if estranged.

A noble that neglected to treat their guest well was no noble at all.

25. An Empty Bliss Beyond This World

All-encompassing darkness. It swallowed everything, reducing Dimitry’s surroundings to an abyss devoid of all. There was no sound, no tactile sensation, no smells. Just a vague notion of self-consciousness and existence.

Dimitry’s eyes didn’t blink. He couldn’t close them even if he wanted to. They gazed unflinchingly into an emptiness that expanded in every direction as if without limit. It wasn’t just his eyes. His entire body stopped responding to his commands and instead lay still, paralyzed, leaving him trapped with his thoughts.

He had burnt through over a dozen pellets to turn the bridge invisible, and that was the fourth time he used invisall that day. The feedback worsened with every subsequent use. Did Dimitry overload on vol?

If so, it made sense for him to end up in this state. Although what it entailed was uncertain. Dimitry existed in some form, but if he couldn’t move, what was the point? Could it be a transitional state between life and death?

His personal purgatory.

How fitting for a sinner like Dimitry. His actions led to Delphine and Gerbald’s deaths. He was a murderer.

But he wasn’t upset. Unlike Samuel and Arnest, neither Gerbald nor Delphine committed crimes for survival. They did it to line their pockets. To amass fortunes and erect a gilded stronghold of slaves while irreverent to the sufferings of others.

Dimitry’s only regret was leaving without healing anyone. A surgeon’s job wasn’t complete until they stabilized and rehabilitated the patient, yet he discharged neither Milli, Idalia, nor Rowan.

Screw revolutionizing medicine. At this point, all Dimitry wanted was to be a simple physician—laboring for paychecks without the constant threat of persecution. Nothing more, nothing less. But it was too late. He squandered this chance at life, too.

Out from the dark abyss, a distant ceiling drifted closer. Four white walls approached to support it and a plain floor rose from below. They combined to form a white room. Tables, stands, and medical equipment appeared one by one to populate it.

Dimitry blinked. A heart that pumped blood, nostrils that brushed against cold air, a back chilled by a cool, tiled floor. Sensation surged into his body all at once. Among them, pain.

He lifted his hand only to see bulging purple vessels running from his right arm, through his chest, and into his left arm. The intricate ones protruding from his palms were the most painful. They throbbed and surged discomfort with every spasm.

“Knight,” said a rich voice.

Dimitry’s heart skipped a beat. His head twitched to find the foot of a portable vital signs monitor. Was he back in the hospital? He tried to push off the ground but winced. The inflamed purple vessels on his palms convulsed at the faintest touch. After several embarrassing attempts, Dimitry stood up.

Beside him, a man lay on an operating table illuminated solely by surgery lights. He wore a teal patient gown, had an intravenous line inserted into his lower arm, and a deep gap just below his throat held open by two self-retaining retractors. They pushed aside layers of skin, fat, and other tissue to reveal a sliced tracheal tube. Blood poured from the incision between the second and third tracheal rings.

The man underwent a tracheostomy. A common surgery. However, there were no surgeons, nurses, or anesthesiologists around. Instead, the man lay in a desolate operating room accompanied only by a confused Dimitry. Were it up to him, he’d create a Bjork flap next. But that wasn’t what concerned him at the moment.

“Where are we?” Dimitry asked. “And why are you in the middle of an operation? Where is your tracheostomy tube?”

“So that’s how I appear to you.”

Dimitry ventured forward and examined the man’s face, distinguishable under the glow of surgery lights. Plain brown eyes, fleshy nose, and short black hair. So familiar, but who was it? His existence was enigmatic like the man from the dark hall, but the environment differed. As did this man’s voice. How were the two related?

The man grinned. “A knight shows courage.”

Dimitry stepped back. The eerie sight of a person with a sliced trachea talking caught him off-guard. An impossibility. With exhaled air escaping through the slit rather than past the vocal cords, how did he manage speech?

“You can’t hear them, but they’re cheering for you.”

Cheering? Who would cheer for Dimitry? Everyone in Ravenfall seemed to hate his guts. “Are you talking about Precious and Saphiria?”

“Sure.” The man gave a hearty laugh. “Either way, you’ve won your patron support. They’ve prepared some gifts for you.”

His hand reached for a stainless steel medical tray beside the operating table and fished for something. He pushed aside forceps, scalpels, and other instruments until it grabbed hold of a book. The man threw it onto his abdomen and repeated the process with another until two lay on his gown.

“The rules state you can only pick one of the two. Choose wisely.”

“Rules for what? And who are my patrons?”

The man stayed silent.

Dimitry clenched his teeth. Whether it was from frustration or anger was uncertain. The man claimed him to be a ‘knight’ yet treated him no differently from a ‘pawn’.

After a deep breath, Dimitry turned his gaze towards the two books laying on the man’s stomach. Centuries of neglect wore their edges and corners. Like invisall’s tome, gold embroidery covered both. Alien characters bestowed both books with titles: ‘Accelall’ and ‘decelall’.

“What do they do?”

“One accelerates, the other decelerates.”

“That’s not a very helpful response. Anything more specific?”

“Choose.”

Dimitry gave up on coaxing information from the man. His glance shifted to the books. Assuming that both contained new spells, they would work like invisall. That meant they required vol to operate. Not only that, but every use would cause feedback and overload Dimitry’s body further. Given the state of his inflamed arms, the right one more so, abusing magic further would only set him back. It was useless to him. Assuming his ‘patron’ intended to send Dimitry back to Remora, even money was preferable.

“Isn’t there anything else you can offer me?”

“Survive long enough, and maybe you’ll have the chance to ask your patron directly. For now, choose.”

Dimitry frowned. Both options offered limited uses. However, since either spell likely required direct contact with the target to cast, one was superior to the other. Accelerating himself and his allies was safer than decelerating the enemy during an escape. The choice was obvious. He lifted the accelall tome from the man’s stomach.

“Are you sure?”

“If you’re not going to offer me anything better, then it’ll have to do.”

Dimitry pulled up the leather-bound cover to reveal a sheet of parchment. As soon as he attempted to read it, the characters on its surface glowed blue, turned clockwise, and sunk into its surface leaving behind only an empty yellow page.

Did he learn a new spell? Curious, Dimitry reached for his vol pouch only to find it wasn’t there anymore.

The man’s lips curled into a smile, and blood gushed from the gaping hole in his upper chest where a tracheostomy tube should be. “Even if you had some, I wouldn’t recommend its use.”

Dimitry put the spent book back on the man’s stomach. “How did you know what I was thinking?”

The man lifted the books off of his abdomen and, IV dangling from a vein in his arm, set them aside on a metal tray. They vanished.

The room was an enigma. It built itself, phased objects in and out of existence, and included a man who read Dimitry’s thoughts. How could it be a real place? Although it made little sense, it certainly felt real: chilly air currents, the overpowering scent of sterilization products, the man’s deep, vibratory voice.

“It’s time for the last step.”

Two large floor tiles beside Dimitry opened towards the ceiling like double doors, revealing a machine embedded in the ground. Glass cylinders resembling large upside-down test tubes protruded from its top surface, each containing a vibrant blue liquid. The machine rose slowly, releasing pale fumes that tickled the tips of his invisible toes. When it stopped moving, it emitted a satisfying “thunk” sound. A long crevice with an opening the size of a grapefruit indented the side of the machine facing Dimitry.

The contraption appeared identical to the one that carved a pawn into Dimitry’s wrist within the dark hall. Was he in the same place as last time? The man implied that the room appeared different based on the viewer. Was it Dimitry who changed and not the room?

“I’m guessing you want me to put my arm inside?”

“Knight, be courageous.”

Dimitry didn’t forget the agony the machine caused him last time. It sliced through tissue with a blade sharper than carved obsidian. His gaze shifted to the imprint on his wrist. The pawn’s mellow blue contrasted with that of inflamed purple vessels. Their presence would make the procedure hurt more than before, but what was a little more pain to him?

It was best to get it over with.

He thrust his arm into the machine.

Something akin to metal plates compressed around his arm, squeezing already agitated purple vessels. The pawn imprint melted into a thick liquid which flowed out of his wrist, then a blade sharper than a surgical scalpel pierced his flesh. Dimitry slammed his eyes shut as it sliced intricate shapes. When cool gel poured into his arm to numb it, he heaved a sigh of relief. Dimitry pulled out his arm, and the machine sunk into the ground.

The imprint of a chess knight embedded itself on his wrist. Did it have a purpose? It didn’t seem to be anything more than a decorative piece.

“You should be proud,” the man said.

“Proud?”

“Few who start as pawns make it to knighthood. Whether it was through luck or ingenuity, you defied fate.” He smiled, displaying brown and yellow teeth. “You have entertained them greatly.”

“Are you saying that everything I’ve been through was for someone’s enjoyment?”

“Enjoyment is just a benefit. Your life holds more value than that. Your patron. They would really appreciate it if you kept up the good work.”

“Who is ‘they’?”

“Looks like our time is up.”

“Wait!” Dimitry yelled. “Answer one more question.”

“Be quick.”

“What’s the emblem for?” Dimitry flashed his wrist at the teal robed patient.

“I’m not allowed to say much on the topic; it would be unfair to your opponents. Follow its guidance. With the aberrant route you’ve chosen, you’ll need all the help you can get.”

“Aberrant route? Opponent? Is something going to happen?”

“Just do your best.”

“What do you—”

Dimitry’s voice cut out. The man disappeared from his bed, and the room crumbled. He tried to shout, but his larynx wasn’t there anymore.

Darkness consumed the world once more.

26. Mutated Turkey

His eyes cracked open.

Mellow green light from a star-filled sky filtered through a canopy of trees. It danced with the warm red glow of embers on Dimitry’s face. They popped from the fireside. The savory scent of chicken wafted through the air, filling his mouth with saliva and serving as a reminder that life went on.

A tiny weight shifted on his forehead. Golden eyes peered into his. “Dumitry!”

He smiled at the sight of a faerie whose golden ponytail tickled his nose. “I see the Church hasn’t squashed you yet.”

“If you don’t hurry and get up, they will.”

Dimitry rolled forward. He attempted to push off the ground, but an intense soreness permeated his arms, eliciting a pained grimace from his face. A glance at his right palm revealed bulging purple vessels and the imprint of a blue knight on the wrist. That really happened. Again. But what did any of it mean?

Who were Dimitry's opponents?

Why did he have a patron?

What did the tracheostomy patient mean by 'aberrant route'?

Despite the ‘dream’, did Dimitry lay on a forest floor the entire time?

Steadfast footsteps approached, and the answerless questions swarming his mind receeded.

Saphiria pointed to his arms. “Don’t push yourself, your circuits are overloaded. Any worse, and you'll need a thaumaturge to treat them.”

So that was what those purple vessels were called—circuits. “And how long until they heal?”

“That depends.” Her slender lips curved into a hesitant smile. “Do you have any more bridges on your hit list? I’ve made food if you’re hungry.”

Saphiria’s joke surprised Dimitry. Not only was it unexpected, but it also coaxed beauty from her historically stony face. The collar stole more than just her freedom. “I could do with something to eat.”

“Yeah, me too!” Precious said.

“Don’t you have leaves to munch on?” Dimitry mused as he stood.

“That’s the thanks I get for watching over you?”

“I’m sure you nagged all manner of vicious predators into submission.”

The faerie landed on his shoulder, her wings jingling like tiny wind chimes. “Don’t forget, you still owe me a gift.”

“I’m sure I couldn’t even if I wanted to.” He placed his hands by the fire to ward off nighttime frost. “You’ll remind me every chance you get.”

Dimitry glanced at a wide strip of bark carrying a roasted avian. Two of four wings were already missing from a shredded abdomen.

Escaping with Saphiria was the right choice. Her ability to forage and improvise in the wilds exceeded his own in every way. The only supplies they had were the clothes on their backs and the stuffed leather bag Dimitry accrued during his time at the brothel.

The contents wouldn’t last long.

Saphiria gently stroked the neck of a black horse. “Aerfowl was the best I could prepare given the circumstances.”

Dimitry noticed he watched the roasted avian carcass with glazed eyes for far too long. “It’s not that. It looks delicious. I was just thinking about what to do next. If we stay in the forest, our supplies will run out soon.”

“The Church is probably searching for us, too.”

“Makes sense considering what we did.”

The girl paused. “We should head to Vael to resupply.”

“That town?” He reached for a wing, whose charcoaled skin crumbled under the weight of his fingers. “Don’t they have a church there? I remember seeing one during our deliveries.”

Saphiria pulled the gray-glowing scarf out from beneath her cloak. “As long as I keep this hidden, a church that small won’t be a problem. I’ll enter Vael alone to avoid detection. Zeran patrols from Ravenfall are the real threat. They know what we look like.”

“What’s the best way to avoid them?”

“I suggest we stay off the main road and step further into the forest whenever anyone comes near. Few will be able to follow us. I’ll handle anyone that does.”

Having someone cautious and capable to bounce ideas off of eased the tension in Dimitry’s shoulders. He bit into poultry that had a crunchy surface but tender meat. Impressive what one could do with just a campfire. Back at the church, he thought Saphiria would stab him to death. Instead, she killed Delphine and was thoughtful enough to prepare a meal for him afterward.

“Hey, Saphiria.”

“Yes?”

“I was wondering,” he said between bites, “what were you thinking when I wrapped that scarf around your neck?”

She sat beside him. “I wanted to kill you.”

“Kill me?”

“But more than that, I was shocked that someone would assault a bishop. Before I had the chance to act, the collar lost its influence on me.”

“At least something worked out.”

Saphiria’s eyebrows furrowed, and her indigo irises stared at the side of his face. “That being said, what you did was dangerous, and I can’t help but wonder why you risked your life to help me.”

Dimitry considered lying to her, but there was no point—a perceptive girl like her would see right through him. Having a loud-mouthed faerie nearby didn’t increase his odds.

He dropped the aerfowl’s bones and buried them into the dirt with his boot’s heel. “I’d like to say it’s because I’m a good person, but the truth is that I need your help. As you can probably tell, I’m not much of a fighter or a survivalist.”

“Especially with your hands in that pitiful state,” Precious chimed in.

Saphiria spent a moment in silence. “So you wanted to use me?”

“I prefer to think of it as a trade. If you guide me to somewhere far away from Ravenfall, I promise to never bother you again.”

“I can kill you, steal your supplies, and escape at any moment. You have no reason to trust me.”

“That’s a calculated gamble on my part.” Dimitry wiped grease from his hands with a moistened rag. “But I have two things working in my favor.”

“Two?”

“The first is the fact you risked punishment to reveal Delphine’s plans of enslavement to me.”

“And the other?”

Dimitry smirked. “No one who’s as compassionate towards animals as you would hurt someone unless they had to. Well, that’s what I think, anyway.”

She looked down and away as if in deep contemplation.

He repacked his bag and strapped it over his shoulder.

“There’s a third,” Saphiria said.

“Oh?”

She stood and smiled. “You never finished telling me about your gemstone collection, and I want to tell you about the waterwheel-powered blast furnace bellows back home.”

A chuckle escaped Dimitry. “I’d love to hear all about it. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of time to talk.”

They left their camping spot and journeyed along the forested side of a meandering dirt road like Saphiria suggested they should. Although trudging through dense greenery slowed travel, trees and bushes provided cover from Church patrols. They weren’t uncommon. Dimitry occasionally saw them while delivering butchered corpses for Delphine. In groups of four, two armored male equestrians rode ahead of two robed women, eyes scouring every direction.

Tonight, however, the patrols were more frequent. Saphiria was right to err on the side of caution. Fortunately, not having to haul around a cart full of cadavers hastened their pace.

Julia carried them half of the time. According to Precious, upholding two passengers at once for extended periods irritated the black horse, so they alternated between riding and walking instead. By the next day’s afternoon, they reached Vael’s new bridge.

The structure, composed of rough hemp ropes and crude log beams, traversed a shallow ravine. It swung side to side and bobbed up and down with the slightest movement. Such a shoddy bridge made one feel as though any step could be their last. After coaxing a mortified Julia across, the group stood on the town’s outskirts, far from wandering eyes.

“Food, water, warm socks, and gloves,” Saphiria said. “Will we need anything else from the market?”

“Fent!” Precious shouted.

“Fent?”

Dimitry shook his head. “It’s kind of her thing—just one will last her an eternity. I know it’s a bother, but do you mind?”

With a contemplative frown, Saphiria examined the faerie. “Why? Will it brew ale for us?”

“Do I look like a brewer to you? I just rescued you from being some lady’s pet. Show some respect, hussy.”

Stroking his chin, Dimitry now understood why the inns and markets of Ravenfall stocked a melon that tasted like crap: it was an intermediary ingredient in producing alcoholic beverages. He wondered how much concentrated ethanol a single fruit could create. The knowledge might help when he established a clinic… eventually.

“The more fent we feed Precious,” he said, “the less she’ll talk. Isn’t that best for everyone involved?”

A feeble pinch massaged his earlobe.

Saphiria smiled. “In that case, I’ll make sure to buy lots.”

Dimitry couldn’t suppress his laughter.

“Fine. Next time you two are on the verge of lifelong slavery, don’t count on my help. I’ll sit there and laugh—just like this: Hahahaha!”

Disregarding Precious’ adorable threat, Saphiria glanced at the empty sheath strapped to her pants. “I need a new dagger. I left mine in Ravenfall.”

“Correction, you left it inside a lady’s throat.”

“I’m going.” After shooting a lethal glare at the faerie, Saphiria walked away. She stopped to pat the sides of her cloak as if looking for her car keys and twitched back. Her red face said it all.

Dimitry held out a small pouch that jingled with over a dozen coins. “Would one gold be enough?”

“I think so. Sorry.”

He pressed a gold gadot into Saphiria’s palm and smiled. “It’s not like I gave you time to prepare before the incident at the church. I saw your skill with daggers, so don’t be afraid to spend as much as you think you need.”

“Thank you.”

“By the way,” Dimitry said, “you mentioned a temporary shelter on the way here. Normally I wouldn’t mind waiting here for you, but someone might see me loitering so close to town.”

She pointed alongside the river. “Follow the trail, then head right at the second crossroads. There’s a barn in an abandoned village not far away. You’ll be out of sight of patrols.”

“Got it.”

“And don’t forget to feed Julia. Anywhere with grass will do.”

“I won’t. She deserves something for her trouble.”

Saphiria nodded and left for the market square.

“Hey.” Precious tugged on his tunic. “What if she ran away with the money?”

Dimitry stepped around a ditch containing a dark, rancid mixture. He wanted to trust Saphiria, but this cutthroat world necessitated constant caution. “That’s why I keep you around. What’s your professional opinion?”

“Hmm… aside from shame and fear and disdain for me, I don’t sense much else.”

All sensible emotions.

“Come on, Julia.” Dimitry tugged the black horse’s reins. The gentle giant exhaled, and her warm breath penetrated his cloak to tickle his neck.

The path they followed ran parallel to the river before swerving into a tiny village whose walls comprised shattered palisades. They barricaded four dilapidated cottages, a chicken coop with a collapsed roof, and a tall barn. A baby basket rotting in dirt hinted that the residents hurriedly fled a decade ago. Or perhaps they never left at all.

“Sense anyone?” Dimitry asked.

“Not really.”

“What do you mean, ‘not really’? Either you sense someone or you don’t.”

“Oh, Dumitry. When will you ever learn?” Precious pointed to the barn. “There’s a large animal there.”

“Large like a bear?”

“What’s a bear?”

“Nothing important, apparently.” Wondering what other Earth species didn’t exist on this planet, Dimitry creaked open the barn’s double doors.

Inside, a trough overflowing with brown water from past rainfall bathed a pig. Its alarmed eyes shot up.

“Will that be a problem?” Dimitry asked.

Sitting on his shoulder, Precious shrugged. “I’m only getting a little bit of nervousness. Nothing much in the way of anger. Usually, a wild animal would charge or run away, so I’m gonna guess it escaped from some peasant’s farm.”

Julia’s head peeked past Dimitry to gently snort at their surprise roommate.

The pig grunted back and continued to dig through moist refuse.

Did Dimitry just witness one of nature’s miracles? Exhaustion from a day’s hike through bumpy wilderness hills left him too tired to care. He released Julia’s reins at last and pointed to a massive patch of overgrown grass in the village’s center. “Hungry?”

The horse nudged his shoulder as she pranced forth, but Julia was in no rush to eat. Instead, she rolled in greenery and fell unconscious beside a mossy pole. It seemed even animals needed breaks from uneven forest floors.

Dimitry stretched his palm to ease the discomfort of gripping thick rope in his uninjured hand for hours. Strolling into the barn, the stench of moist and decaying wood assaulted his nostrils, but the smell of dissected corpses pooling in coagulated blood desensitized him to disgust. Mold wasn’t a threat, either. Frigid weather deactivated spores, and mycotoxicosis typically affected people who ate mold rather than inhaled it. Short-term exposure was harmless. If anything, the largely intact walls the fungi colonized on offered a reprieve from icy winds.

Rather than his own safety, he considered Saphiria’s. The Church hunted her while she shopped for and carried supplies across unforgiving lands. What if she got caught? Would they kill her? When Dimitry offered to take the risk in her place, she declined, citing her knowledge of the land and lack of pale green eyes as an advantage. He should have insisted.

“What’s got you so worried?” Precious asked.

“Think Saphiria will be okay?”

"I'm sure she'll be fine." She drifted onto the lid of a dented barrel and sat, slowly kicking its walls with tiny legs. “But you won’t because you don’t have fent to shut me up, right?”

Dimitry sighed. “You’re still ruminating on that? You know I didn’t mean it.”

“You did a little.”

“Maybe a little, but it was just a joke.”

Precious fell silent, such that the weak chiming of her green wings could be heard. She watched the floor with downcast eyes. “Dimitry.”

“Yeah?”

“I know I say dumb things sometimes, and even though I’m trying really really hard, I can’t always stop myself.”

To hear an apology from her came as a shock. He watched on with concerned eyes.

“Please don’t take it personally," she said. "I… I don’t want you to abandon me too.”

Unsure of how to respond, Dimitry paused. Although the faerie did indeed have a crude tongue, she kept silent on Dimitry’s request. And, instead of ditching him during their escape from Ravenfall, Precious risked her life to free Saphiria in return for a meager gift.

Good character showed through action, not words.

As someone who went from being a moron who considered terrorizing city streets a good time to a repentant medical student, he knew well the difficulty of personal transformation.

“As long as you really are trying,” Dimitry said, “I’ll have no reason to cast you aside. Keep working on yourself.” He flashed a comforting smile. “Sometimes, that’s the only thing we can do.”

27. Dirt Cartography

Iron grinding against stone interlaced with the rhythmic snoring of swine. They worked in tandem to fill the void of an abandoned village that, except for interspersed hoots, lay silent. Faint green moonlight and cold air filtered through the barn’s cracked wooden walls. In the center, an oil lamp struggled to brighten the silhouettes of a sleepy horse, a mother pig and her snoozing babies, and three weary travelers. Or would criminals be a more appropriate term?

Dimitry, hands around a cozy flame, watched Saphiria sharpen the tip of a foot-long dagger with a flat rock. Her practiced hands moved with precision—every stroke identical to the dozens before it.

“Is that another skill you learned in Malten?” he asked.

“No…” Her voice was grim. “Estoria.”

Lying on a fire-warmed towel, Precious yawned. “Judging by the self-hatred, I’m guessing that’s something you’re not very proud of.”

The dagger flew out of Saphiria’s hand and stuck into a support column. Staring at the faerie, she walked to retrieve her weapon. “Still not sharp enough.”

Dimitry sighed. Maybe he gave Precious too much credit. “You really should think twice before provoking her, or else we might end up having faerie fillet for dinner.”

“Ooh, scary. Besides, I don’t think I’d make for a filling meal.”

Saphiria sat back down and picked the grinding stone off the floor. “You may not be aware, but faeries are demonic creatures. Don’t trust it.”

He glanced at Precious, who lazily polished her wings with a tiny fistful of cloth. Although the critter riled up everyone around her, from stupidity or instinct, she didn’t look particularly demonic. “Why would you say that?”

“Faeries are known for killing travelers and farm animals.”

“Ironic how a murderer calls me a killer,” Precious said.

“Is what she said true?” Dimitry asked.

“The Church refers to everyone who disagrees with them as corrupted or demonic. When you slaughter a cow out of hunger, does that make you a demon?”

“Maybe if we lived in a society ruled by cows,” he said, “but that’s not the point. Saphiria and I don’t want to get stabbed in the back.”

“If you’re that worried,” Precious muttered, “tell me to leave and I will.”

Between her and a Church that marketed their slave trade as salvation, the choice of who to trust was easy. Dimitry smiled. “I already told you I won’t. Besides, I still owe you for your help back in Ravenfall.”

The faerie’s face brightened. “A-anyway, we’ve got some planning to do.” She struggled to lift a small branch and dragged it across the barn’s dirt floor to draw a cross. “Let’s say we’re here.”

Saphiria’s gaze shifted away from her knife and towards the beginnings of a makeshift map.

“To get to Malten, we have two choices.” Precious drew two arrows.

Saphiria pointed to the arrow facing northwest. “We can’t go that way.”

“Why not?”

“Because, Dumitry, that one goes through The Holy Kingdom of Zera. I don’t think any of us would be welcome there.”

That made sense. Dimitry assaulted a bishop, Saphiria was an escaped servant, and Precious was a so-called demonic creature. Finding a less pious group would prove difficult.

“So our only option is to go west?” he asked.

Saphiria’s raven black hair poured from her hood when she leaned forward. “To Estoria.”

“Yep. The Church will be there too, but they have less authority in Amalthea than in their own borders.” Precious drew an arc opening upward to the left of ‘Estoria’. “Then we have to cross the gulf.”

“You’re knowledgeable for something that shouldn’t be able to speak,” Saphiria said.

“Live as long as I have, and that sort of thing comes naturally.”

Based on facial structure, the faerie looked no older than a girl in her late teens. Dimitry leaned back against a wooden column. “And how long is that?”

“Don’t ask a lady her age.”

“Then don’t bring it up.”

Saphiria dragged her dagger’s hilt to draw a long landmass extending upwards to the west of the gulf. “We’ll have to find a ship to take us from Estoria to Coldust. Has anyone been there before?”

“Nope,” Precious said. “I heard there’s only sand wherever you look, and it’s always freezing.” She snuggled into Dimitry’s cloak. “But something tells me that staying warm won’t be a problem anymore. Maybe Coldust will make a good vacation spot.”

“Do you speak any Melvum?”

“Barely.”

Saphiria glanced at Dimitry. “How about you?”

He stroked his chin. Ever since arriving in this world, every language sounded and read like English. Dimitry couldn’t name individual characters, nor did he know the dialect, but as far as he knew, he encountered only two languages: the one written on Ravenfall’s sparse signs, and the other in the dark hall’s magic tomes.

“I’m not sure,” he said, “but I might.”

Precious’s face scrunched up. “You don’t even know what languages you speak?”

Wondering if it was best to keep his mouth shut, Dimitry spoke the truth to avoid excess suspicion. “After some weird stuff happened, I’m not sure what’s what anymore.”

“What kinda stuff happened?”

“As I said, I’m not sure.”

Saphiria brushed her hair back behind her ear to reveal a glint in her indigo eyes. “Do you know where you’re from?”

“Somewhere really far away from here. Really, really far.”

“Well…” Precious said, “he’s not lying, at least. Probably hit his head on a low ceiling somewhere. Doesn’t know truth from fiction anymore.”

Saphiria’s eyes narrowed. “With a dozen mugs of ale a day, any blacksmith would slave away.”

Dimitry blinked at the sudden poetry recital. “Blacksmiths sure sound like a demanding bunch.”

Her slender hand lifted to cover an open mouth.

“What’s so impressive?” Precious waved her tiny arm. “I can speak Whorlfahst too, you know.”

Whorlfahst was a language, and apparently, Dimitry spoke it.

Saphiria leaned forward, studying his face. “I never saw anyone with your features. Do you remember which region of the Gestalt Empire you lived in? I’m guessing you’re from Einheart with Zeran roots. Am I right?”

“Sorry, it’s as Precious said: I don’t know much about anything.”

“Leave it to me.” She flashed a stunning smile. “If you come with me to Malten, I’ll introduce you to my father. Someone at the castle will definitely help you remember. I promise.”

“C-castle?”

She nodded.

Although the girl mentioned her father’s fiefdom before, Saphiria left out the part about having a castle. Was it similar to the one in Ravenfall? If so, her family was wealthy. Maintaining a private army and garrison alongside a separate set of walls required vast fortunes. Fortunes that could hire Dimitry. That would keep him and his patients safe. “I’d love to take you up on your offer.”

Precious raised her hand. “How about me? Can I—”

The sound of crunching grass drew nearer.

Saphiria’s smile vanished. She held a finger to her lips and extinguished the lamp.

Footsteps—they trailed around the barn and stopped at the front door.

Precious dived into Dimitry’s cloak and whispered. “Three people. They’re hunting for something, and I don’t think it’s those pigs.”

Dimitry tugged on Saphiria’s hand and held up three fingers. “Hostile.”

She nodded before picking up her dagger and the sharpening stone. Her crouched figure was almost imperceptible in sparse green moonlight.

Unlike her, Dimitry was useless. Ever since the escape, pulsating aches consumed his arms. Both Saphiria and the man in the dark hall advised him to avoid using magic to prevent aggravating his overloaded palms. Dimitry agreed with their advice but held a vol pellet just in case.

It was better to live in pain than die in regret.

Straw rustled as he stepped away from Saphiria; her dispelia scarf would nullify invisall.

The barn’s door burst open.

Three intruders shuffled in: a man with a sword and leather armor, another with a dagger, and a portly one carrying a bow in the back. Green light lit the sides of their faces.

Dimitry’s heart beat faster. As he crouched past composting straw and wood chunks, something round jabbed into his boot’s sole. Although darkness hid the object’s identity, its rusted iron texture made it a good weapon.

He picked it up.

The purple vasculature bulging from his palm pulsed in agony.

“Come out ye fuckers,” the man with a dagger said, “we saw yer lot extinguish the light!”

The mother pig and her piglets emitted ear-piercing squeals.

A green glint ejected from the shadows. When it reached the man with the sword, he collapsed with a thud softened by dirt.

“John, get up ye cunt!” The dagger-wielding man kicked his downed compatriot in the hip. “John, are ye—”

Another projectile flew across the room, disarming the portly bowman.

“Bon!” The dagger-wielding man shouted. “What the fuck’s up with both of ye!”

Their inattention presented a chance.

Dimitry dashed forward, tightening his grip around the metal object. All of its weight smashed into the third man’s temple.

They fell to the barn floor.

In his opponent’s moment of weakness, Dimitry retrieved a dagger from an unresisting hand. “Precious, is that all of them?”

“I don’t sense anyone else.”

The portly one tried to back out, but it was too late.

Saphiria slammed her knee into his groin, threw his quiver and arrows across the room, and locked the doors with a rotating plank. There was no escape.

A half-conscious Julia arose from her slumber. The black horse’s wide-open eyes scanned the room, examining all three downed men. She approached Saphiria and nibbled her cloak.

“I know you’re scared, sweetheart. I know you’re scared. Give me a moment.” After briefly stroking the animal’s neck, Saphiria fished the lamp from its burial spot and hovered her palm over the wick. “Ignia.”

Feeble flames illuminated the barn once more.

Dimitry knelt beside a man with a dagger buried in the left side of their chest. In the operating room, he would have performed a sternotomy to open the chest and identify the damage. However, given the blade’s length, the weapon had breached the chest wall and lodged into the heart. Distended jugular veins hinted that the blood seeping into the victim’s tunic also pooled in the pericardium—the chamber encasing the heart—reducing the muscular organ’s stroke volume and therefore its ability to pump blood.

Pressing two shaky fingers against the victim’s wrist, Dimitry discovered what he feared most—a pulse that grew rapid. The man presented with the symptoms of cardiac tamponade. At this rate, shock and death would occur within the next few minutes. Attempting a resuscitation was pointless.

Like a virulent disease in a nursing home, Dimitry left dead bodies wherever he went. “Saphiria, you can come get your dagger. This one’s basically dead.”

“Understood.” Saphiria placed her foot against the man’s chest and, after some difficulty, retrieved her dagger.

“W-wait.” The bowman scurried into a barn corner. “Don’t hurt me.”

Precious flew out from under Dimitry’s cloak and grinned. “Still think I’m a backstabbing demonic creature?”

“I… I appreciate the help,” Saphiria said.

“Sp-speaking f-faerie?” The bowman blurted. “Who… who are you people?”

“Shut up a moment.” Dimitry examined the unconscious man he assaulted with a horseshoe to discover a regular heart rate. He heaved a relieved breath. “This one might live.”

“Understood.” Saphiria pressed her bloody dagger to the man’s throat.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Dimitry said.

“We have no need for him.”

“No need for him? Who the fuck says something like that? Look at him! He’s in his twenties. What if he has a wife and kid waiting for him back home? They’ll die without him.”

Saphiria bared murderous eyes. “You’re naïve to think we should let him live. We must consider only ourselves if we’re to ever reach Malten. Pity is a fool’s errand.”

“What if there’s a better way? There has to be a better way.”

“For people like I, there isn’t.” Her words crude and her movements jagged, she watched Dimitry as if awaiting a better solution.

He didn’t have one.

Whether he put the man to sleep or tied them up, leaving witnesses would only bite them in the ass. He didn’t want to kill. He didn’t want to see Saphiria kill. And yet…

No.

They weren’t killing. They were putting someone out of their misery. Dimitry couldn’t watch someone suffer in their final moments.

Severe blunt head trauma from a horseshoe impact left the man with a bump on their temple. Although there wasn’t evidence of a skull fracture, the victim’s pupils were bilaterally dilated, neither shrinking or expanding in response to the lamp’s light. In an unconscious patient, the cause was often intracranial hemorrhage—a death sentence unless surgically treated in a modern facility.

If anything, they would be rescuing the man from around ten agonizing final days. A simple administration of medieval euthanasia.

That was what Dimitry told himself.

Feeling something dark and festering and clawing into the deepest pits of his gut, he massaged his eyelids—perhaps so he couldn’t see himself. “Please. Make it painless.”

“I will.” Saphiria tightened her grip around the dagger and plunged it into the man’s heart. She retrieved it, wiped the bloodied iron against the lifeless victim’s cloak, and slid the weapon back into the sheath strapped to her leg.

“You two get along like an old couple,” Precious mused. “Except, you know, the murdering people part.”

Dimitry buried his self-disgust and turned his attention to the bowman. “Why’d you make us do this?”

“A-are you going to k-kill me?”

"Answer me!"

“I’m s-so sorry—”

Seething rage from being forced into murder erupted within Dimitry. He slammed his boot into a dilapidated barn wall, whose fragile wooden plank shattered on impact. “We don’t give a fuck about your excuses! Why did you attack us?!”

“T-the town crier. Just this evening. He… he said a man with p-pale green eyes, a companion, and a b-black horse… I didn’t know anything about a faerie.” The bowman held an arm towards the roof. “Zera, save me from the corruption.”

Precious burst into laughter. “Oh, Zera can’t save you now. Us demonic creatures will eat your soul.”

“Celeste guide me!”

“Ha! I love this guy.”

Did word of their crimes spread this far already?

“How did you know we were here?” Saphiria asked.

“My neighbor’s d-daughter was p-playing by the river. She said something about a b-beautiful black stallion following a man. My wife… my wife saw a woman go the same way later. We thought you were the ones the town crier spoke about, s-so—”

“Julia isn’t a stallion.” Saphiria frowned. “She’s a lady.”

“W-what?” the bowman muttered.

Really? Correcting the horse’s sex was what concerned Saphiria most? Dimitry stepped forward. “Is anyone else coming?”

“N-no, sir. I swear.”

“Did the town crier mention anything about a Zeran servant, a holy cleric, or a surgeon?”

“I… I don’t think so, sir.”

“Does anyone else know we’re here?”

The bowman shook his head. “W-we just tracked your f-footprints, s-sir.”

“You’re poachers?” Saphiria asked.

“Y-yes, ma’am.”

Dimitry glanced at the faerie on his shoulder. “Did he lie at any point?”

Precious wiped joyful tears from her eyes with the edge of her tattered gown. “No, but I think he might’ve soiled his braies.”

Dagger drawn, Saphiria approached the man.

Knowing her intentions, all anger drained from Dimitry. “Wait. This one doesn’t have to die. Please, let’s just use the snoozia canister. We’ll be long gone before he wakes up.”

“Even if he sleeps throughout the night, he will alert the shire-reeve by noon, messengers will alert every surrounding settlement, and we will be killed or captured halfway to Estoria.”

“I-I won’t tell anyone,” the man uttered. “I swear I won’t tell anyone!”

“Nice try, lying guy!”

“Precious, are you sure he’s lying now?” Dimitry asked. “You’re not misleading us?”

“Look, I may be a 'corrupted creature', but I still hold myself to a standard, okay?”

Dimitry’s heart dropped. Would he rather harm Saphiria and Precious or the man who tried to kill them? The answer was obvious. Hounding guilt forced him to avert his gaze. “Forgive me.”

Saphiria continued her approach.

“P-please. I’m s-so so sorr—”

That night, an agonized scream lodged itself into Dimitry's mind.

28. Crawling Rocks

Dimitry walked along a path, feet dragging through dirt. All he could think about were those three dead men. He knew that letting them live would have endangered Saphiria and Precious, that self-preservation necessitated the cruelty, but the hollow nagging in his gut said otherwise. He was regressing further into the scum he was in his teenage years.

No.

Who he was now was worse. Although Dimitry used to steal from innocent passersby, he never purposefully harmed anyone. The threat of violence was enough. However, in the past few days, not only did he murder three men who thought they bettered the world by hunting down heretical fugitives, but he also killed a slavery taskmistress and her errand boy. Today’s Dimitry was a homicidal maniac.

And yet, his ruthless spree wasn’t what bothered him most. It was the ease with which Dimitry slid into his new role, the muted remorse for his actions, the justification he felt for defending himself with lethal force, the inability to find a peaceful solution, that elicited self-disdain.

“Why so down, Dumitry?” Precious tugged on his collar. “There are plenty more humans out there. It’s not like you killed them all.”

He strapped the coin pouch to his waist. “I don’t think a faerie would understand.”

“It’s not just faeries. Anyone should be relieved to kill someone trying to murder them.” She climbed into his cloak’s hood and cuddled at the base of his neck. “You’re the only weirdo carrying around guilt for no reason.”

“That’s not a bad thing.” Saphiria was pulling Julia’s reins. “My father told me that a warrior bears the weight of everyone they kill in war, but that shouldn’t stop them from defending what’s important.”

Dimitry sighed. He was no warrior, nor did he defend anyone—just a modern man bumbling around trying to survive in a warped caricature of medieval society. To distract himself, he gazed at the endless road ahead. “We’re headed the right way?”

“Yep,” Precious said. “Estoria is only a few days away.”

The longer they traveled, the more likely word of their misdeeds would spread to their destination before they arrived. Walking slowed them down enough. “Think Julia will let us ride her again?”

Saphiria caressed the bridge of the black horse’s nose. “How are you feeling?”

Julia raised her head to utter a sound resembling a gentle chainsaw.

“I think she’s rested enough.”

“Let’s do it then.”

“Wait.” Saphiria glanced at Dimitry, indigo eyes full of concern. “You should sit in front.”

“Why the sudden change?”

“The heavier rider goes in front, or else we might hurt Julia’s back.”

Dimitry had learned a lot about riding horses in the past two days. For example, never to grip Julia with his legs, or else the animal would run full speed, causing him to fly off. In other words, he became good at staying out of Saphiria’s way. Not a suitable skill set for riding in front.

“If that’s the case, you’re going to have to teach me.”

She nodded.

“Just don’t fall off again, Dumitry. You nearly flattened me into a trencher last time.”

“Maybe that would’ve been for the best.” He grabbed a handful of the black horse’s mane, and, using it as leverage, hopped onto a saddleless back.

Saphiria grabbed his shoulder, jumped up, and pulled in close. Her warmth on his back blocked the approaching winter’s chill.

“Not so close, lady!” Precious crawled out from Dimitry’s hood. “You almost squished me!”

Perhaps out of consideration for the faerie, Saphiria leaned away. “Don’t squeeze Julia with your legs. I’ll control the reins until you find your balance.”

Progress was slow. Although Dimitry didn’t fall off—perhaps from latent talent or an aptitude for rapid learning—he made many mistakes. Mixed signals that confused the horse, a slouched posture, pulling on the reins too hard. Over several days, Saphiria hammered each problem as it cropped up, and Julia seemed happier for it.

Traffic along the road to Estoria became frequent. Both Church and Amalthean patrols dashed through, kicking dust into the air. Fortunately, Precious could sense their emotions, giving Dimitry enough time to pull into a dense forest and out of sight. Whether they hunted his group was unclear, but he wasn’t one to take that chance. Based on what the poacher said, someone was searching for them.

Four days after they left Vael, they traveled down the same road.

Pitter-patters came from every direction. Drizzle rustled grass and leaves and fluttered onto dirt, gradually converting it into mud. The humid air carried an earthy scent. Dimitry’s cloak, drenched and cool, clung to his body to contrast the warmth pressed against his back and the speck of heat snuggling against his neck.

Julia’s cantering footsteps plopped into a thin layer of mud, giving rise to a tranquil ambiance. Tranquil, except for the strange sensation in Dimitry’s wrist. The imprint of a blue knight tugged forward as if it to leap out and go somewhere on its own. The man in the operating room told him to follow its guidance, but neglected to mention where it would lead. What awaited Dimitry at the destination?

“Four coming from behind,” Precious said. “They’re around the bend.”

“Patrols?” Saphiria whispered.

“Yep.”

Dimitry leaned forward and pulled Julia’s reins to the left. The horse slowed to a trot before entering the woods—a routine they practiced dozens of times by now, and one they performed more frequently every day.

Prolonged travel left them tired, dirty, and smelly. Dimitry’s ass and legs, sore from consecutive days of horseback riding, ached constantly.

“I miss showers,” he muttered, guiding the horse deeper into a labyrinth of oaks and bushes.

“Rain not good enough for you?”

“I’m not talking about the weather. It’s a thing we did back home.”

“Tell me about it,” Saphiria said.

“You know how the brothel has bathtubs?”

“Yes.”

“We have bathtubs too, but with drains in them. And above your head, there’s a tool that pours hot water for as long as you want it to.”

Saphiria stayed quiet for a moment, the emptiness of her silence filled by trampled greenery. “How many attendants did you have?”

“Attendants?”

“To carry buckets of water and firewood.”

“None. It was all done by machines. The process is hard to explain.”

“We have machines, too.”

“I suppose you do, but ours were fully automated. They did almost everything for you.”

Precious paused. “He’s actually telling the truth…”

“I wish to see it someday,” Saphiria said, longing in her voice. “The fantastical place you come from.”

He smiled. “If only both of you could experience it, too.”

Saphiria rested her head against his back. As if in a daze, she swayed from side to side.

Interrupted sleep and hypervigilance exhausted them all. It was time for a break. He pulled Julia’s reins towards a dense canopy that would serve as a respite from unrelenting rainfall. “Let’s rest. I’m sure Julia’s tired too.”

Dimitry dismounted and stretched his back, which ached from sleeping on uneven ground for many nights. His hands shivered. That and blue nail beds indicated early onset hypothermia. Considering he wore drenched clothes in cold weather, it was a logical conclusion. The most important task was to get a fire going or heat loss would kill them before the Church had a chance.

“I’ll collect wood,” he said.

Eyelids heavy, Saphiria nodded. “I’ll handle the firepit.”

Dimitry lifted a moistened branch, and his brows furrowed. How strange. A drop of vibrant blue liquid burned into the wood, eroding the surrounding bark. “Precious.”

She yawned and tossed under his cloak, her wings tickling his neck. “What is it?”

“Do you know what this is?”

Her head peeked out, golden ponytail dangling over Dimitry’s shoulder. “That’s heathen blood. Makes sense considering we’re getting closer to the coast.”

Blood that corroded wood? Suddenly, collecting firewood didn’t seem important. Another drop of heathen blood wilted nearby grass. And another. The liquid grew in volume until a narrow blue stream flowed past a dying brown shrub.

Dimitry’s fatigue vanished in an instant. A bout of curiosity took its place, energizing him enough to dash along the stream, past a barricade of bushes, and over a fallen log.

His mouth opened and didn’t close for a long time.

An abomination lay on a withered grassy field. Six stone legs—bent at the knee and tips like sharp fence posts—connected to a small spherical central body. Bright blue blood dribbled from a shattered gap and pooled inside the otherwise hollow cavity’s lower hemisphere.

As a whole, the creature looked like a daddy long-legs except made of stone. Varied stone. Limestone legs, basalt legs, and a spherical sandstone core. Each limb as long as an NBA player was tall, they were all carved to perfection—feats impossible in a world without modern machining tools.

Most curious were the blue lines covering its entire body. They diverged, converged, and ran parallel to one another to create an elaborate maze whose purpose escaped Dimitry. “Is it safe to get close?”

“It looks dead…” Precious said, “but you never know with crawling devils.”

Dimitry stroked his chin. “Crawling devils?”

“That’s what the Church calls them, so everyone else does too.”

He wanted to study the ‘corpse’ further, but a sense of foreboding deep within his abdomen warned against it. Instead, Dimitry lobbed a rock, which clanged against the creature’s perfectly shaped leg then fell to the wayside. Could such a thing experience death? It resembled a machination more than a living being.

“Is everything okay?” an exhausted voice uttered from behind.

Dimitry looked back to see Saphiria emerge from a bush, indigo eyes devoid of their characteristic alertness.

“We’re not armed to fight heathens,” she said, “be careful.”

How did people whose cutting-edge weaponry comprised swords and bows wage war against stone beasts? Piercing marble plating would be difficult even with modern technology.

“What would we need to kill one?” he asked.

“The farmers in Malten fought off crawling devils with hammers and crossbows,” Saphiria said. “They used them to burst the blood sack.”

“I’m guessing the round middle is the blood sack?”

“Only on crawling devils.”

“Why, is there more than one type?”

“Yep,” Precious said. “Ever since they showed up about a century ago, new types began appearing. They used to be small with only two feet, but now you can even see gigantic ones in the ocean.”

“Really?” Saphiria watched the faerie with awe and suspicion. “How do you know that?”

“If you live as long as I have, you’ll get to see all kinds of things.”

“And they all come from the ocean?” Dimitry asked.

“Yep.”

Saphiria turned to face him. “How do your people fight them? Or do you have machines that do that for you?”

“Dumitry didn’t even know they existed until a moment ago. Probably spent all his time doing showers.”

“Taking showers,” he corrected.

The drizzle grew in strength. Weighty droplets beat against the heathen’s solid carapace and, like thousands of miniature percussion drums, their immaculate chorus sang to the tune of rustling grass. Full gray clouds hinted the downpour would only worsen. A fire may not be enough.

Saphiria, who struggled to hide her trembling lips, stood beside Dimitry. Her slender figure lacked the proper insulation to survive near-freezing temperatures while wet. Precious was no different. There was no time to spare gawking at a carved rock.

“How long until we reach Estoria?” Dimitry pivoted towards Julia.

“Heathens and strengthened patrols mean we’re close,” Saphiria said. “If we hurry, we’ll make it before midnight.”

Precious buried into Dimitry’s tunic. “S-so coooold.”

The flat bottoms of his boots slipped on wet greenery as he ran. Hopefully, Julia’s horseshoes wouldn’t do the same. The poor thing was exhausted, and normally they would let her rest, but the circumstances demanded immediate action.

“Let’s go, Julia.” Dimitry grabbed onto the beast’s mane, but before he could hop on, the animal shook its head and walked away.

“It’s annoyed,” Precious warned.

“So it seems.”

Saphiria approached the horse from the side, rhythmically stroking her neck. “We need your help. You don’t like it out here in the cold either, do you?”

Julia stopped.

“It’s just a little further.” She scratched the horse’s ears, and Julia’s eyes closed as if in deep relaxation.

“All better?” Dimitry asked.

“I think she’ll let us on now,” Saphiria said, petting the horse. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Julia exhaled a gentle snort.

Bringing Saphiria along was the right choice. If Dimitry and Precious trekked through the wilds alone, their chances of survival would have plummeted.

He mounted Julia and helped Saphiria up. The girl trembled against Dimitry’s back. As long as she continued to shiver, hypothermia wouldn’t be life-threatening. Her prospects were good for now, but if they wasted too much time on the road, the situation would deteriorate. They had to reach Estoria soon.

Dimitry grabbed the reins. “Canter!”

29. Can I Kill You? Please?

A torrential downpour drenched Dimitry’s clothes. They clung to his body, icy and weighty. Sharp winds pulled the hood off his head, and freezing droplets crashed into his face. Even so, he leaned forward. He couldn’t slow down. Saphiria’s grip around his waist weakened, indicating that her condition worsened.

The girl wouldn’t last long in this weather.

Dimitry squeezed his legs around Julia’s torso and gripped her reins tighter. The leather dug into his hands, irritating inflamed purple circuits jutting out from under his skin. Their aching contractions elicited a grimace from his face.

Pointed signs inscribed with the word ‘Estoria’ led the way from morning to dusk. They seemed to race by under endless dark skies whose thunderous roars accompanied the plopping of cantering horseshoes across a muddy road. In the distance, gargantuan walls flanked a gatehouse.

Their destination.

“Hold on just a little longer!” Dimitry said.

Saphiria mumbled something, the piercing wind drowning out her message.

Precious squirmed in a moist pocket underneath his tunic. “I’m c-cold too, you know! S-show some concern for me, t-too.”

“If you have an attitude, you’re fine.”

Vast misshapen fields devoid of crops surrounded them on both sides. The growing number of thatch cottages served as hopeful signs that they would reach civilization soon.

Julia slowed down. Carrying two passengers through mud drained the horse of her strength at an inopportune time. Her labored breathing meant she was at her limits.

Dimitry clicked his teeth. “Not now…”

He looked back and grabbed Saphiria’s slender hand.

It was cold, bright pink, and shivered less than it did earlier. Saphiria herself had blue lips and swayed side to side. Although a miracle she didn’t fall off the horse, disorientation had already set in. All symptoms pointed to worsening hypothermia.

Estoria was too far away and, at this rate, Saphiria wouldn’t make it. Not to mention the time it would take to find lodging and sneak past guards. Assuming word of their crimes spread beyond Vael, the city’s watchmen were on the lookout for a group resembling Dimitry’s.

He nudged at a shivering faerie under his cloak.

“What d-do you want?”

“Where can we find an inn? We need one now.”

“T-the city, D-Dumitry.”

“We don’t have time for that!” He wrapped an arm around Saphiria’s shoulder to stop her from falling off of the horse. “Any other bright ideas?”

“J-just find any house.”

Dimitry scanned through dozens of cottages; one with an annexed stable stood out. “Whoa.”

When the horse stopped, he threw his leather bag onto moistened grass. “Saphiria, can you walk?”

“I don’t knooooow.” Although usually curt and proper, she swung back and forth and spoke like a drunk college girl might.

Confusion now, too.

Fuck.

He dismounted and threw Saphiria over his shoulder. One arm supported her body while the other carried his bag and tugged on Julia’s reins. In that manner, Dimitry trudged a short distance across a field until he reached the cottage he saw earlier. His foot knocked on the front door.

Precious clambered from under his tunic and hid inside his hood. “Saphiria’s s-scarf is sticking out. If a Zeran z-zealot sees it, they’ll—”

Footsteps traversing creaking timber beams approached to greet the sudden visitor.

Unable to stuff Saphiria’s heretical scarf under her tunic in time, Dimitry pulled the gray-glowing cloth off her neck and crammed it into his bag.

The door opened.

A middle-aged lady in a plain gown greeted them. “Hello? Are you travelers?”

“Who is it?” a man’s voice bellowed from inside.

“Die, Dimitry,” Saphiria mumbled. Her hand reached for the sheath strapped to her leg, but fortunately, the dagger was too far away for her to grab.

Why the hell was she trying to kill him?! Heart racing, Dimitry hid his concern. “Yes, we’re travelers.”

The woman studied him and glanced at Saphiria’s collar. “It’s a traveler and his servant.”

“Travelers? Well, let them in. It’s pouring out there.”

Saphiria squirmed. “Why won’t you die?”

The woman’s mouth opened wide. “Pardon me?”

Dimitry clenched his teeth behind a troubled smile. “Please accept my humblest apologies. My servant drank ale to warm up in the cold weather, but it only made her drunk. I… I think she’s freezing to death. Can you please help us?”

The woman held Saphiria’s hand, and a pitiful expression spread across her face. “You poor thing… Zera preserve you, come inside. We’re eating supper.”

Although the offer was tempting, the last thing Dimitry wanted to do was trap himself in a small house full of Church zealots. “Do you mind if we stay in your stable instead? Our horse is tired, you see. I’ll pay as much as—”

“Don’t you worry about money right now, dearie. Go to the stable, and I’ll bring some dry towels.”

Dimitry performed a small bow. “I am in your debt.”

“To show such care for a sinner.” The woman smiled. “What a kind young man.”

Since when was a former slave a sinner? Dimitry didn’t correct the woman’s views. He prioritized feeding Saphiria instead. Only swift calories could stave off ensuing heart failure, but it wasn’t that easy.

To conserve heat, severe hypothermia reduced the blood flow to her stomach, shutting down complex digestion. Solids and starch-heavy meals weren’t an option. However, since simple sugars and water passed directly into the bloodstream, they provided an alternate energy source that Saphiria could rapidly absorb.

“If it’s not too much of a bother,” Dimitry said, “can you get us something warm to drink? Tea with sugar, perhaps?”

“Sugar?”

“Yes. I need some in hot water. My barber-surgeon once told me that sweets can help heal cold people.”

“… I’m afraid our humble home doesn’t have something so pricey.”

Damn.

Dimitry needed a natural alternative to sugar, something any medieval townsman could afford. He resorted to humanity’s oldest sweetener—one that slathered snacks in Ravenfall’s market, and one that contained abundant simple carbohydrates like fructose and glucose.

“How about honey tea? Would that be possible?”

“Would thistle tea be fine?”

“Perfect.”

The woman bowed. “Celeste guide you.”

Lukewarm relief flushed over Dimitry as he rushed across an overgrown lawn, through the stable’s doors, and dropped his bag onto a moist oak floor. Reins released, Julia shook herself dry.

He kicked two crates against a wall and sprinkled their adjoined surfaces with straw. They would serve as a makeshift bed for a squirming young woman.

“Remove wet clothes,” Dimitry recalled the standard procedure for dealing with heat loss.

“Now’s not the time to act on your urges,” Precious mused. “You’re not in a brothel anymore.”

Dimitry peeled away the girl’s drenched cloak. “You know damn well that I’m not in the mood for jokes.”

“Fine, fine.”

Saphiria pushed away his arms and pouted. “Why can’t I just kill you?”

“I understand why she’s acting all loopy,” he said, unstrapping the sheath from her leg, “but why is she trying to murder me?”

“Because you removed the source of dispelia.”

He pulled off Saphiria’s soaked boots and turned his gaze towards the dully glowing collar around her neck. “But Delphine’s not giving her orders anymore.”

“Do you remember what that hag said before she died?”

“Wasn’t it ‘kill him, Saphiria’ or something? Are you saying that commands persist even after the master dies?”

“Looks that way.”

“Please, let me kill you.” Saphiria tried to wriggle out of Dimitry’s grasp. “Pleeease.”

How strange to see her acting out of character. It would be adorable if not for the ambivalent bloodlust in her eyes. They seemed to want to burn a hole in Dimitry’s forehead, play around, and apologize simultaneously. A cocktail of conflicting emotions that impeded treatment.

Dimitry couldn’t put Saphiria to sleep with snoozia because she needed to drink something warm as soon as possible. And the woman would enter soon. If she saw him wrestling to keep a murderous and half-naked Saphiria in place, she would think him a predator.

A situation that invited disaster.

The door to the stable burst open. Carrying a covered basket, the woman barged in. “You didn’t get her clothes off?”

“I didn’t want to jeopardize her privacy.” In truth, Dimitry stripped countless unconscious emergency room patients, often with a pair of scissors.

“What kind of man are you?” The woman tore away Saphiria’s tunic and pants. “It’s the master’s holy right, his holy duty, to access their servant’s body.”

How disturbing. “I’m shy, you see.”

“Says the man who lived in a brothel,” Precious whispered.

“Let me kill him! At least a little…”

“Poor lass. A girl this pretty and the only man in her life doesn’t lay a hand on her.” She entombed Saphiria in a towel cocoon. “I don’t blame her for wanting to kill you. I’d do it myself, really.”

Dimitry groaned. Was he the bad guy for not assaulting a non-consenting adult?

The woman reached into the basket and forced a warm, red-glowing statuette into Dimitry’s hands. “Be careful. There’s also a jug inside with hot thistle tea and honey. I’ll leave you two alone now.”

Before walking out of the barn, she glanced back. “And if you decide to make babies, no one will mind. We need all the people we can get. Celeste guide you.”

The door slammed shut.

Dimitry held his palm to his head. “What the fuck was that all about?”

“Now, now, Zera doesn’t like profanity.” Precious giggled. “Don’t you have babies to make?”

He held Saphiria down and tucked the warm statuette onto her chest. “What did she mean by ‘we need all the people we can get’?”

“Probably to fight the heathens.” Precious flew out of Dimitry’s cloak and landed beside the towel. With a dry edge, she patted her soaked dress. “Even though I hate their guts, the Church is the only reason we can live safely.”

He reached into the basket to retrieve the jug. “Because they need knights?”

“Knights too, but mostly they need young girls.”

“Why young girls?”

“They train them from the age of six to become priestesses. Then, when the brats are old enough, the Church sends them to coastal cities and towns to fight heathens.”

Dimitry supported Saphiria’s head and placed the jug’s spout to her lip. “You’re pretty knowledgeable about all of this.”

“I get around.”

“Dimitry,” Saphiria mumbled.

“Yes?”

Her indigo eyes stared into his. They pleaded for a moment’s rest—the kind a slave might yearn for after years of servitude. “Can I kill you? Please?”

“You can if you promise me something.”

“What?”

“If you drink every last drop of tea inside this jug, I’ll let you kill me.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.” She nodded and drank.

Dimitry let loose a relieved sigh. They somehow avoided a worst-case scenario. If Saphiria fell unconscious, they would need a lot more medical equipment to resuscitate her. Equipment that didn’t exist in this world.

He set aside the empty jug and placed the back of his hand on her forehead. It seemed warmer than before.

“Now… can I?” Saphiria struggled to keep her eyes open. Her lips were no longer blue.

Dimitry dried her hair with a towel’s edge. “First thing in the morning. Go to sleep.”

Saphiria fell silent. Her erratic breathing became uniform, as did her pulse.

About time. Dimitry gently lowered her head onto a pile of straw and reached for the soaked dispelia scarf crammed inside his bag.

“If I got sick, would you take care of me too?” Precious asked.

“I’m a human surgeon. I don’t know the first thing about faerie diseases.” He wrung out the scarf and hung it over a stall door to dry. “But if you’re fine with that, we can run some experiments and—”

“Experiments?”

“I cut you open, take a peek inside, then sew you up.” Dimitry smirked. “Good as new.”

“I’ll pass.” She pointed at the incendia enchanted statuette. “But you should come over here.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because if you freeze to death, I’ll never get my present.”

Precious spoke the truth. Dimitry forgot about himself. He handled his wet clothes and sat by the only source of heat in the room. Its warm embrace returned sensation to his fingers—a long-awaited respite.

His eyes shifted to the collar on Saphiria’s neck. If the homeowners entered to find a dispelia enchanted scarf covering it, they would have a conniption. He decided to keep the gray-glowing cloth hidden.

Precious stretched and a shimmering tear rolled down her cheek. “I’m tired. Good night!” She lay down, curled into a ball, and shortly fell asleep.

Dimitry threw a small rag to cover her up. Unlike Precious, he couldn’t sleep. Someone had to monitor Saphiria. If her extremities warmed too fast, deadly shock could result. The reheating process should be slow and steady.

He fought the urge to close his eyes.

He yawned.

The night was long.

30. Rude Reception

Dimitry massaged shampoo into his hair. It foamed into a rich lather on his scalp, filling the bathtub’s steamy air with the scent of assorted berries. He took a deep breath to savor it. Then, as procedure demanded, he rinsed with hot water that flowed from a showerhead. Water that he didn’t have to boil himself.

A comfort long forgotten.

“Dumitry, wake—”

“Just a little longer,” he said. “I’m almost done.”

Precious was rude to interrupt him during a shower. And why was she inside his home in the first place? Considering he kept the front door to his condominium locked, she shouldn’t have been able to enter. Who on Earth let her in?

Earth.

Something was off.

Dimitry’s eyes shot open.

A thatch roof supported by browning wooden beams hung overhead. Heavy droplets crashed against and around the stable, moisturized manure fouling the air with its stench.

The shower was just a dream. Disappointment welled within, only for discombobulation to take its place. Dimitry didn’t even remember falling asleep.

Straw rustled.

He turned his head to discover Saphiria’s bare feet. Body wrapped in towels, she held a faerie in one hand and gripped a dagger in the other. Although she approached reluctantly, her hollow indigo eyes screamed to exact vengeance for a deceased master.

Adrenaline flooded Dimitry’s veins, and a heart pounded against his chest, tossing him into wakefulness. He backed up into a wall.

The collar around Saphiria’s neck.

If he didn’t disable its enchantment soon, the girl would murder him. Where did he put that damned thing? Right. Inside the bag. His eyes scanned the room only to find it on the other side of the stable.

Crap.

Dimitry would die if he ran for the scarf. He needed a distraction. Thankfully, they disrupted the binding ceremony before the collar was re-enchanted, weakening its brain-washing effects.

“Fight it, Saphiria. You’re no one’s slave anymore.”

She pressed a hand to her forehead as if wrestling with a migraine.

He jumped up and, shoulder forward, barged through Saphiria, knocking her to the floor. His fist punched into the bag, grabbed the dispelia scarf, and tossed it at her face.

As if by instinct, Saphiria tore at the cloth.

Precious used the chance to escape. “Illumina!”

Light flooded Saphiria’s eyes.

Dimitry dashed to wrap the scarf around the girl’s neck like a hitman would choke out their victim. He tied its ends into a knot before retreating.

Saphiria flailed around for a moment and dropped the dagger. “I… I.”

“Dumitry!” Precious hugged his arm.

He took a deep breath and fell back into a pile of straw. What a shitty morning.

“Is everything fine in there?” A woman’s face peeked through ajar stable doors. Her eyes opened wide. “Zera save—”

Saphiria lunged forward. She pressed a hand against the woman’s mouth and held a blade to her throat.

“Don’t kill her!” Dimitry said.

He crawled to his leather bag and fumbled around for the snoozia canister and a vol pellet. “Move away from her, but don’t take your hand off of her mouth.”

Saphiria nodded.

“I’m so sorry, madam. We can never thank you enough for your hospitality.” Dimitry held the canister to the woman’s torso. “Snoozia.”

As searing pain flowed through his chest and arms, the woman’s body went limp.

Saphiria caught her before she fell.

They dragged her inside, leaving her to sleep on a pile of straw.

Dimitry glanced at his palms. Throbbing purple circuits bled blue liquid through his skin. The knight imprint on his wrist irritated them further while tugging towards Estoria. Ignoring the pulsating pain, he put on his damp cloak and repacked his leather bag.

“Saphiria, get dressed. Precious, keep a lookout.”

“Yup!”

A knock came from where the stable wall attached to the cottage. “Agnes, is everything okay in there?” a man’s muffled voice asked.

Dimitry looked at Saphiria. “Ready to go?”

She pulled a hood over her head. “I’ll get Julia.”

“No, leave her here.”

“Why?”

“We can’t take her with us.”

Saphiria turned towards the horse. “But—”

Dimitry grabbed her trembling hand. “I know you and Julia share a bond, but Amalthean guards are looking for two cloaked fugitives riding a black horse. Even if we somehow sneak her into Estoria, we can’t take her on a boat with us. She’ll be happier here.”

Frowning, she glared at Dimitry.

“You know it has to be done.”

“… you’re right.” Saphiria took one last look at Julia. “I’ll miss you.”

Perhaps sensing the mood, the black horse grumbled a gentle nicker.

Dimitry watched the girl force herself out of the stable. He felt guilt separating the two, but survival demanded sacrifices from everyone. “I’ll come back for you someday, Julia.”

The horse shook its head and snorted.

“Precious, hop inside.”

The faerie dove under his cloak, and he dashed out into a world capped by turbid clouds. They leaked giant droplets and roared an occasional thunderclap. Weather just as miserable as yesterday. Muddy water flooded the roads and seeped into Dimitry’s boots, making them nothing more than frigid sacks that weighed down every step.

It was a silent journey until Saphiria spoke. “About last night.”

Dimitry sighed. “Before you ask, I didn’t do anything to you while you slept.”

“It’s not that.” Her head jerked up. “I didn’t mean what I said. I didn’t want to kill—”

“It was your collar, right?” Dimitry smiled like he would to ease a concerned patient. “I’m not blaming you because it’s not your fault.”

“But I tried to stab you this morning as well.” She looked away. “You shouldn’t trust me.”

“We could both take the blame for that one. You almost murdered me, and I didn’t want to put the scarf on you in case you were discovered while you slept. Though, if I’m honest, you ruined a really nice dream I was having. You owe me for that one.”

“I… I’m sorry.”

“I was joking. Still, if you could get me a job at the castle when we get to Malten, I’d gladly take that as recompense.”

“Father would hire a skilled physician such as yourself without my persuasion, but if that’s what it takes, you have my word.”

“How about my apology?” Precious mused. “You grabbed me and woke me from my beauty sleep without so much as a warning.”

Saphiria stopped walking, turned to face the faerie hiding under Dimitry’s cloak, and bowed. “I’m really sorry, Precious. I’ve truly disgraced myself.”

“I uh… I was kidding. Lighten up, will you? Or do I have to cast illumina again?”

“What a terrible pun. I thought you were better than that.”

“Shut up, Dumitry.”

Muddy roads converged and transitioned into an intricately carved stone path as Estoria approached. Growing taller and taller with every step, the city’s gatehouse and walls towered as if reaching for angry skies above. Battlements waving majestic flags, cannons with overly short barrels, and inbuilt garrisons. Every fortification was built to inspire awe worthy of a kingdom’s capital.

Most impressive of all was a massive gold-glowing gate. Leading to it was a line comprising hopeful citizens, travelers, and merchant carts. Guards patrolled the queue, questioning anyone hoping to enter the city. They were searching for someone.

Was that someone Dimitry?

Given their many diversions and the haste with which news traveled, the answer was yes. They arrived too late to pass without arousing suspicion. Invisall wasn’t an option, either. If Dimitry’s overloaded arms weren’t reason enough, armed guards wearing gray-glowing breastplates stood at the gate’s entrance, gaps between them too narrow to squeeze by undetected. An invisible man pushing through would be suspicious.

Leaning against a bathhouse’s outer wall, Dimitry glanced away from Estoria’s gate. “We can’t stay here long. Someone will get suspicious eventually. Any ideas?”

Precious shrugged. “I mean, I could just fly over, and Saphiria doesn’t have weirdo eyes to give her away, so I think you’re the only one that’s screwed.”

“Really? After all we’ve been through, you’re just going to give up on me?”

“I’m not giving up on you! I’m just thinking, okay? Give me a break.”

Dimitry clicked his teeth. “Saphiria, back in that abandoned tavern, you mentioned you were familiar with Estoria. Do you know any way to sneak me in?”

Looking down at her boots, Saphiria bit her lip. “It’s not that easy.”

“What if we try another entrance?”

“The northern and southern gatehouses are just as well-guarded as this one, and entering through the beach is impossible because of the heathen barrier.”

“Then let’s just pay a merchant caravan to smuggle us in.”

“No one will risk their trading permits after seeing my scarf or your eyes. Even if we somehow bribe them to forgo a large bounty, guards will discover us well before we can pass the portcullis.”

“And if I sneak in by sticking to the underside of a cart?”

“That’s reckless, and the driver will notice.”

“How about a secret underground tunnel or a hidden sewer entrance?”

Saphiria looked up at him with big, inquisitive indigo eyes. “Why would anyone design city walls with obvious flaws? Is your home like that?”

“Let the record show that Dumitry was being serious.”

Suppressing the urge to lash out at a faerie who judged others while being useless herself, Dimitry restlessly fiddled with the hem of his tunic. His repository of medieval infiltration scenes from modern media had failed him. What the hell was he to do now? No other nearby city offered travel by ship, and word of their infamy had probably reached the entire damned kingdom by now. There was nowhere else to go.

A long silence passed before Saphiria spoke. “You should get caught.”

“Excuse me, madam.” Precious’s head shot out from under a damp hood. “Are you insane?!”

Avoiding his aching circuits, Saphiria nudged Dimitry’s palm. “I know it sounds strange, but I mean you no harm.”

Precious’s gaze traveled downward. “She’s… she’s for real. I’m hanging out with a bunch of lunatics.”

Although the idea was indeed insane, the glint in the girl’s eyes was steadfast, as if yearning to demonstrate a latent talent that trumped all odds. The confidence resembled Dimitry’s when he insisted on suturing the laceration traversing Saphiria’s arm. Her pleas were those of a professional offering their help.

“I’m listening.”

“Oh no,” Precious muttered. “They’re too far gone.”

Saphiria pointed at the gold-glowing gates. “When guards arrest a criminal, they take them to a temporary detention chamber. That’s where the captain will either decide your punishment or deliver you to someone important, like the shire-reeve. The guard captain is usually isolated during gatehouse duty.”

“Are you suggesting that I take out the captain while he’s choosing what to do with me? You know I can’t fight.”

“I’ll be there to help.”

“And you definitely won’t abandon me?” Dimitry asked.

“I couldn’t. Not after everything you’ve risked for me.”

“So I can count on you?”

Saphiria watched him with unflinching eyes. “I won’t let you down.”

“Let’s give it a whirl, then.”

“W-wait!” Precious tugged Dimitry’s earlobe. “Are you hearing yourself? Can you trust your life with someone you met only a few days ago?”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“No, but—”

“Then I rather not waste time while you two freeze to death in a storm only for someone to eventually find us under less favorable circumstances.” Dimitry turned to face Saphiria. “I want you to get in line several spots ahead of me.”

“Understood.”

“Precious, go with her.”

“Why can't I stay with you?”

“Three reasons: I need you to enter the city before I do, you’re more useful if you help Saphiria track me, and if you stay with me, you’ll probably die if something goes wrong.”

“I guess that makes sense…” Precious climbed out from under Dimitry’s cloak and into Saphiria’s. “Just be careful.”

Dimitry forced a grin. “Always am.”

“No, you’re not. Maniac.”

The line advanced at a crawl’s pace. Whenever guards strutted by, they shot passing glances at Dimitry from the side, each narrow-eyed glare stifling his breath.

Dimitry had to avoid being found.

At least until Saphiria entered Estoria. Only her dark cloak was visible from the back of the queue. She spoke unheard words to an iron pike-wielding guard, who let her through the gate.

The first part of the plan was a success, but that did nothing to stop Dimitry’s fidgeting.

What if Saphiria and Precious figured him an unnecessary hazard—a surgeon who knew only to mend wounds—abandoning him to the whims of Estoria’s authorities once they reached safety? Nothing stopped them from traveling to Coldust and Malten alone. They had no reason to help. The girl’s loyal gaze instilled Dimitry with confidence when they conversed, but dread had since taken its place.

He decided to enter the city by normal means. There was no point in betting his life on the whims of uncertain stratagems and allies when simple deception could avert peril. Or so he hoped.

As the gatehouse drew nearer, the scattered shouting of Estoria’s east main street became distinguishable from crackling thunder, pattering rain, and the chatter of other hopeful migrants.

A patrolling guard stopped. Their leather-garbed arm grabbed Dimitry’s shoulder. “Ye come from far, friend?”

He suppressed his urge to run, looking at the floor instead to conceal his eyes. “From The Holy Kingdom of Zera.”

“Here on a pilgrimage, then?”

“No, just a patient visit.”

“What do ye mean?”

Dimitry opened his leather bag and displayed its contents to the guard. “I’m a doctor. I have an important patient who lives in Estoria.”

The guard rummaged through his tools and toyed with a pair of scissors. “Oh, a surgeon then!” His tone brightened. “One of yer folk saved me after a swarm of flying devils attacked the harbor. Who’s yer patient?”

Dimitry’s eyes darted across the flooded stone pathway. He didn’t know anyone living in Estoria. “Milli.”

“And where does she live?”

“By the church.”

“Which one?”

“… The one near main street.”

“There’re three main streets.” The guard’s grip on Dimitry’s shoulder tightened. “Why don’t ye look at me when ye speak? I know it’s pourin’, but it’s rude.”

“I have tuberculosis. I don’t want to infect you with it.”

“What? Just show me yer face.”

“Trust me, it’s really bad.”

The guard jerked his shoulder. “Don’t fuck with me.”

Cursing his damn eye color, Dimitry clenched his teeth. Deception failed. His only choice was to believe in Saphiria. He looked up.

The guard’s brown eyebrows furrowed. “… ye got a friend nearby by any chance?”

“No, I’m here alone.”

“Move.”

Dimitry’s mouth dried as he stumbled past the line and through the gatehouse. The guard led him to a small, isolated room embedded in the city’s inner wall. A single man equipped with intimidating armor sat at a desk, scrolling through a roll of parchment.

“Captain. There’s a man who fits a description.”

The captain rolled up the yellow sheet and dropped it onto his desk. He pulled off Dimitry’s hood and studied his face. “Hold him down for me.”

Eyes gleaming, the guard clamped a leather gauntlet around Dimitry’s neck. “Does this mean we got him, sir?”

The captain grinned. “Tell no one else about this, and I’ll split the bounty between just us.”

“Yes, sir!”

Shit. Saphiria said Dimitry would be alone in the room with the captain. Was she wrong? Did she say that just to get rid of him?

“I was suspicious,” the captain said, “when every messenger from Ravenfall warned us about the same ‘disappearing man’ with pale green eyes. To think you existed after all.”

Dimitry rubbed a sweaty palm against his drenched cloak. He didn’t know if Saphiria would come. Praying she would, he stalled to give her time to find an opportunity to strike. “You two have the wrong person. I’m just a surgeon.”

The man removed his plumed helmet, and an orange-gray beard poured out. “I’ve served as a gatehouse captain for decades and never seen no one with your features. Who else could you be?”

“It’s just a coincidence.”

“Your hands are overloaded. Is that why you didn’t use your strange magic to sneak in?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do you know how many people tried to lie to me? Do you know how few survived?”

“Please tell me all about it.”

“Where you’re going, you don’t need to know.”

Dimitry couldn’t stall much longer. He desperately scanned outside the room for Saphiria. She wasn’t there. Preparing to take matters into his own hands, his gaze locked onto the captain’s enchanted sword.

“You’re lucky His Royal Majesty Gregorious wants you alive. Personally, I would love to behead you right here and now.” He displayed a yellow-tooth grin. “It’s been too long since I killed a wizard instead of some—”

A sudden light.

It burned into the captain’s eyes. His gloved hand instinctively rose to cover his face, but a flying dagger pierced the palm.

“Sir?!” the guard shouted.

Dimitry reached for the sword in the captain’s scabbard, but the guard’s boot pummeled into his hip, throwing him to the ground.

The guard reached for his weapon.

Saphiria emerged from around a corner, kicked away the guard’s rusted mace, and tightened a black rope around his neck. The guard squirmed, but he could not escape her grasp.

“Are you well?” she asked, strangulating a man.

“Fine!” Dimitry dragged the weighty sword from the distracted captain’s scabbard and pummeled the hilt into his face.

Fury and fear surged through Dimitry. As if moving on its own, the hilt rammed into the captain’s face again and again until only a bleeding countenance remained. The man lay unresponsive.

“So much for a pacifist,” Precious mused.

Once the guard fell unconscious, Saphiria pulled her dagger out of the unmoving captain’s hand and aimed it at the guard’s throat.

Dimitry snapped out of his trance and dropped the bloodied sword. Its dense iron clanged against the stone floor as he darted towards the guard with a palm held out.

Saphiria looked up at him.

Everything within Dimitry demanded to yell ‘don’t kill him’, but he also knew that keeping the guard alive would alert all of Estoria to his presence, endangering himself, Saphiria, and Precious. Perhaps if Dimitry was alone he could take all the risk onto himself. But he wasn’t.

He lowered his hand and turned away, vowing to one day make up for his crimes in lives saved. Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands. However many it took.

Saphiria slit both men’s throats. “We have to leave. Now.”

They dashed towards a distant alleyway and hid between two narrow walls.

“Saphiria,” Dimitry said, ignoring the muted guilt clawing at his gut, “thanks for not leaving me behind.”

“I promised not to let you down.”

“And you didn’t.”

A guard ran into the isolated room, shouted, and rushed back to the gatehouse.

“Is that bad?” Dimitry asked.

“A little.” Saphiria grabbed his arm. “I know Estoria well. Follow me.”

31. The Emblem's Guidance

Although they were grander, Estoria’s streets and alleys smelled even worse than Ravenfall’s. Sweat, moist feces, and rotting animal carcasses contaminated every gale. Crosswinds hurled heavy droplets into densely packed stone and oak structures.

Fending off reemerging mental imagery of the captain and guard he had murdered minutes ago, Dimitry trailed behind Saphiria, swerving past countless buildings. He glanced back but saw only passersby hurrying under the rain.

“Do you sense anyone following us?” he whispered into his cloak.

“How am I supposed to know?” Precious said. “There are people all over desperately hunting for something.”

The faerie’s complaints held merit. Housewives, travelers, and aproned artisans scrammed for essentials beneath a thunderstorm’s barrage. Their presence comforted Dimitry. No one would suspect him or Saphiria to be fleeing fugitives when everyone else around scrambled to escape the weather.

“We’re almost there.” Saphiria cut a corner. “We’ll be safe once we reach the market square.”

Even as Dimitry ran for his life, he couldn’t ignore the knight emblem on his wrist. The blue imprint tugged more forcefully with every forward step. Its objective was close. Although the man in the operating room claimed that the emblem’s guidance would help Dimitry, he omitted specifics. What lay in wait at the destination? A treasure cache? Mounds of vol? Spell tomes?

When Malten remained distant, and Dimitry’s only possessions were beneath his cloak or inside the leather bag strapped over his shoulder, all sources of aid deserved consideration. He would investigate once an opportunity presented itself.

Saphiria’s pace slowed upon reaching the market square. Although any modern shopping mall would make it a laughingstock, compared to Ravenfall’s, this plaza had twice the size and four times as many stalls. Customers would likely pack the venue on a normal day. Now, only scattered merchants and shoppers braved the downpour. Their damp, cloaked figures matched his and Saphiria’s—the perfect crowd to blend into to avoid pursuers. Among the scarce active stalls, one was managed by a cluster of gray-robed women.

Zeran priestesses.

They purchased giant rocks from a short queue of peasants, each tugging along animal-drawn carts full of gargantuan legs and jagged wings, all made from stone. Twisting and crossing mazes of pale blue lines decorated every alien organ. The sign above the stall read ‘heathen purification’.

Dimitry scratched his head. Not only was there a large variety in heathen morphology, but the Church paid money to ‘purify’ their corpses. Was it merely a religious ritual?

Although a curious topic, his attention swiftly returned to the knight emblem. It pulled past the priestesses’ stall and towards a marble cathedral with a half-kilometer spire jutting out from its roof. Whatever the mysterious man deemed indispensable was near.

“Where are you going?!” Precious shrieked.

“Just taking a quick look at that cathedral. I know our relationship with Zera is a little complicated, but do you mind?”

“Yes I mind! It’s pouring out, and you have two lovely ladies with you that the Church wouldn’t mind killing!”

Indigo eyes illuminated by a flash of lightning, Saphiria nodded. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

They were right, and Dimitry never intended to get too close—not while his companions’ lives were at risk. “I just want to pass by. As long as you stay under my cloak and Saphiria keeps her scarf hidden, there’ll be no need to worry.”

“But why now?” Precious asked.

“I promise I’ll explain later.”

As they approached, Dimitry struggled to lower his wrist, which wanted to push up and past a gate guarded by four Zeran knights and two bishops. The emblem’s objective wasn’t the cathedral. Instead, it yearned for a temple the height of a man.

The temple stood in a yard between the front gate and the cathedral’s entrance. Flowers, statuettes, and assorted candles surrounded the strange monolith, but religious knick-knacks weren’t what elicited existential wonder. The luminescent pale blue pawns did. They decorated all four of the temple’s sides and the sleek, jet-black base holding it up. The craftsmanship was perfect. Alien. Something neither the technology from here nor Earth could reproduce.

Dimitry pointed at the obscure temple. “What’s that?”

“The den of my enemies,” Precious mused.

“Not the cathedral. That temple by the steps.”

“The shrine?”

“Yeah, that. Do you know how it’s made?”

“Zera erected them when she birthed humanity,” Saphiria said. “Malten’s archbishop once recommended that my brothers and I go on a pilgrimage around Remora to pray at each one.”

Precious giggled. “Too bad that collar ruined your plans, huh?”

“That was long before the collar…” Saphiria said in a hushed tone, “but I’ll be home soon. I’ll see everyone again soon.”

“If you say so.”

Although more curious than before, Dimitry turned away. “I saw what I needed to see. Let’s find shelter before hypothermia strikes again.”

“Hippowhatia?” Precious asked.

“Just doctor-speak.”

A small bell clamored from a podium at the market square’s center. It begged for the sparse attention of a crowd fleeing a thunderstorm’s downpour.

Holding the bell was a man. He shoved it into his pocket and cleared his throat. “Hear ye, hear ye! Be on the lookout for a man with pale green eyes. His Royal Majesty is offering lowered taxes and a hundred gold gadots for information that directly leads to the criminal’s capture.”

“You’re pretty popular, Dumitry.”

“It’s good to be appreciated.” He glanced at Saphiria. “Know anywhere we can dry up, bathe, and change?”

“I’ll book us an inn.” She flashed a hint of a smile. “Just keep your infamous eyes hidden from the other guests, Mr. Criminal.”

“You’re a criminal too, you know?”

“Me? I’m but a simple accomplice.” Saphiria walked ahead with playful steps.

Considering they had just killed two gatehouse guards and skulked through a hostile city, Dimitry found her cheerful demeanor disconcerting. Did the prospect of proper food and bedding brighten her mood? Perhaps he wasn’t much different. “Precious, help Saphiria out. Make sure the inn’s manager doesn’t suspect anything or rip us off.”

Stuck between Saphiria’s leather tunic and damp cloak, Precious batted away clingy black hair. It poured onto her face, tangled around her arms, and even squirmed into her mouth. There was no end to it!

However, despite an environment so perilous, Precious’s unbridled skill allowed for razor-sharp concentration. She was too good at this. The innkeeper’s emotions—a mixture including greed, exhaustion, and anticipation—were so easy to read that she could be asleep and still do a perfect job. Every emotion a distinct sensation. Each prey to sharpened senses honed through centuries of incessant practice.

“Evening, madam. It sure is pouring out there, isn’t it?” the innkeeper asked. He sized up his customer before taking advantage of her desperation like a fyrhound stalks an aerfowl before committing to a fatal pounce.

Reading him was so easy that it bored Precious. To alleviate the tedium, a need to create mischief boiled within every fiber of her being. Her fingers trembled with excitement as she prepared to tug on Saphiria’s ears.

“Yes, it is. A room for the nigh—” Saphiria tried her best to ignore the annoyance and carry on as if nothing happened. That was the best part. “For the night, please.”

Precious couldn’t suppress a small giggle. She didn’t choose to be this way, but that was what it meant to be a faerie. By nature, her kind yearned to sow dread, despair, angst. A fact she couldn’t change about herself no matter how much she wanted to.

At least she was an improvement over feral faeries, who spent their days tempting people and livestock off of cliffs and to their graves. Unlike her, they couldn’t resist the temptation to lay eggs inside warm corpses. What a nasty impulse. Precious should be commended for holding herself back as much as she did!

The innkeeper’s emotions overflowed with misdirection and greed. “Seven silver gadots. We only have one vacant room that we’re saving for a customer…”

“He’s lying,” Precious whispered into Saphiria’s ear.

“Three is the best we could do,” Saphiria said.

“Since they didn’t show up yet, I’ll give you a discount. Five.”

Precious let out a yawn. “Still lying.” She spent the past few weeks hiding under cloaks, often robbed of the chance to sleep. But that didn’t upset her. If she wanted to, she could eat nothing but foraged berries, only taking breaks to nap on a canopy of trees. Her problem lay elsewhere. Decades of wandering the world alone left her bored. No. Bored wasn’t the right word. There was a better one for that particular feeling.

It was loneliness.

“Four silvers,” Saphiria said, “but you have to include warm baths and meals for two.”

Why did they always leave Precious out when buying food? Munching leaves gets old fast. “Don’t forget the fent.”

“And… and fent,” Saphiria said, oozing scrumptious embarrassment.

Confusion and curiosity burned as bright as illumina lamps throughout the clueless innkeeper. “Fent? But why?”

“My companion has a unique palate. He’ll be coming in soon.”

Ooh, pinned that one on Dumitry, didn’t we? Not bad. Right now, he waited outside the inn, full of worry, guilt, and wonder. Precious couldn’t blame him. When a country as powerful as Amalthea searches for one man, it was prudent to stay on guard. Especially since humans couldn’t fly away on a whim. How inconvenient.

“I uh… I see. If that’s what your companion prefers. Your room is on the third floor to the right of the stairs.”

“Nothing else suspicious about him,” Precious whispered.

“Thank you,” Saphiria said. Four silver gadots clanged against a stone table.

It was about time Precious enjoyed a well-deserved rest far, far away from Saphiria’s hair.

Listening to a faerie munching on fent, Dimitry dug through his leather bag in search of scissors. Where did they go? Did the guard at the gatehouse forget to put them back after playing around with them?

Realizing that the guard would never play around with anything again, Dimitry paused. What had he done? No. It wasn’t his fault the authorities considered a slave girl and a homeless surgeon criminals. Once more he told himself that it was better to kill others before they killed him, and once more he resumed work.

His finger brushed up against a cold metal blade. There they were.

Before wasting alcohol to disinfect his scissors and forceps, Dimitry needed to know if the sutures were ready to come out. “Hold out your arm for me.”

Sat beside him on a straw bed, Saphiria silently complied like a model patient. The tunic she wore hung loosely around her slender neck.

He pulled up her sleeve.

Although less than fourteen days had passed since Dimitry placed the sutures, the laceration’s edges were even and well approximated. That along with no discharge and a low tension across the threads meant removing the sutures now would reduce scarring as the skin continued to heal. A woman as young as her with a cut that neat wouldn’t see much lasting damage.

Dimitry pointed to her arm. “See how the edges of the cut are so neatly together? That means the sutures did their job.”

Saphiria leaned in for a closer look. “What about those red dots?”

“You mean the inflammation around where the threads enter your skin?

“Yes.”

“That’s normal. It’ll go away on its own.”

Indigo eyes wide open, her gaze met his. “What now?”

“Now, I’ll remove the sutures.” He soaked the edge of a piece of fabric in aqua vitae, then ran it across the wound. “But first, I have to disinfect your skin.”

“To kill the viruses and bacteria?”

The girl’s boundless curiosity brought a smile to Dimitry’s face despite his guilt. She even remembered what he taught her during the first job they ran for Delphine. That was what he liked most about Saphiria—her eagerness to learn.

“Viruses and bacteria, yes, but there are other things out there too, like prions, parasites, and fungi. The microscopic world is a terrifying place.”

“What do you mean by ‘microscopic’?” She gazed at the side of his face as he worked.

“The world is much bigger than you can imagine.” Dimitry sterilized a pair of scissors and tweezers with an alcohol-soaked strip of cloth. “But in many ways, it’s a lot smaller, too. Humans are medium-sized creatures, meaning we can only see medium-sized things. You need to use a tool like a microscope to see small creatures like germs.”

“What do they look like?”

“That’s not a simple question. Germs come in all sorts of shapes and sizes.”

“I want to see them, too.”

So did Dimitry. The microbiology in a world blessed with magic would be nothing short of miraculous to observe. What was inside the blue liquid inside circuits? Could single-celled organisms use ‘spells’? Although he wasn’t a medical scientist, the prospect of a discovery waiting around every corner exhilarated Dimitry.

“Unfortunately, I didn’t get to bring a microscope with me. Maybe one day…” He sighed. “Forget it. It’s impossible.”

“Forget what?” She brushed her raven black hair back behind her ear with a free hand.

Dimitry pulled a knot up with tweezers, cut the string underneath with scissors, then pulled the thread out of Saphiria’s skin. “I was going to suggest building a microscope, but it’s a silly thought.”

“When we get to Malten, I’ll ask Father to help you. We have the greatest artisans in Remora.” Saphiria’s voice held boundless pride. “In my eight years of absence, their techniques must have improved substantially.”

Although her sentiment was sweet, building a microscope wouldn’t be simple. Dimitry didn’t know much about lens making, and, judging by the quality of glass in medieval architecture, neither did the inhabitants of this world. The shopkeeper in Three Brothers’ Magic had an item resembling a lens, but the glass was green and crude.

Dimitry removed another interrupted suture and changed the topic. “What kind of place is Malten?”

“It’s wonderful.”

“Oh yeah?”

Saphiria’s eyes gleamed, absently traversing overhead timber beams as she spoke. “The first thing you’ll hear in the morning are hammers melodically clanging all along Smithen street. Apprentices rush back and forth with charcoal and iron and water until evening. Once moonlight falls upon distant mountains glimmering green in the dark, Malten’s bustle transitions to silence, yet the duchy doesn’t rest. A stroll along the northern river will lead you past city walls, serene waters, and gently creaking waterwheels. Nearby, miners are operating pumps, working the bellows, and hauling carts loaded with ore of iron and vol even throughout the night. The hearths of towering blast furnaces thaw your numb fingers while hurling clouds of smoke into the sky, the plumes visible even from the castle walls.”

Dimitry chuckled, plucking the last knot from her arm. “Alright. You’ve convinced me. Malten is amazing.”

Saphiria’s gaze shot towards him once more. “Did you know we manufacture almost every weapon and tool in the Gestalt Empire?”

“I didn’t.”

“The iron and vol we refine in the finery forges are sent to the Blacksmiths Guild and Sorceresses Guild for processing and enchanting.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“My description leaves much to be desired. Once we arrive, I will show you everything myself.” She paused. “… If that’s alright with you.”

Incapable of turning down her heartfelt request, Dimitry sterilized her laceration with alcohol for the last time. “I can’t wait.”

Her lips curved into a radiant smile. “Me neither.”

He listened to Saphiria gush about industry until green light filtered in through the inn’s shuttered windows. As the night progressed, her eyelids grew heavier. She fell asleep during a lecture about separating solidified iron from slag.

Dimitry covered her with a woolen blanket. Under the guidance of relentless tugging emanating from the emblem on his wrist, he strolled over to a window overlooking a dark green city street. The cathedral’s spire towered in the distance. What waited within its mysterious shrine?

Only one way to find out.

He put on his cloak and turned to ask Precious to come with him.

The faerie, curled up into a ball, slept motionless on a nightstand.

For his amusement, Dimitry tickled her chin, eliciting weak flapping from the creature’s wings. They produced the sound of tiny wind chimes. Dimitry covered her with a shred of fabric in case someone peeked into the room while he was gone.

The door creaked shut.

A man with pale green eyes sneaked through Estoria’s rainy streets.

32. Ominous Algae

Dimitry’s breaths exhaled jubilant white mist as his boots plopped across yet another dark puddle, whose waters reflected scant light from a stormy sky. Although it rained, and the air was frigid, neither detracted from his curiosity. A yearning to know trumped the allure of sleep on a proper bed. He sneaked through Estoria’s flooded streets instead.

All on a hunch.

The knight’s emblem on his wrist guided Dimitry, its pull growing stronger with every intersection, every building, every step, as if leading him to a treasure more valuable than all the gold in the federal reserve.

What did the cathedral’s shrine hold in store? Could it be more magic spells? Money? Judging by what the man in the operating room said, the contents were indispensable for defeating an opponent. Who were they? The cryptic nature of their existence turned Dimitry’s gut. Anything that could shed light on this perverse world was worth exploring, and if a nighttime raid was the price, he would pay it.

Across the market square was an awe-inspiring cathedral that doubtlessly required the painstaking labor of hundreds of quarry workers, masons, and architects. It towered above all, demanding praise to its majesty.

But the cathedral itself was worthless.

The true objective stood in the front courtyard. A small shrine. Captivating like neon signs, pawns decorated the structure’s every jet-black surface, their radiant blue glows overpowering stray light from street lamps and the moon.

Dimitry glanced at his wrist. Although the emblem pulled forward, begging him to rush in, he surveyed the area first. The market square, now devoid of patrols and merchants, allowed him to sneak unseen along the outer perimeter and closer to the courtyard’s flank. He peeked over a low iron fence.

Two Zeran knights guarded the cathedral’s entrance. Their gazes fixed on a vast plaza populated by empty stalls and podiums.

Dimitry’s palm opened to reveal a dark green pellet. As if delivering a stern warning about magic use, a tight ravine of inflamed circuits squeezed the pure vol shard. The thought of further overload made him wince—it would be unwise to use invisall. The effects wouldn’t help much either. Rain would bounce off of his body in the shape of his silhouette, making the endeavor pointless. He crammed the vol into his pocket. As long as the knights at the courtyard’s entrance continued to face the courtyard, Dimitry was safe.

He vaulted over the fence, and his feet crashed into a patch of well-kept grass. Dimitry was careful to avoid making excess sound as he crept across the lawn. Upon reaching the shrine at the courtyard’s center, he hid and scanned his surroundings.

All clear.

His gaze returned to the alien monolith.

The shrine was jet-black with four slanted sides that merged into a single point at a height just above Dimitry’s head. Nonsensical blue squiggles decorated the edges. From the center of the monolith, a slab jutted out, its surface covered by paraphernalia left by devoted Zeran worshippers. They concealed a mysterious light.

Dimitry’s arms trembled as they knocked away flowers, extinguished candles, and a variety of statuettes to the ground. Behind was a small monitor displaying the image of a pawn. His knight’s emblem, like a powerful magnet discovering an opposite pole, shot towards it.

He inhaled a sharp breath. Whatever secrets the monolith hid, Dimitry would soon find out.

The pawn on the monitor aligned with the knight on his arm. Blue-glowing symbols emerged. They floated mid-air. At first, the symbols seemed to be part of an intricate light show, but the geometrical shapes soon fused to form characters. Despite holding a vague familiarity, they belonged to a language that Dimitry had never seen before.

His heart beat faster as he looked around to confirm no one was watching. The courtyard and streets were empty. Dimitry turned his attention back to the monolith to decipher the floating characters. They were legible.

‘Knight C27E957, your courage has paved the way to your first cache.
The coming days will be filled with turmoil.
May the relic within guide you to victory.’

The characters vaporized upon relaying their message, and the monitor retreated into the shrine to reveal a small recess. Inside was an orb resembling a black quartz golf ball.

Dimitry grabbed it. The relic’s surface was slick and cool in his hand. It called out to him. An avaricious force yearned to drain his consciousness through his arm while injecting another in its place. Stuck in hazardous territory, Dimitry resisted the allure, but the orb overpowered him. Every muscle relaxed as a current zapped through his hand and into his brain.

Around him, falling raindrops halted their descent. They decorated the courtyard like long and slender opals. Dimitry froze, too. He tried to heave for air, but like his surroundings, his lungs were locked in time.

Before his mind could formulate a complaint, an alien scene projected over the environment. The cathedral’s lawn secreted goo through unseen pores that, like accumulated algae, embraced his ankles in slimy warmth. Its vomit green color flooded the ground and emitted fumes with a noxious, musty odor.

How could Dimitry smell if he couldn’t breathe? Did the relic implant those sensations into his mind?

In his periphery, Dimitry watched obtuse creatures rise from pools of festering liquid. Among them were those resembling hounds, bats, and rolling sacks of pulsating goo. Their bodies dripped with the same putrid mixture that covered the ground as they headed towards a giant, tumor-infested tree rising from the market square’s center.

The image faded instantly, and the courtyard returned to normal. Raindrops broke out from their suspended states and showered Dimitry, who stood open-mouthed.

What the hell did he just witness?

Countless hours spent studying the sciences did nothing to help him make sense of the creatures he saw. They seemed to be composed of innumerable microscopic organisms. Not only them. The ground, too, pulsated with life as if it was part of a larger lifeform altogether. And what about the ‘tree’ which towered over all of Estoria? Were they all from a biome unique to this world?

Now wasn’t the occasion to ponder indiscernible visions.

Dimitry was on enemy territory. Though Saphiria and Precious weren’t with him, the Church wouldn’t forgive anyone sneaking onto cathedral grounds at night. Especially once they saw his eye color.

He peeked around the shrine, whose blue inscriptions began to fade. The Zeran knights ahead still had their backs to him. They didn’t know what happened here and never would.

Dimitry pocketed the relic, which no longer sought to invade his mind, and crept from the cathedral’s courtyard and onto Estoria’s streets.

The door to the inn creaked open. Gentle heat emanating from a central red-glowing pillar embraced Dimitry as he walked inside. Unlike the warmth from the vision’s goo, incendia’s magic was toasty. But he couldn’t take comfort in it. Every thought led back to the puzzling image the relic showed him that night, which, like a recurring nightmare, burned itself into his mind.

Steps shuffled from a back room.

Dimitry looked down to hide his facial features.

The innkeeper rubbed his face with the cuff of his nightwear as he strolled into the lobby. “You know there’s a curfew past nightfall, right?”

Hoping to keep the conversation short, Dimitry made his way to the staircase. “My apologies. It won’t happen again.”

“It’s illegal to walk outside after the church bells ring.”

“Now I know.” Halfway up the steps, Dimitry didn’t stop or turn to look back. A glance down at the innkeeper from this height would reveal his eye color.

“Wait! I’m not done with—”

“How much?”

“What?”

“How much will it take to get you to shut up?” Dimitry snapped. “The only reason I went outside was to get some quiet because of the noisy guest next door, and now you’re shouting my ears off too? Do you treat all of your customers this miserably?”

“I, uh… ”

“Here. Hopefully, this will buy some silence.” Dimitry tossed a silver gadot over his shoulder. The coin clanged against the ground and rolled away. “And, since you were kind enough to wake up to greet me, go the extra step and bring some ale and fent up to the third floor. There might be another silver in it for you.”

“O-okay.”

Would a guilt trip, a bribe, and a lie dissuade the innkeeper from calling the town guard? Praying to avoid another pointless death, Dimitry would ask Precious to analyze the man’s emotions. He opened the door to his room.

Dimitry’s eyes furrowed.

Saphiria and Precious had vanished. They slept when he left, yet the bed was empty. Then again, they weren’t a pair to be caught off-guard. Were they waiting to ambush a potential enemy?

“It’s Dumitry,” he announced a name only his companions would recognize as he walked inside.

Saphiria climbed out from behind the door and slid her dagger back into its sheath. “Where were you?”

Was she suspicious of his motives? If so, revealing to her that he snuck out to visit a cathedral wasn’t in either of their interests; it would only alarm Saphiria. “I was just doing some sightseeing. It’s my first time in Estoria after all.”

“He’s lying.” Precious’s tiny arms folded across her chest. “You should know by now that that doesn’t work.”

Damn traitor.

Saphiria shut the door, leaned back against it, and turned to face Dimitry with a countenance that screamed betrayal. “Why would you lie to me?”

“To us,” Precious corrected.

Dimitry looked into Saphiria’s sad eyes, and a heavy weight sank into his gut. He didn’t want to instill distrust in the poor girl. To fix the misunderstanding, he had a solution—one that would help him learn more about the vision and alleviate his companions’ worries.

“I’ll tell you both everything after the innkeeper brings the ale. For now, know that I didn’t do anything to endanger you two.”

Saphiria took a deep breath and sat down on the bed. “I believe you.”

“Good call.” Precious fluttered onto Saphiria’s shoulder. “He’s actually telling the truth this time.”

They despised each other days ago, and now they teamed up on Dimitry. “Glad to see that you two are getting along.”

A short while later, the innkeeper brought a tray filled with snacks and drinks to their room before scurrying away. After Precious came out of hiding and confirmed that the man held no ulterior motives, Dimitry retrieved the relic from his pocket and placed it in Saphiria’s hand.

Her face shot up a second later. “What is this thing? What were those green monsters?”

Dimitry sighed. “You don’t know either?”

He walked over to the shuttered windows and absently watched the dark, rainy streets. Were the strange lifeforms so well hidden that no one knew of their existence? Or were they misleading pieces of information handed over by his ‘patron’ to derive entertainment from Dimitry’s confoundment? The cryptic trail of breadcrumbs was starting to get on his nerves.

“I wamf to see, foo!” Precious said through a mouthful of fent.

“Wipe your hands first,” Dimitry said. “I don’t want you to get the relic dirty.”

“You wowwy foo muff.”

“Where did you get it?” Saphiria asked.

“You know the cathedral we passed by earlier?”

“Yes.”

“It was hidden inside the shrine.”

“How… how is that possible?”

He shrugged. “You tell me. I didn’t even know what a shrine was until this afternoon. Anyway, that’s why I snuck out.”

Straw rustled when Saphiria stood up from the bed. “You snuck into the cathedral at night? First, the church in Ravenfall, then the cathedral in Estoria. What’s next, the Grand Cathedral in Olsten?” She giggled. “You have a penchant for mischief.”

Dimitry turned away from the window and smirked. “It’s more like mischief has a penchant for me. By the way, you mentioned before that people visit shrines during pilgrimages. Do you know how many there are?”

Saphiria gazed at the ceiling as if recalling old memories. “I think… at least three dozen?”

Did that mean there were multiple relics, each hidden within their own temples? With so many mysterious structures lying around, widespread religiosity didn’t come as a surprise. Alien architecture served as the ultimate proof of a higher power. If Dimitry were born in this obscure land, he would doubtlessly worship Zera, too.

But that was an impossibility after meeting the man in the dark hall. He was anything but holy.

“Woah!” Precious shrieked. “What were those things? And what’s with that giant green slimy thing?”

Even someone as well-traveled and long-lived as Precious drew a blank. “I guess that settles it. None of us can decipher the vision.”

“It’s possible that they live in the unblessed lands.”

“Tell me more.”

“I’ve never been there myself,” Precious said, “but there were several big cities there at one point. But now it’s overrun by heathens, so no one goes there.”

Stone monsters and green monsters.

What a fun world.

33. Sympathetic Assassin

Dimitry shoved through a crowd to get a closer look at a wondrous port. Originally, he expected a mundane pier filled with old men peddling vile fish from their weathered boats. That was why he and Saphiria came here—to find a seaborne vessel that would take them to Coldust. However, what compelled him forward now wasn’t necessity, but awe.

Awe at a grand wall whose towers rose from ocean depths and combined into a massive arch that shielded Estoria’s entire west side. Within its borders were over a hundred boats, several harbors, and a semi-circular slice of beach.

Every expertly cut brick shimmering with a rainbow-colored enchantment, the barrier towered higher than most buildings in the city, dominating them with sheer girth and commanding aura. Clear glass windows, rare commodities in this world, hinted the fortification doubled as living quarters.

Precious frantically tugged back on his collar, but Dimitry couldn’t suppress his curiosity.

He made his way to a stone-carved harbor and looked up to see an army of robed figures standing atop the wall. They were women from the Church. A salty wind carried down their barked orders and chanting.

“Freezia.”

“Sinkia.”

“Don’t let the carrier devil retreat!”

“Dropia.”

“Dispelia.”

Spells both novel and familiar. How many existed? And what of their targets?

Just beyond the harbor, limbs of unmoving stone corpses peeked out from ocean waves as a fleet of lightly armored men sorted through them. They chanted “floatia,” causing the heathens to rise to the water’s surface, and, in groups of four, hauled them to shore. On the frigid beach, an open-roof processing stand awaited the cargo.

An aged woman wearing a flowing, decorated robe mouthed prayers as she cracked the shell of a bird-like heathen with a hammer. Once blue blood began to trickle, she collected it in a ceremonial ceramic vessel, identical to the ones aboard a nearby carriage en route to some unknown destination.

The ineffable efficiency of their medieval-esque assembly line would evoke a standing ovation from Henry Ford himself. Dimitry would applaud too if he weren’t on their wanted list. Instilled with a new sense of respect and caution for his pursuers, he ducked his head and wrestled his way back into an unruly crowd. As long as the Church kept up the good work, heathens would never be a problem for him.

After all, Dimitry wasn’t burdened with a city to defend.

“You really like to dance with death, don’t you?” Precious whispered into his ear.

“That’s part of being a surgeon.”

“You know that’s not what I meant!”

“I don’t like to admit it, but the Zerans earned my respect. Even if they hate our guts.”

“Good, maybe you’ll stop bursting into churches.”

Precious’s suggestion wasn’t one Dimitry could comply with. Last night’s events left more questions than answers. Since Zerans built places of worship near shrines, encounters with them were inevitable. “No promises, but I’ll try to keep you out of it.”

“I need you to live too, Dumitry.” Precious paused. “I wouldn’t fare well in a city on my own.”

“Rest assured. I don’t plan on dying anytime soon.”

Dimitry searched a while before they met up with Saphiria, who waited outside the market square. Her petite figure and plain black cloak made her difficult to find among a vibrant populace.

Saphiria led him to an alleyway. “What’s the situation?”

“I don’t think our chances of finding a boat are any good. The storm took every transport vessel out of commission for the past few days, and now there’s a giant crowd swarming the harbor looking for a way out of the city.”

She bit her lip and looked at her boots. Although the rain stopped last night, her shoes were caked in mud by the flooded streets of a city that ignored the benefits of a sewer system. “I think we should try Tenebrae.”

“They’re in this city, too?”

“Yes.”

Dimitry stroked his chin. “Can we trust them? Correct me if I’m wrong, but neither of us has had a pleasant experience working with them back in Ravenfall. You more so than I.”

“We don’t have to trust them,” Saphiria said. “We just need them to lead us to a smuggler. I’ve worked here before. I know people.”

“If you worked here before, wouldn’t we risk them discovering and spreading your identity as an escaped Zeran Servant? What if they told the Church?”

“I’ll hide the scarf and tell them I’ve been freed.”

“And if they don’t believe you?”

She looked away. “Then…”

“Please don’t do anything dangerous.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

Dimitry heaved a relieved sigh. There was enough blood on both of their hands already. “But why do we need Tenebrae’s help?”

“Were there any larmesh smugglers where you come from?”

“I’m not even sure what that is.”

“It’s a drug from Coldust.”

It seemed even medieval societies struggled with narcotics. “Go on.”

Saphiria brushed raven black hair away from her eyes. “In Estoria, Tenebrae is charged with distributing larmesh, which is imported by smugglers.”

“And these smugglers have boats to do that?”

“Correct. We have to find one heading back to Coldust to resupply.”

Dimitry never imagined that he would end up seeking Tenebrae once more, but they were desperate for a seafaring vessel. Even if it belonged to a smuggler. “Alright. Let’s get this over with.”

On their way to the red-light district, they passed through the market square. A feminine voice cut through passionate hollers to deliver a grim message. The source was a robed woman atop a marble stand whose heartfelt hand movements pleaded for the attention of passersby.

“All ye faithful! Pay heed! The end times are coming! The shrine’s light is lost! The struggle for survival will only worsen! The Church needs your aide to fight against the growing demon threats! Leave your children under our care! Celeste, guide us all!”

Women with babies clutched to their chest, overworked laborers, fur-clad merchants, and believers from countless other walks of life gathered around the preacher. As their numbers grew, so did their shouting. They packed tightly, turning the frigid air into a humid carrier of offensive body odor.

Dimitry shuffled through them and shot a glance at the cathedral courtyard behind the preacher. She was right. The shrine, no longer decorated with glowing blue pawns, was now a featureless jet-black pillar. He thought he saw its light wane when he retrieved the relic last night. Does that mean their outrage was his doing?

Precious shook with laughter. Her wings chimed, brushing against Dimitry’s ear like vibrating films. “Dumitry, didn’t you say you got that weird ball from the cathedral’s shrine?”

“I did.”

“Does that mean you’re responsible for this mess?”

“I’m wondering the same thing. Has something like this happened before?”

“Not that I know of.” Precious snickered. “Keep up the good work.”

“At least someone’s enjoying themselves.” In truth, Dimitry derived mischievous pleasure from his misdeeds as well. The Church deserved grief for abusing its followers. Milli and Rowan believed their illnesses were a loving god’s punishment, and those who strayed from the teachings became slaves.

However, these days, Dimitry wasn’t a paragon of justice either.

————————————————————————————————————

Estoria had changed.

There was a time one could hear the boys from the Fletchers Guild shout slurs at the Leatherworkers Guild apprentices across Layfen street, complaining about the stenches of urine and lime wafting from putrefying cowhides. But now, both workshops were gone. New establishments took their place, and even the businesses that remained had fresh faces. Unfamiliar alleyway fences eagerly peddled stolen goods, gangs with novel insignias patrolled the slums, and new ‘chefs’ sold rotting meat pies.

Four bygone years was all it took to replace the world Saphiria knew well into one of strangers. Part of her was relieved to leave her unforgivable past behind. Only nightmares remained from the lives she cut short at a client’s request. Now, after being sold to Delphine and a reckless escape, Saphiria was finally free. She could make her own decisions.

But freedom was its own prison.

The sight of shacks with shingles sliding off of their roofs and the creaking of warped timber beams sent shivers down Saphiria’s spine. The pleading of helpless victims echoed through her mind. How many had she killed here? Whether in a home or a dark alley, Saphiria never let a mark escape.

Most targets were innocent. To survive and support their struggling families, they had to oppose aristocratic monopolies. But she slaughtered them anyway. Vivid memories of their murder soaked her hands in unseen blood, and without a collar’s enchantment to numb the regret, dread weighed down on Saphiria like a thick leather mantle.

She scoured the slums since morning. Every Tenebrae facility that once handled smuggled goods was under new ownership, wary of a formerly infamous assassin, or gone entirely. Her vast knowledge of Estoria had crumbled in her absence.

Saphiria had to hurry and find a lead—a surgeon depended on her.

She glanced back.

Pale green eyes examining the alley they stood in, Dimitry rubbed his chin. Would he still talk to her if he knew who Saphiria was? No. He was a healer—a man devoted to saving lives. She could only take them.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“I’m thinking where to look next.”

Precious peeked from the back of his hood. “Doubt it.”

Dimitry waved the faerie away. “Quit being an ass.”

“Rude.”

Saphiria averted her gaze. If Precious could discern her emotions so easily, they must have gotten out of hand. She had to hold it together. At least until she got home. Then, like in the days of her youth, she could help father manage Malten’s mines in blissful ignorance. She could forget.

The familiar odor of something burning sweetly wafted from the street.

Saphiria’s head perked up.

Strolling down a carved brick crossroads were two men. The shorter one held a small pipe whose bowl emitted fumes from a burning narcotic resembling apricot jam.

Dimitry crept closer, cloak fabric scraping against a rough plaster wall. “Is that orange putty he’s smoking larmesh?”

“How did you know?” Saphiria asked.

“It’s obvious. This is the first time you’ve stared at anything so intently for hours.”

“What is hours?”

Dimitry froze. “They’re what my people use to measure time. It’s a bit complicated.”

Measure time? Was hours like a sundial? Saphiria met the mysterious surgeon’s gaze. She often wondered if he was fabricating falsities, but confident pale green eyes and suturing techniques superior to Malten’s court doctor convinced her otherwise. Father had often stressed the importance of learning from the skilled.

“Tell me about it later, okay?”

He chuckled. “Sure.”

Saphiria’s attention returned to the two men. The crudely stitched emblems on their gloves and pants were gang insignias. Chances were high that they could help locate the smuggler that sold them that larmesh. Normally, she wouldn’t rely on uncertain odds, but the shire-reeve knew that she and Dimitry were in Estoria. Guards searched for them even now.

Time ran short.

Saphiria considered luring the gangsters into an isolated alley with a bribe and asking where they had purchased the narcotic, but the men did not move as she had predicted. They arrived at a cottage with collapsing window shutters first.

Inside, a father counted what little money he had while his wife sewed heavy fabric into a thick shirt for the oncoming winter months. Four girls, all but one too young for marriage, helped with chores. The family was poor, but they had something far more important—each other.

The smoking gangster’s fist slammed against the cottage door.

Eyes wide open, the father dropped his three bronze gadots, and his wife huddled their daughters into a small corner.

Tensity gripped Saphiria’s shoulders. That father’s panic—she saw it many times before. Tenants that couldn’t afford the local gang’s territorial taxes were publicly eviscerated to set an example to the neighbors. Four daughters were about to lose their father.

Heat rushed into Saphiria’s chest, and her breath grew hasty. She yearned to run forth, to stab those gangsters in their kidneys and leave them to rot in the midday sun like the scum they were, but she promised Dimitry she wouldn’t. And a midday assassination was too risky. Waiting until the gangsters finished and entered an isolated area would allow Saphiria to extract information without conflict.

Precious giggled.

“What’s wrong with you?” Dimitry whispered.

“Something is about to happen.”

“Like what?” He looked into his cloak. “Something bad?”

“Dunno. Whatever it is, it’s not looking good for the guy in the rumpled tunic.”

Should Saphiria tell Dimitry? If he knew, he might recklessly run out to help like he did to free her from the Church. And yet, she wanted to do nothing less herself. Saphiria bit her lip and suppressed the urge.

Pale green eyes devoid of their comforting nature, Dimitry met her gaze. “Do you know something?”

Saphiria should stay silent, she tried to stay silent, but a foolish hope that he would force her to act compelled her to speak. “They’re collecting protection money.”

“Will three copper coins be enough to pay those guys off?”

“No.”

After knocking without answer several times, the smoking man kicked the flimsy door open. The first gangster slapped the coins away from the outstretched father’s hand, while the second pulled a utility knife from his pants. They took turns punching him in the stomach.

Doors and window shutters slammed shut as residents retreated into their homes, hoping to avoid getting involved. Their widened eyes peeked from behind uneven planks.

Dimitry looked around. “Where the fuck are the guards when you need them?! Do they do anything at all?”

As if possessed by The Ancient Evil, Saphiria’s hand dove to retrieve her dagger from its sheath, but a glance at the accompanying surgeon gave her pause.

“Saphiria,” Dimitry said. “You were thinking to ask those guys about smugglers, right?”

Not any more. She wanted to slit their throats. Whether her fury sourced from an urge to atone for the many innocent lives she had taken or to keep four girls from parting with their father, Saphiria’s legs burned, eager to lunge forward. But it was lunacy. “There are too many witnesses. We shouldn’t.”

“Yeah!” Precious said. “There are too many people! Let’s calm down and—”

“What if I lured them somewhere no one can see?”

Saphiria gazed into his pale green eyes. “How?”

He retrieved a gold gadot from his pouch and gave her the rest. “Think this’ll be enough to tempt those assholes? I’ll tell them to follow me to hear out a lucrative business deal.”

“No!” Precious hissed. “We should leave them alone!”

His diversion would provide time to set up an ambush without revealing her position and allow them to question the gangsters afterward. Dimitry's plan was efficient and sound. “I'll have to kill. Are you alright with that?"

“No, but four kids are about to see their dad get murdered in the middle of the street and no one’s doing shit. If you don’t want—”

"I want to." Saphiria snatched the pouch from his hand. “Lead them to the dead-end alley we passed earlier. The one with the rundown cottage. I’ll handle the rest.”

“Precious, go with her.”

“I just knew you dummies were going to do this!” The faerie clambered into Saphiria’s hood, green wings brushing against her ear. “Let’s get this over with.”

With a slow and self-assured step, Dimitry strode forward.

“Wait.” Saphiria grabbed his wrist. A slight tremble revealed his bravado as false. “Even if you feel like you’re in danger, don’t run. It’ll only attract attention. Just trust in me. I’ll come no matter what.”

“I can count on you, right?”

“Anytime.”

“Then I have no need to run.” He smiled and left the alley.

Despite tingling across her limbs—the long-forgotten anxiety before a kill—waves warm and resplendent flooded into Saphiria’s abdomen. They were the acknowledgment that she trusted someone, and that someone trusted her without forced obedience through servia.

Precious’s sigh tickled Saphiria’s nape. “You knew he was gonna do that. And here I was, thinking you were the smarter one.”

“I guess not.”

Displaying five small silver coins on an outstretched palm, Dimitry spoke unheard words across the street. The smoking man took his money and shouted a grim warning at the father. Both gangsters trailed behind the surgeon.

Once they were out of earshot, Saphiria rushed to the cottage.

Four girls hugged and kissed their father, who struggled to stop shaking and fought back tears from bloodshot eyes. Only a good man could garner such adoration from his daughters. They would be devastated to lose him.

Although wasting Dimitry’s money without permission irked Saphiria, she plucked eight silver gadots from the pouch he entrusted her with, vowing to pay everything back once they reached Malten.

She intruded into their home.

“Go, go!” The father waved his family away. “I’ll handle this!”

The mother and daughters halted their heartbreaking reunion and retreated into a corner. Did they think Saphiria was here to finish the gangsters’ job? Perhaps they would have been correct four years ago, but not anymore.

“You’ll never be safe here.” Saphiria dropped the coins onto an unsteady wooden table. “Use the money to move out of the city. Stay at an inn. A bathhouse. It doesn’t matter. That gang won’t look for you in the countryside.”

“W-what?” the father blurted. “Who are you?”

“It doesn’t matter. You have to leave. Now.” With those parting words, she darted away to catch up with Dimitry. The thumping of her boots against crumbling brick roads echoed across narrow streets.

“I was wrong,” Precious whispered. “You’re even worse than Dumitry!”

The heaviness weighing down on Saphiria lightened. “Do you really think so?”

“It wasn’t a compliment! Look at what happened because of you!”

Dimitry walked ahead. Instead of two gangsters following him, now there were five. Did they plan to reconvene here all along?

Saphiria bit her lip. If she didn’t spend time on that family, could she have prevented this? It mattered not. Lowering their numbers was all she could do.

“How is Dimitry? Do you think he’ll run in fear?”

“He’s not pissing his braies yet,” Precious said.

In the middle of the road, a little boy and girl scribbled chalk doodles onto torn plaster walls. The perfect distraction.

Saphiria hid in a nearby alley, picked up two rocks, and tossed one over the children and at a gangster’s head.

“Oi!” a shout rang from down the street. “Did you little fuckers throw that at me?”

Gangsters’ howling laughter followed.

“Go teach those cunts a lesson.”

“We don’t have time for this. Meet up with us at the alehouse when you’re done, Durant.”

“You know I fuckin’ will.”

The children froze as a scowling gangster stomped closer.

There was a time Saphiria would abandon her diversions, let them perish to increase her odds of success, but the suffocating constriction around her chest grew tighter. She wasn’t that anymore.

“Hey!” Saphiria hissed.

The children twitched to face her. Tears and snot dripped down the girl’s little red face.

To terrify an innocent baby so much—Saphiria was a horrible person. “One of your mommies called for you. Both of you. Go before she gets really really mad.”

They stared, paralyzed.

Saphiria pulled both children into the alley and shoved them away. “I said go!”

Scurrying as fast as their little feet could carry them, the boy and girl waddled away.

The gangster turned into the alley soon after. “Where do you little fucks think—”

Saphiria lunged from a crevice and repeatedly thrust her dagger into the man’s lower back. The excruciating pain of a mutilated kidney let not an utterance escape his mouth. She clutched a crude vol pellet with one hand and pressed a rock to his exposed upper neck with the other. “Propelia.”

The stone pierced the gangster’s spine and throat, blasting blood and flesh and bone fragments into the opposing alley wall. He collapsed with a stifled thud.

There was no regret.

There was no guilt.

All Saphiria felt was feedback’s remnant heat warm her arm, the need to catch up with Dimitry, and one other thing. She glanced down the alley to make sure the children didn’t see.

They had left.

Good.

Saphiria withdrew her dagger from the man’s kidney and wiped away the gore with his cloak. “Is Dimitry far?”

“Just a little that way.” Precious tugged the scarf around her collar to show direction. “By the way.”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry if I ever made you mad. Please don’t do that to me.”

Saphiria’s barbaric displays coaxed remorse even from a corrupted creature. “I won’t as long as you never tell Dimitry what I did to those children.”

“My lips are sealed... I hope.”

After a swift dash through the slums, Saphiria located her targets. All four walked alongside Dimitry. There wasn’t time to whittle down their numbers further. The dead-end alley was just ahead, and the surgeon’s bluffing would provide a diversion for only a short while before the gangsters grew suspicious.

Saphiria had to eliminate them now, but how could she keep the smoking gangster alive for questioning while disposing of the others? The only weapon at her disposal was a dagger. Magic risked collateral damage when Dimitry was close to every mark, but without spells, the battle was lost. Separating the surgeon from the scum offered the highest odds of success.

“Precious, on my command, cast illumina on the first gangster to reach for a weapon.”

“Oh boy.” The faerie inhaled deeply. “Here were go again.”

Saphiria ignored her shaking legs as she absorbed a pure vol pellet into her palm, ran forth, and shouted. “Step aside!”

Dimitry chanted inaudible words. With blurry and unnatural speed, he rammed into the smoking gangster. Both plunged through an open window. Through mystical means, Dimitry had isolated himself and the knowledgeable target. An opportunity she couldn’t miss.

“Propelia,” she said.

A stone shot forth into a gangster’s skull. He fell backwards.

The two other men looked back. They reached for their knives.

“Illumina!”

As light flooded a gangster’s eyes, Saphiria tossed a dagger into his chest and kicked the hilt, slamming the blade further into his heart. He collapsed.

A fist flew forward.

Saphiria ducked behind the last gangster and unraveled from her wrist a black rope made of Julia’s hair. She threw it around his throat, crossed the ends, and pulled back with all her might.

He grasped at his neck. “Y-you fuck… ing…”

His face grew redder and more engorged until his legs folded beneath him.

Saphiria preferred to kill her marks to guarantee safety, but a more urgent concern urged her forward. She rushed into the cottage.

Under a lopsided window, Dimitry struggled to pin down his target. His limbs pulsed unnaturally as if powered by demons.

Saphiria didn’t stop to inquire. While the surgeon wrestled the flailing man into submission, she squeezed her arm around the gangster’s neck, constricting until he fell unconscious.

“Nychld,” Dimitry babbled.

Unsure of how to respond, Saphiria blinked.

Dimitry’s movements normalized when he grabbed her dispelia-enchanted scarf. “I said, nice chokehold.”

34. Light Through Dark

Dimitry was an idiot. He lured Saphiria into danger, and to avoid having her pay the price, he used magic. Magic he shouldn’t have used. Magic that further irritated the circuits under his skin, each vessel burning and screaming with the slightest movement. Like engorged varicose veins in a dehydrated and elderly patient, interconnected purple webs spread across his arms and chest. Aching. Pulsating. Cramping. The damage resembled that of peripheral artery disease, and perhaps the symptoms would progress to thrombosis, atrophy, and necrosis as well.

Head down and hands folded over her abdomen, Saphiria stood against an uneven wall. Her gaze momentarily met his before tearing away.

“Well...” Precious landed on his shoulder. “This is what happens when you guys try to be nice. You put everyone in danger.”

“I really fucked up this time.”

“The fault isn’t yours,” Saphiria muttered. “It’s mine. I shouldn’t have let down my guard.”

Dimitry massaged his temples to soothe a pounding migraine, but hearing Saphiria blame herself for his error only worsened the ache. What kind of doctor forces a girl into fending off four men alone?

He looked up from the dark corner he sat back against. “I’ll do better next time. Neither of you deserved to go through that.”

Saphiria glanced past a shuttered window with collapsing frames. “This isn’t the first time I’ve killed someone.”

“I know.” He pointed at her scarlet-soaked hand. “Are you injured?”

“The blood isn’t mine.”

“That’s good.”

“Dimitry, I—”

He jerked forward and suppressed the resulting urge to puke. “Yeah?”

“It’s nothing.” Saphiria watched him with large, apologetic eyes. Every glance into them was a punch in the gut.

“Now that everyone’s had a chance to hate themselves,” Precious said, “let’s move on to more pressing matters. What was that all about, Dumitry? We saw you whiz so weird and fast. You owe us an explanation.”

“It’s a spell.”

“Duh! Anyone could tell that much because you look like you’re about to drop dead.” Precious pressed her fists into her hips. “I mean what’s it called?”

“Accelall.”

“Accel… all?” The faerie’s head to the side, and her golden ponytail spilled over her white gown’s shoddily sewn shoulder. “More of that strange magic? Invisall kinda made sense, but what’s this one do?”

It seemed that Dimitry received another ability with mechanics so obscure that they confused even a creature native to this world. He wasn’t any better. Assuming the spell accelerated objects, Dimitry cast accelall to build enough momentum to transpose himself and the larmesh-smoking thug. The goal was to free Saphiria to fight without worry of causing collateral damage to him or the interrogation victim.

But it wasn’t Dimitry’s movements that sped up. Rather, the world around him slowed down. Or that was how it appeared. The truth was obvious to anyone raised on modern cinema. “It accelerates time for the target.”

Precious rolled her eyes. “And why did I expect your explanation to make sense?”

Dimitry watched swollen purple circuits pulsate in his palm. From travel to industry, accelall could change the world. He wished to test the spell, to learn its every limitation and capacity to guide his escape, but that was no longer possible.

Ice creeping through his abdomen warned against magic use. The next time he cast a spell would likely be the last. His body couldn’t take further abuse.

Saphiria edged closer. “Does… does it hurt?”

“A little.”

Her hand reached for Dimitry’s but stopped halfway before retracting to her chest. Saphiria’s eyes watched the uneven timber floor helplessly. They embodied the world’s burden within their self-loathing gaze.

The pain grew too much to bear. “Please, please stop blaming yourself,” Dimitry said. “You were right. We should have waited for a better opportunity.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you’re hurt.”

“Oh, this? It won’t be long before I’m feeling normal again.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am a doctor; I know what I’m talking about,” he lied. “Maybe it’ll be a good opportunity to think things over.”

“Don’t push yourself.”

“I won’t.” Dimitry forced a smile. “Promise.”

Saphiria’s reciprocative smile was the most wretched smile known to man. “We don’t have much time before more gangsters come to investigate. Can you move?”

“Think so.” Dimitry stood up, and Precious perched on his head as he limped past a man lying motionless on the cottage floor. They bled to death minutes ago—the fourth corpse they hid in this hovel. Soon, there would be another.

A hog-tied thug rolled on the floor.

Saphiria tore away his tablecloth gag and blindfold.

“We need—” Dimitry stuttered when another migraine slammed into his brain. “We need information.”

“Fuck off.”

Saphiria nudged Dimitry’s wrist. “Allow me.”

“Allow you?”

“I’ve… I’ve done this before.” She retrieved her dull dagger, now dyed vermilion, from a dusty dining table.

Was interrogation another skill she learned while working for Delphine? Back on Earth, she would have been just another girl working at a cafe, a medical office, perhaps a bank. But there she stood. Gentle, caring, and ready to torture a human in Dimitry’s place as a gesture of apology.

Worst of all, he couldn’t justify stopping her. If they didn’t leave Estoria soon, their fates wouldn’t be any more pleasant than their victims’. And leaving witnesses would endanger them all.

The man lay on the floor, hyperventilating. Cold sweat and goosebumps covered his skin. “A… a faerie?” He paused. “You sinners are all fucked once the crew finds out.”

Dimitry knelt beside him. “We’re looking for smugglers who import larmesh from Coldust by boat. I prefer not to hurt—”

He spat on Dimitry’s boots. “You think I’ll squeal just like that? Do you know who I am?”

“I know who you are.” Saphiria strutted closer. “Just another Tenebrae thug. How could you do something like that to a struggling father?”

“Me?” The man laughed. “You’re the one nagging me with that bullshit? Did the soulless bitch that mommies warn their kiddies about return to Estoria just to—”

Saphiria thrust her boot into the man’s mouth with enough force to break teeth.

The brutality made Dimitry wince. Although the girl doubtless had a cruel history as a Zeran Servant, she was never this rash. How awful was the past she wished to conceal?

“Please wait outside,” Saphiria said briskly.

A glance at her downcast expression convinced Dimitry that some questions remained better unanswered. “I’ll go keep a lookout.”

A man’s panicked mumblings and a faerie’s shrill laughter filled the ramshackle cottage as Dimitry trudged towards the muddy alley’s entrance. The door creaked shut behind him, and his hand instinctively patted where his jean pockets would typically be.

Right.

No cigarettes.

How long had it been since he last had the urge to smoke? At least a decade. Even the stress of medical school exams didn’t rekindle that old habit. But now that he stood just far enough away to evade the muffled screams of a dying man, he wished only for a nicotine rush to numb the discomfort.

Rushing by as fast as her oak branch cane could carry her, an elderly woman shot Dimitry a terrified glance. He smiled to convince her of his virtuousness, but her unsteady gait grew more hasty and desperate. She wobbled out onto the road before slowing down.

Patients came in all dispositions. Some yammered on nonstop, most spoke casually, and the rest measured their words carefully. Through his experience as a surgeon, Dimitry learned to adapt his bedside manner to every demeanor, which entailed the ability to remain comfortable despite silence.

But now, his skills failed him.

This silence was unlike any other.

To his side, boots somberly plopped into the muddy streets of Estoria’s slums. Saphiria said nothing. She looked ahead, indigo eyes devoid of life, occasionally shooting a half-hearted glance at Dimitry as if to speak but turning away before he could react.

His stomach dropped whenever he saw Saphiria’s guilt-mired face. Not only was the endeavor painful, but with hampered communication, their chances of survival plummeted. He had to make amends.

“Hey, Saph—”

“Yes?” As if in recognition of a fatal mistake, her indigo eyes opened wide. “My apologies. Continue.”

“I know I apologized for what I did, but I never said thank you. So, let me thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”

“No.” She bit her lip. “If I didn’t stop by that family’s cottage, I could have prevented those gangsters from surrounding you. I never should have allowed you out of my sight.”

Dimitry stopped walking. “You visited the cottage?”

“To leave them money.”

“What for?”

“So they could move house before the rest of the gang came back to collect.” Saphiria ventured to look at him. “I know I shouldn’t have. I-I should’ve stayed focused.”

“Let me guess. You thought that’s what I wanted you to do?”

“I did it because I wanted to. I’ve seen what happens to those the gangs make examples out of, and I couldn’t watch anymore. My selfishness was the reason you had to use magic, and the reason you…”

“So—” A lump in Dimitry’s throat choked his words. “How much money did you give away?”

“… Eight silvers. I know it wasn’t mine to give. I’ll repay every coin once we reach Malten.”

His heart skipped a beat. “Do you think that’s enough to help them move away?”

“You’re not upset?”

“Upset? Saphiria, you saved that father’s life! You’re the reason his wife and kids won’t have to spend the rest of their lives living off of scraps. Hell, they might have died on their own.”

Stood between an abandoned baby crib and a half-eaten rat that smelled of rot, Saphiria frowned. “You don’t seem to understand. What I’ve done will sooner see us dead than the Crimson Knights and the Church. My naivety hurt you. I hurt you. I vow to never repeat that mistake.”

“You helping people isn’t a mistake.”

“Dimitry. When killing those men, when torturing that gangster, I felt nothing.”

“Thinking of all the people who won’t get hurt now that those thugs are dead, I can’t seem to give a shit about them either. What’s your point?”

“I’m not the person you believe I am. For me to help one, another must be injured.”

“Bullshit.”

Saphiria turned away. “You need not look further than your overloaded arms or the massacre in that cottage. Unlike your hands, which give life to whomever they touch, mine can only take it. That is why I must keep them to myself.”

Although Dimitry didn’t know how the girl felt, nor could he fully comprehend the lingering trauma of slavery-enforced depravity, he sympathized with the desire to bring order rather than destruction. “Then change.”

“People don’t change for the better.”

“Of course they do. Anyone can.”

“Once something good is lost, it can never return.”

He sighed. “You know, I’m not the person you think I am, either. I used to be no better than a Tenebrae thug.”

Her indigo eyes widened.

“Yeah. Stealing from old people, trashing property, threatening anyone who so much as looked at me wrong. Dumb crap like that. But one day, after doing something outrageously stupid, I decided to, no, I needed to become less repulsive.”

“A surgeon?”

“That’s what I chose.”

Glossy raven black hair blowing in the wind, Saphiria stepped closer. “Teach me.”

“Surgery?”

“Yes.”

“That’ll take a long time.”

“There will be plenty once we secure a voyage to Coldust.”

“A few days on a boat might not be enough,” Dimitry said. “Besides, someone as knowledgeable about metallurgy and as bright as you has their own ways of helping others. You don’t need to be like me. I’m sure you’ll figure something out for yourself.”

Saphiria’s gaze fell to the freezing mud beneath her boots. Her mind seemed to drift away, and another silence came to pass. She spoke without looking up. “You’re nothing like a Tenebrae gangster.”

The knot that had been twisting tighter in Dimitry’s stomach since his arrival at the brothel loosened. “Glad someone thinks so.”

“If you became the benevolent man you are, perhaps hope exists for me as well.”

“Of course it does, but don’t get me wrong. Your ‘life-taking’ hands aren’t a bad thing. Without them, that father would be dead and my half-baked plan would have gotten us killed.”

“Do you mean when you led the gangsters away?”

“Yeah.”

Saphiria shook her head. “Your plan was sound, but even flawless machinations go awry. In those times, rely on me.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “Life is difficult alone.”

The melancholy in her tone spoke of a solitude Dimitry could sparsely conceive, yet her message released all tension from his lungs, freeing him to inhale a deep breath. “Thanks. I feel better.”

As if waiting to hear those words, Saphiria’s shoulders relaxed, and her arms fell limply to her sides. “I’m glad.”

Dimitry motioned towards their original direction. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Right.”

Although the imagery of a gangster writhing on an uneven cottage floor lingered in his mind, and the occasional shiver chilled his spine, Dimitry’s gut no longer sank. The guilt of forcing a girl into murder was gone.

35. Gift

On his way to contact a smuggler, Dimitry staggered through Estoria, examining his palm. Concentrated circuits—arranged into a shape resembling an obscure, purple honeycomb—oozed blue liquid with every throb. The fluid leaked out from under his skin like sweat.

‘Blue bile bled from his palm’s core,’ was how Saphiria worded it. She claimed cores lay in specific spots throughout the body and controlled spells, while circuits distributed vol to them. The ability to manipulate them simultaneously formed the basis for magic.

Basics Dimitry never learned.

Even simple spells like incendia and illumina took over a year of dedicated practice to use. Chanting the words wasn’t enough. His attempts at normal magic on Ravenfall’s outskirts and during his sleepless nights at the brothel taught him as much. That was why he found it strange that a mere glance at two books allowed him to cast both invisall and accelall.

Why were some spells so widespread while others rare? Did the ‘all’ and ‘ia’ endings make a difference? Could he find more tomes in the ‘real’ world?

A humid wisp of wind blew into his ear. “Wake up, Dumitry. We’re here.”

Wishing Precious would pass out like she did after consuming an emotional feast at the gangster’s torture, Dimitry looked up.

Standing at the edge of a port that smelled of expired fish was a warehouse with warped plank walls. Missing clay roof tiles gave the establishment an appearance even more dilapidated than the surrounding buildings, and the cloaked figures lurking at every turn were intimidating, unlike the merchants and artisans that flooded the spacious harbor adjoining Estoria’s market square.

Anticipation bubbled in Dimitry’s gut, begging him to leave, to avoid an incident similar to the one in the slums, but he had no choice. This rundown gutter was his ticket to Coldust. “The guy we’re looking for works in this warehouse?”

Precious burrowed deeper under his cloak. “That’s what Jacob said.”

“Jacob?”

“The gangster we questioned,” Saphiria said. “Be on guard. Smugglers get aggressive when called out on their profession.”

Dimitry held up his swollen hands. “If something happens, I’m basically useless. Can I rely on you?”

“Anytime.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“What happened to you two?” Precious peeked out from his cloak. “You were tiptoeing around each other just a little while ago, but now you’re all buddy-buddy again. Did I miss something?”

Saphiria pressed a pinkie to the faerie’s mouth, occluding half her face. “It’s a secret.”

“Oh no. Did you guys do that?”

Dimitry shook his head. “Hide before someone sees you.”

“No need to get all grumpy.”

He straightened his cloak and trailed behind Saphiria, who pushed open a weathered door. It emitted a long-winded creak as it rotated around its hinge, revealing a desolate interior comprising scattered crates and precarious shelving units. The wind whistled through breached walls.

“Who’s there?” a rough voice like that of a grumpy old man called out. “We’re not taking jobs right now.”

Dimitry kept his mouth shut. This was Saphiria’s area of expertise.

“We’re looking for a man named Caleb,” Saphiria announced. “Jacob told us they knew how to get a certain item from a sandy land across the gulf.”

“Oh, what does that cocksucker want from me now?” A portly man with a short gray beard and a straw hat tumbled out from behind a crate stack. “I told him if he wanted to—” He stared at Saphiria for a second. “Zera preserve my fat thighs, is that…?”

“Old Man Bryce?” she uttered.

“Saphiria… I never thought I’d see you again. You’ve grown to be so tall and beautiful and—wait. Are you here to kill me? I swear, it wasn’t me. Those pricks talk all kinds of—”

“No, nothing like that. We’re here for another reason.”

“Well, don’t stand around!” Old Man Bryce pointed a thick finger at Dimitry. “You and fuckstick there, come take a seat. I’ll put on a kettle.” He disappeared behind the same stack of crates he emerged from.

Dimitry shot a confused glance at Saphiria. “Why am I fuckstick?”

“That’s how Old Man Bryce always speaks,” she said. “Let’s sit down.”

Precious giggled. “What are you waiting for, ‘fuckstick’? Go sit down.”

Dimitry shrugged it off. Now wasn’t the time to raise complaints, and he preferred name-calling to life and death struggles. Taking a seat on a crate beside Saphiria, he scanned the walls.

Among the scant decorations was a weathered map. Although its features held less detail than a modern equivalent, the size and vibrant colors made it an impressive piece. However, something about it seemed off. Not that Dimitry knew what. Neither geography nor cartography was his forte.

When the heavyset footsteps stomped back, Dimitry averted his gaze towards the ground to hide his eyes. Old Man Bryce poured each of them a cup of peach-colored tea and added a hint of milk and sugar to each.

Dimitry took a sip, hoping that people in this world could preserve dairy products. It wasn’t bad. The milk’s silky texture masked the leaves’ bitter aftertaste.

Old Man Bryce dropped onto a crate, which squealed under his weight. “So what can I do you for?”

Saphiria elegantly moved the cup away from her mouth before speaking. “We need passage for two to Coldust. Any kind of lodging is fine.”

“Saphiria, I like you and all, but that’s not something I can do for free.” Old Man Bryce leaned back. “That’s because you’re not the first ones to ask. Space is limited, after all.”

She looked at Dimitry.

Guess that meant it was his turn. “How much are you looking for?”

Old Man Bryce pulled on his short gray beard as if in deep contemplation. “Four golds.”

“One.”

“Three.”

“Two,” Dimitry said.

“Fine. Fuck it.” Old Man Bryce threw his hands into the air. “I hate haggling. We’ll be departing around evening, so get to the port before then. I won’t stand around freezing my ass off waiting for you two.”

“We’ll be there,” Saphiria said.

“Oh, and like I mentioned before, we won’t be alone on this trip. If you’re trying to smuggle something into Coldust, do it at your own risk.”

“Who else will be on board?” Dimitry asked.

“Just my crew and a few travelers. One even had a crimson robe. Think it’s a wandering wizard or something.”

Dimitry roamed a packed market. Although rays from a luminous sun shone on him as he trekked along a stone brick promenade, and the body heat from nearby shoppers warmed his cloak, a frigid atmosphere made him shiver. The cold would only get worse. Once they boarded Old Man Bryce’s boat to sail across Roland’s Gulf to Coldust, ocean winds would compound with rapidly chilling weather to emulate winter’s frost.

Low temperatures throughout a lengthy voyage predisposed Saphiria and perhaps Precious to hypothermia. Since the resuscitation of an escaped slave or a corrupted creature in a boat full of strangers would lead to disaster, Dimitry acted to avoid either outcome. Scouring for heat insulation, they swerved through market stalls, heads twisting with every woolen blanket and cozy garb they saw.

But even last-minute shopping was difficult in this world.

Somehow avoiding developing a hoarse voice, a town crier stood on a podium shouting the same announcements ad nauseam.

“Hear ye!” A bell clamored in his hand. “Taxes on flours and wines have increased two-fold! The reward for information leading to the capture of the man with pale green eyes has increased to a hundred and fifty gold gadots! Property tithes imposed by the Church might increase! Celeste guide His Royal Majesty!”

“A hundred and fifty gold gadots?!” Precious shrieked, her voice nearly drowned out by a bumbling crowd. “Dumitry, you’re worth like… a lot!”

Although it flattered Dimitry to think his life was worth a massive fortune, it also meant that everyone and their mother searched for him. He had to avoid one-on-one encounters.

Dimitry held out his pouch. “Saphiria, I’m relying on you to barter with merchants. Don’t worry about saving money. We don’t have time to haggle.”

The girl nodded and reached forward, only to pause. Saphiria’s gaze switched from the leather pouch to his swollen arm, and her finger gently traced an engorged, purple vessel. “How are you feeling? Does it still hurt?”

Was she still beating herself up over that? Dimitry smiled to assuage her worries. “It’s not a big deal, I promise.”

Precious shifted forward as if to call him out on his lie, but said nothing. The faerie leaned back into the crevice between his tunic and neck. She had some decency after all.

“Back in Malten,” Saphiria said, “we had an enchantress who accidentally overloaded herself in a mountainside skirmish with gargoyles. Her arms looked just like yours. The mistress of the Sorceresses Guild treated her with magic to make the swelling go away, and I was thinking that if there really was a wizard aboard Old Man Bryce’s ship, he might do the same for you.”

While Dimitry didn’t know what a gargoyle was, he understood that the mystical people of this world had invented cures for their equally mystical ailments. Even if native barber-surgeons were useless, judging by the high esteem mages commanded, their expertise regarding magic-related illness trumped Dimitry’s. A professional’s advice always held merit.

Gazing into Saphiria’s concerned eyes—compassionate eyes, Dimitry nodded. “If there is a wizard, we should give him a shot. Appreciate the thought.”

She smiled weakly and took the coin pouch. “Be careful while I’m gone. If something happens to you, I’ll do my best to help, but I’m afraid I can’t fend off a group of market guards.”

“That’s why we have to make sure it doesn’t come down to that. And if it does, just run. There’s no reason for you to get caught up as well.”

“I make no promises.” Saphiria walked ahead.

Dimitry shook his head and trailed a safe distance behind her as she purchased necessities for the long boat ride ahead, including vol, dried meat, and two thick quilts. To avoid meeting the gaze of wandering eyes, he faced the ground. All he saw were muddy boots stampeding past and blackened rainwater seeping from walkway bricks and into embedded cracks.

“Hey, hey.” Precious tugged his ear. “Do you see what I’m seeing?”

He shot several glances from side to side, ready to run in case someone saw the faerie’s head jutting from under his hood. “If you keep peeking out, I’ll shove you into my bag and keep you there.”

“Right, sorry. But look over there!” She tugged on his collar to bring his attention to endless masses haggling at stalls. Nothing seemed amiss.

“What am I looking for?”

“That stall! Over there! The one selling goldwork.”

Goldwork? Dimitry’s gaze stopped at a stall covered in a silken tablecloth. Two men and a woman, all wearing thick fur coats, chatted emphatically as they passed a small ball of thread back and forth. Golden thread. The type that Dimitry couldn’t and shouldn’t afford right now.

“So that’s goldwork. What about it?”

“Did you forget already? You promised!”

Precious spoke of the bribe Dimitry offered her to help him escape Ravenfall: a replacement for the grass ribbon tying the faerie’s ponytail together.

“So you want a gold ribbon? I thought you said you didn’t like gold.”

“No. I love gold. The problem is that it’s usually too heavy for me to pick up.”

“You understand our situation, right?” Dimitry scanned the crowd for anyone alarmed by a man speaking into his cloak. Thankfully, no one was.

“Here I was, thinking you were a stand-up guy.”

“Can you name a single person who wouldn’t want to kill or capture us if they found out who we were?”

“But… my present… you promised,” she said in a pouty voice.

Dimitry sighed. Although the faerie’s impetuous impulses risked their lives, he and Saphiria were no different. How many times had Precious rescued them from peril? Considering behavioral improvements, selfless acts, and the strange manner in which Dimitry got along with the critter, she deserved a reward for her good behavior.

“Fine. But after this, you’re not allowed to say I don’t keep my promises.” He called over Saphiria to carry out the transaction.

The ease and speed with which she complied with his request baffled Dimitry. Saphiria returned with a half-meter thread of gold before long. “Is this enough?”

“The size is fine.” However, that’s not what worried Dimitry. “How much did it cost?”

“Three silvers.”

“Three silvers… for this?” He held up the slender thread, which struggled to stay vertical in a gentle breeze.

“Come on, come on!” Precious bounced excitedly on Dimitry’s shoulder.

He snuck the overpriced commodity under his cloak. “Happy now?”

“No.” She grabbed his finger. “I want you to tie it.”

Did Precious expect him to ornament a faerie in public? Dimitry massaged his eyelids. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“You and Saphiria are always having a good time, and I’m always being left out! Where’s my personal attention?”

The Zerans had it right—faeries were corrupted creatures.

“I have an idea.” Saphiria led Dimitry by the hand into a narrow alleyway. She turned to face him, blocking the vision of anyone who ventured to look inside. “Get in.”

Precious hopped off of Dimitry’s shoulder and onto Saphiria’s. Back facing him, the faerie waited patiently. They conspired against him.

“Are we really doing this?”

Lips curved into a stunning smile, Saphiria watched unflinchingly.

Dimitry exhaled deeply. After dodging authorities and committing atrocities, anyone would yearn for a moment’s respite. He was little different. Perhaps some jollity could assuage the heavy mass curdling in his gut. The only problems were that he knew nothing about tying hair, and that surgical knots were inappropriate.

After brief contemplation, Dimitry decided.

A shoelace knot.

“Thank you, Dumitry.”

Their shopping ended when the market crowd fizzled out, and a lowering sun colored the horizon with pink and orange hues. Evening had come. It was finally time to leave this cursed city. Dimitry stepped around tar-like roadside drainage, smelling of human waste and rotting livestock entrails, and pushed past civilians until he reached the docks.

Ahead, the Church’s awe-inspiring coastal wall stood in plain sight. Military orders and spell chants swooped down from above as white and gray-robed women fended off stone monsters emerging from the water’s azure depths. A never-ending war.

“Saphiria,” said a grouchy voice. It belonged to Old Man Bryce. He approached from behind with a small crate in hand. “Cog’s ready when you are.”

Rushing to hide his eyes, Dimitry averted his gaze to the port’s timber flooring.

“Back straight, boy. No pussies allowed aboard my boat.”

What a charming geriatric.

“Got it,” Dimitry said.

“Which cog is yours?” Saphiria asked.

“That one.” Old Man Bryce’s callused finger pointed at a long oak ship with a yellowed square sail waving from a single mast. “That’s Dirty Matilda. She’s old and reliable, just like me.” He pounded his chest with a wrinkled, meaty fist.

She had better be reliable. And steady.

The thought of spending the next few days at sea, keeled over a rocking boat’s edge, elicited the urge to vomit within Dimitry before he could board. Dirty Matilda swayed side to side and up and down despite calm port waters. How much worse would she get when the seas turned rough?

“Don’t be scared, Dumitry,” Precious whispered. “Just pretend you’re walking on land!”

“You’re not helping.”

“There, there.” She patted his nape with a tiny palm. “It’ll be alright.”

“I know you’re excited about your new ribbon, but stop trying to comfort me. You’re not good at it.”

They followed Old Man Bryce across an unsteady boarding plank and a rocking boat’s deck before stopping at a ladder leading to a lower floor.

“Down you two go. I suggest making nice with your fellow traveler—you’ll be seeing each other a lot. We’ll depart once the other passengers and the rest of my crew arrive.”

Saphiria climbed down, and then Dimitry.

Every movement from the boat elicited a series of twisting and warping squeaks from surrounding planks. They formed a cargo room that held nothing except a mass of crates and a man who sat against a rounded wall. The red robe he wore concealed everything except his pipe and a long white beard.

Was that an esteemed wizard? Or was he just a robed man?

Saphiria didn’t say. Her indigo eyes lost their curious gaze and a slight smile left her face, retreating into coldness like they did whenever strangers were around. She sat motionless. Calculating. Waiting.

Did her reticence source from caution or distrust? Regardless, both were beneficial qualities to have in their current predicament. The only problem was Precious. Could she stay quiet for several days, or would loud-mouthed faerie fillet be on the cruise menu?

Not long after Dimitry sat beside Saphiria, hard leather and iron clacked against the deck above. The weighty steps of metal boots reverberated throughout the ship’s wooden walls. Whoever wore them had a voice like that of a proud high school senior.

“Selene, do you want to go down to see the cabin?” asked the boisterous kid.

“Erm, sir knight, it’s not a cabin.” Old Man Bryce’s muffled voice leaked from between oak planks. “It’s more of a cargo hold. I don’t think little Selene will like it there. The actual cabin’s over there.”

An icy shiver shot down Dimitry’s back. He looked at Saphiria. “Sir knight?”

“Probably the Church’s,” she whispered. “Stay calm. I don’t think they’re looking for us.”

Old Man Bryce mentioned that there would be other passengers, but neglected to mention which ones. Judging by the giant coastal wall just outside, filled to the brim with Zerans that processed stone monsters like a magical slaughterhouse, it made sense that the passengers included believers. And if this knight was a believer, they would be as intimidating as the monastery knights in Ravenfall.

He was in for a long, long boat ride. Hiding a faerie and an escaped Zeran servant while stuck on a ship with members of the Church wouldn’t be fun.

Precious trembled against his neck. “A-are you t-thinking what I’m thinking?”

“If I am, I hope we’re both wrong.”

Many steel footsteps boarded the ship’s deck above. Unlike the others, the owners stomped heavily, as if rushing to deliver urgent news.

“Are you the owner of this cog?” A man asked with an arrogant tone.

“I am,” Old Man Bryce said. “Can I help you, sir knights?”

“We’re searching for an escaped fugitive. This letter is stamped with His Royal Majesty Gregorius’s seal. We’ll be looking inside.”

“For the same basta—the same person everyone’s been hollering about these past few days?”

“That’s not for you to know.”

“Help yourselves. I’m not hiding anything.”

Their footsteps stomped across the deck, closer to the ladder.

“Come on, Selene,” said the boisterous voice. “Let the nice men through.”

A child responded. “Okay…”

With indigo eyes wide open and mouth agape, Saphiria squeezed Dimitry’s wrist. “Crimson knights. There’s four. They have plate armor. I-I’m not sure if I can take them. Hide. You have to hide!”

Dimitry’s gasps for air grew hasty, and heavy muck pooled in his gut. Crimson knights? He had seen them patrolling Ravenfall’s castle district. With glowing, blood-red armor and six-foot-tall figures, they would overpower Saphiria without breaking a sweat. Her dagger wouldn’t do shit to them.

His head twisted and turned, but there was nowhere to hide. Crates were few and lay in plain sight. Most were too small to fit a grown man. There were no exits, hiding his eyes from authorities didn’t work at Estoria’s gatehouse, and trying to fight would get Precious and Saphiria murdered!

“Saphiria.”

“Y-yes?”

“Don’t you dare try to fight those knights.”

“What are you—”

Dimitry leapt away from the girl’s dispelia scarf and fumbled inside his leather bag for a pure vol pellet. Would using magic for the second time that day kill him? Perhaps, but he had no fucking choice. He couldn’t be found. If the knights discovered him, they would search for an accomplice matching Saphiria’s description as well. She and Precious would die.

This was the best way. For everyone.

“D-Dimitry?” Precious muttered.

Saphiria watched him motionlessly, hands shaking atop her lap.

“I’ll be fine. Invisall.”

“I know you’re lying to…” Precious’s voice trailed off as she turned invisible with him.

Dimitry’s heart rate soared as blazing heat erupted within his palm, scorching his arm and chest with searing flames, purple vessels pulsating and swelling, unseen blue bile trickling down his fingers and dripping from the nails. With the remnants of his consciousness, he squirmed into a corner while forcing his lungs into oxygen-deprived stillness to silence the wheezing.

Two knights wearing blood-red armor slid down the ladder. They scanned the cargo hold. One stomped past to yank Saphiria’s hood off. Another knight did the same to the red-robed old man, who stared at the spot where Dimitry vanished.

The other passenger saw everything.

After browsing through several crates, the crimson knights nodded at each other and climbed out of the cargo hold.

Unable to hold his breath any longer, Dimitry’s labored wheezes pierced the air as thick liquids seeped between his skin and leather tunic. “Precious, hide… hide with Saphiria.”

“Dimitry?!” The faerie’s voice was distant despite being nearby.

The cargo hold’s grime brightened.

The oak planks’ squealing softened.

And finally, the boat’s rocking steadied.

36. Bon Voyage

Breaths hasty, and a heart that thumped as if to break free from her chest, Saphiria diverted her gaze from the red-robed man across the cargo hold to the spot where Dimitry vanished. The surgeon’s overload. Those engorged circuits. Did blue blood escape his body, leaving him for dead? A powerful impulse shoved her forth, demanded she shake the surgeon’s shoulder, inquire about his health, discern if he would live!

But she didn’t.

Not only could she not treat overload, but an act so frantic and reckless would endanger them both. Although Saphiria’s dispelia scarf could disperse his invisibility magic, revealing the true extent of Dimitry’s horrific ailment as she approached, doing so would expose her identity as a Zeran Servant.

Over a dozen stomped across the ship’s deck above. Among them were the Church’s knights. If any of them descended into the cargo hold to witness such a sacrilegious sight, Saphiria would be enslaved once more. Precious would be sacrificed. Dimitry would suffer a fate more tortuous than death.

Saphiria’s arms trembled more than they ever had. How unlike her. She should remain focused! And yet, without the collar’s enchantment to numb excess emotion, her attempts to force the worry into submission only loudened the chattering of her teeth.

Something unseen darted into Saphiria’s hood.

The familiar jingle of faerie wings; they belonged to Precious. She tugged on her collar. “It-it’s Dumitry. He told me to come and—and you have to help him!”

“What happened?”

“I… I think he’s dying.”

“Like the time we hid him in the forest?”

“Way worse! Lots of blue bile was leaking out.”

Racing thoughts screamed at Saphiria to check on Dimitry, to kill the sole witness to their crime, to flee the cog, but she vented every irrational impulse by gnawing on her lower lip. Dimitry’s condition was worsening. If too much blue bile escaped, he would never awaken. Every moment was more precious than the last.

Saphiria could dally no longer.

Her best chance lay with the old man sitting across the cargo hold. Just as Bryce mentioned, his red robe resembled a court magician’s apparel. If he was indeed an experienced wizard, he could treat overload with ease. But many questions lingered. Why didn’t the old man report Dimitry to the Crimson Knights for the hundred and fifty gold bounty? Did age-fog cloud his mind? Was he hiding, too?

“What is that robed man feeling?” Saphiria whispered.

“Intrigue, hesitation, a-and panic.”

“Is he scared of the ‘disappearing man’?”

“I-I don’t know!” Precious said. “Just hurry and do something. Dimitry is… he’s…”

The corrupted creature was right. Time wasted ruminating on countless minutiae would doom them all. Saphiria swiftly decided on a bribe and an implied threat to guarantee the man’s assistance.

Careful to avoid provoking a potentially deadly wizard with sudden movements, Saphiria stepped closer to the ladder to block off the only exit. Her eyes locked onto the robed passenger. “Can you treat overload?”

The old man moved a pipe away from his mouth and blew a cloud of smoke. “A strange question for a criminal to ask.”

Saphiria’s shoulders tightened. He knew everything.

“We wish you no harm,” she said. “If you are an experienced wizard, we will pay a sizable sum for your services and your silence.”

“To think a boy was the disappearing man all this time. While I am curious as to his obscure magics, I prefer not to make my presence known. Consorting with delinquents attracts unwanted attention. Surely you understand that much, little miss.”

“We offer you five gold.”

“If I needed gold,” he said, “I would have spoken to the Crimson Knights when they passed.”

“Eight gold, and we’ll supply all the vol you need for the treatment.”

“My apologies, little miss. Pretend I saw nothing.” The old man leaned back and shut his eyes as if to fall asleep.

Not another wheeze whistled from where Dimitry lay. Did swollen circuits constrict his neck? There wasn’t much time!

Saphiria stepped forward. “I think my friend is dying!”

There was no response.

“Please help us.”

The old man sat unmovingly.

This was the Remora Saphiria knew. It was the same Remora Saphiria endured the past eight years and the one where only a passing surgeon would risk his life to help another. But now Dimitry lay dying. Fortune blessed only those with the overwhelming force to defend themselves and that which they treasured.

Saphiria possessed such force.

And she wouldn’t hesitate to wield it.

She schemed around her two best weapons against a mage: a dagger and a dispelia scarf. The tools were suboptimal, but used well, even they could incapacitate a powerful head channeler in Father’s army. A bigger issue was getting close enough to apply them.

Although not all mages fought wars, any wizard proficient enough to treat overload could dominate a battlefield as small as this cargo hold with the precision of his magic. Dodging every spell would prove difficult. But it wasn’t only the spells hurling from his palms’ cores that Saphiria would have to avoid, but also those from the weaker cores on his back, soles, and even his nape. Advanced mages could cast spells from most of their body. Only once Saphiria locked the old man in an angle where he couldn’t hit her with a spell could she relinquish him of vol and force him to treat Dimitry.

Choosing a distraction to cover her advance, Saphiria grabbed a vol pellet and a loose silver gadot from her pocket. She dashed forth.

“Propelia.”

Gleaming silver flew from her palm and raced across the cargo hold. However, before the coin could pierce the old man’s forehead, it clanged against an unseen barrier and fell to the plank floor with a soft clink.

Were those the effects of protectia? It was the only spell that could form midair barriers, and yet the old man didn’t open his mouth to chant. Could he be a mumcaster?

A powerful opponent and a capable wizard.

The perfect person to treat Dimitry.

The old man’s arm swung sideways to aim at Saphiria, but she dodged faster than he could move. Or so she thought.

Fire set ablaze several strands of her hair.

“Illumina,” Precious whispered.

Blinding light erupted from the old man’s eyes. His outstretched arm swerved wildly, and after being unable to align with Saphiria, the palm aimed down instead.

The plank flooring became slick like ice—slipia’s effect.

Saphiria’s legs stumbled from a sudden loss of traction, so she slid forward on her knees instead. She pulled her dagger from its sheath and tossed the well-balanced blade forward.

The hilt’s blunt end smashed into the wizard’s closed hand, spilling all the pure vol he held, each green shard colliding into planks with a dense metal thud.

Before the old man could reach into his robe for more vol, Saphiria kicked away his arm. She partially untied her scarf such that half still covered her collar, pulled in close, and wrapped a loose end of the gray-glowing cloth around the wizard’s hands. The dispelia enchantment assured that he could accumulate vol in his powerful palm cores no longer.

Saphiria withdrew the utility knife from her cloak, held the blade to the wizard’s throat, and stepped on the back of his boots, prying them off with a swift shove. Dark green pellets erupted from one shoe. Her target’s hidden vol supply—those he intended to absorb through the cores of his feet—was now gone, too.

With horrified eyes, the wizard watched the last of his vol roll away.

“Is everything alright down there?” Bryce yelled from the deck.

“Everything is fine!” Saphiria said.

“I can go down and check!” a young man said. Judging by the metallic ringing of his footsteps, he was a Zeran knight.

Avoiding the wizard’s upper back cores, Saphiria leaned over the old man’s shoulder and whispered. “Tell them that everything is fine.”

“L-little miss, I—”

Saphiria pressed the knife to his neck. “Tell them that everything is fine. Now.”

“Everything is perfectly fine!” the wizard shouted. “Don’t bother yourself with us! We’re just having a jolly old time getting to know each other!”

“Don’t get too friendly down there!” Bryce said. “Save some energy for later. We got a long trip ahead of us.”

“Little miss,” the wizard whispered, “be more gentle, will you? My elbow is still ringing from that kick, and when did you even cast illumina? Judging by that collar and your talents, you’re no regular girl, are you? To think everyone only talked about that boy.”

Saphiria hadn’t the time for prattle. She shot another glance to the spot where Dimitry had vanished.

His body remained unseen, and the planks where he lay no longer creaked. He was still…

He was still.

“I need you to treat my friend. There’s not much time.”

“Little miss, I’m just a geezer trying to get—”

“And he’s just a surgeon,” Saphiria’s voice cracked. “He doesn’t mean you any harm, and if you help him, neither will I.”

The wizard sighed. “Was the boy the one that freed you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“The mischief kids get into for love. Wish my wife cared about me as much as you do that boy. If anything, she would pay a hundred and fifty gold gadots just to get rid of me!” He chuckled and lifted his arms. “It’d be hard to help if you don’t unravel this scarf.”

“Can I trust you?” Saphiria asked, relying on a faerie’s advice.

“I’m afraid you have little choice.”

“He’s not trying to mislead you!” Precious whispered.

With shaky hands, Saphiria released the wizard and shoved her scarf into her tunic. She rushed towards Dimitry. As she got closer, his body gradually regained its color, fading into existence. Spots of blue bile emerged from bulging circuits and merged into horrific streams that leaked down his arms.

Oh no.

No no no.

She knelt beside Dimitry and shook his shoulder. “Tell me about gemstones, foxes, anything. I want to hear it all.”

There was no response.

“I’m s-still sensing some emotion,” Precious whispered. “He’s not dead yet!”

The wizard hovered overhead. A handful of pure vol pellets clinked in his palm. “Little miss, since you’ve forced me into doing this, I want something out of it.”

She scowled. “Is your life not enough?”

“Let’s not be rash, now. I’ve lived a long time and have never seen magics as curious as that boy’s. I must learn more about it. To do that, I must guarantee his life. Doesn’t that sound fair to you?”

“He’s not lying,” Precious said. “Let him help!”

Saphiria’s gaze traveled from the old man’s white beard to his exposed feet. There wasn’t a way to know how Dimitry would respond to the wizard’s demands, but when the only other choice was to let the surgeon die, she couldn’t refuse. “Do anything untoward, and you won’t see tomorrow. It’ll be painful.”

An alarmed chuckle escaped the wizard. “If only a beautiful girl would threaten someone for me.” Without a chant, lustrous green pellets vanished from his one hand, while the other traced Dimitry’s arm.

The turgid circuits ensnaring the surgeon’s wrist stopped convulsing, as did the cores protruding from his palms. Bile oozed no longer. This result must have come from a relaxia honed over decades of focused training. A wizard this skilled could serve a countess at minimum. Perhaps even a royal. Who was he?

Despite countless questions, Saphiria’s attention did not leave Dimitry. “Will he live?”

“A boy this young should be just fine.”

Waves tranquil and cool flushed across Saphiria’s limbs, dissipating the fervent rush of moments past. But calm couldn’t come. Not yet. On the deck above were members of the Church. To avoid arousing their suspicion, Saphiria had to take full advantage of the wizard’s talents—for her and Dimitry’s sake.

“Pardon me,” she spoke politely to avoid irritating the man who could kill Dimitry on a whim.

The wizard’s wrinkled palm hovered over Dimitry’s chest. “Be at ease, little miss. I’ve done this before.”

“I am grateful for your assistance, but there is another matter I wish to discuss.” Saphiria tugged on her collar of salvation. “A mage who can cast spells without a chant can melt steel with magic. I want you to remove it.”

“I figured you would ask.” The man tugged on his white beard. “How about this? If you refrain from killing me and keep this incident a secret from the Church, the crew, and the boy until we reach Coldust, I’ll remove that nasty collar. What do you say?”

The wizard hoped to guarantee his safety and anonymity throughout the voyage by dangling freedom from Zeran persecution over Saphiria’s head.

A fair trade.

Although having to withhold information from Dimitry troubled Saphiria, if her silence could free them both from persecution, she wouldn’t hesitate. “Very well. As long as you uphold your end of the bargain before we arrive and do us no harm, none shall come to you. I vow so upon my life.”

The old man shrugged. “As if I’d provoke a reckless lass like you.”

When Dimitry regained consciousness, the first thing he did was suppress the urge to vomit. Stomach contents clamored at his lower esophageal sphincter, prodding for the first chance to burn up his throat and escape through his mouth. A relentless rocking urged it forward. The kind that came from sailing in the open sea.

Dimitry hated boats.

The first sight to greet him was a relieved pair of indigo eyes. Saphiria rested the back of her hand on his forehead. “How are you?”

“I’ve been better.” He massaged his aching temples. “Is it safe to assume that you saved my life again?”

“Maybe a little.” Saphiria smiled a beautiful yet hesitant smile. “How can I not repay the man who sacrificed himself to keep his accomplice hidden?”

“You’re an angel.”

“What’s that?”

“A wonderful person.”

After a moment spent in contemplative silence, Saphiria leaned in to whisper. “We’re joined by a Zeran shield, a bishop, and a trainee priestess. All three are on deck. They didn’t recognize you or me as heretics. Precious is hiding underneath my tunic. She says the old man sitting across from us is friendly. Including Old Man Bryce, nine sailors are on board.”

The Church was still here? Not the best news to receive after waking with a migraine, but at least word of his assault on a bishop didn’t reach this far. Governmental and religious authorities must have used separate intelligence couriers. Town criers referring to him as the disappearing man rather than a heretic supported that conclusion.

Dimitry gave a strained nod. “Thanks for the information.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“Oh-ho! Told you the boy will live!” a voice like that of a cheerful old man said. “What do you say to that, little miss?”

Saphiria performed a small bow. “I’m in your debt.”

The old man chuckled nervously. “Perhaps I should be the grateful one.” He combed four fingers through his long beard as he approached. “Besides, it’s not you who owes me the debt, but this boy here.”

So the robed man was an experienced wizard after all. Although shocking that his aged and wise countenance matched fantasy sage stereotypes, given the massive time investment necessary to learn spells, educated elders dominating the magic industry made sense.

Dimitry wished to inquire about his ‘debt’, but before the question could take form, the urge to vomit struck again.

His sore arms strained to push off the cargo hold’s floor. He flew up the ladder, dashed across the ship’s deck, and keeled over its timber railing. Although he wished for sweet release, nothing ejected into the dark blue waves below.

“First time sailing?” a boisterous voice asked.

Dimitry glanced sideways to see a young man holding a human-sized steel shield. He wore a set of glowing armor that covered every part of his body aside from his face, which had dark green eyes and a confident grin that might make teenage girls swoon. Was he the Zeran shield Saphiria referred to?

Another nuisance.

“No… just not feeling too well.”

“That’s too bad. By the way, we haven’t met yet.” He held out his hand. “My name is Reece Wilbur, but people call me Big Reece or Race. You can call me either. Some prefer Race because it’s easier to say and just slips off the tongue, ya know? Whichever is comfortable for you is fine for me.”

Dimitry reached to give the overly verbose kid a handshake. “Has anyone introduced me to you yet?” He needed to know before spewing lies.

“No, all I saw was you lying around covered in blue bile. They said you were practicing magic all day while waiting for the ship to set sail. I admire your grit. Personally, I’m not patient enough to learn spells. All I seem to be able to do is hold up this shield and protect people that are!” Reece laughed, moving his face closer to examine Dimitry’s. “Your eyes. They remind me of something I heard while passing through Estoria. What was it again? Something like…”

Icy muck sludged down Dimitry’s spine. Burdened with a migraine, he wasn’t prepared to engage in a verbal struggle for his life. “My name is Arnest. Nice to meet you.”

“Now I remember!” Reece clapped. “Wasn’t Amalthea searching for someone with your pale green eyes, Arnest?”

“The Crimson Knights that boarded earlier said the same thing, but after examining my face, it turned out they were looking for somebody else.”

Reece bellowed a hearty laugh. “That’s great! I thought I was going to have to tell the captain to turn this ship around.” He laughed again.

Dimitry exhaled a heavy sigh. Fortunately, Reece was an idiot.

A young girl, no older than eight years old, ran past several crewmen. Her bite-sized white robe swept across the boat’s deck until she reached Reece. She hid behind one of the knight’s iron-clad legs, peeked out at Dimitry, and retreated shyly.

Dimitry smiled at the girl, and she waved her little hand back at him before retreating again. So that was the trainee priestess Saphiria mentioned. Religious indoctrination never looked so adorable.

“Sorry about her,” Reece said. “Selene doesn’t speak much around strangers. She’s a lamb deployed with us for an assignment in Mainefield. It’ll be her first time defending a heathen barrier. Say ‘hi’, Selene.”

She peeked out, waved, and hid again.

Lamb? Was that the official term for a trainee priestess? Why would they deploy young girls to fight a war against stone monsters? The idea irked Dimitry, but he couldn’t resist crouching and waving back at the girl. Her innocent smile melted his heart.

Hopefully, war wouldn’t take it away.

“It was nice meeting you, Reece. You too, Selene. I’m going back to the cargo hold.”

The blonde man pointed at a woman in her mid-thirties standing alone near the ship’s mast. “Are you sure you don’t want to meet the bishop? She’s not the friendliest, but she reads a mean prayer.”

Dimitry forced a grin. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to more people from the Church. “Maybe some other time. I need to go get some rest.” He stumbled back to the cargo hold.

“Feeling better, Arnest?” Saphiria wore a sly smile.

Being called a dead man’s name felt strange.

“In some ways, yes.” Dimitry turned to face the old man who now smoked a long pipe. Both white, its mist melded with the man’s long beard. “You said something about a debt earlier?”

The old man exhaled a cloud of smoke and patted the layered plank hull to his side. “Sit, boy. I want to hear all about that spell you used. I’ve seen nothing like it.”

Although the wizard saw him cast invisall, Dimitry preferred to stay silent. Divulging excess information led to trouble. Still, besides paying off his ‘debt’, now was an opportunity for mystical edification. The tome in the dark hall—did an experienced wizard like the old man know anything about it? Perhaps they could exchange information.

“Have you ever heard of tomes that teach magic?” Dimitry asked, wincing as he lowered into a sitting position.

The old man let out a wad of cool smoke smelling of burnt mint. “Of course I have. Every novice thinks they can learn spells from some giant book without a mentor.” A cough interrupted his full-bellied laughter. “Children and their silly dreams. You’re not going to tell me that you learned magic that hides you from sight with one of those, are you?”

A giant book? The tome Dimitry used in the dark hall had only a single page. Were they talking about two different things? He had to make sure. “I used a book with glowing blue characters.”

Pipe falling out of his mouth, the old man hesitated before speaking. “You what now?”

“They twisted on the page when I read them.”

“My boy, are you well?”

That confirmed Dimitry’s suspicions; the old man knew little about it. “Then again, they say I hit my head somewhere. I have trouble remembering things about myself and this world.”

“I see. The name’s Ignacius.” The old man glanced at Dimitry with a narrowed eye. “If you remember anything else about this ‘tome’, I would like to hear about it. And, if you could show me that spell one more—”

“Unfortunately, I can’t. Every time I use it, my body convulses and shakes.”

“I saw.” Ignacius tapped his pipe against the cargo hold’s layered plank wall. “I never saw a single spell do that to a person, even if they were overloaded. But it only makes your magic more intriguing. Say…”

“Say?”

“This trip won’t be long, so I won’t be able to do too much, but if I treat you the entire trip, will you cast that strange magic for me?”

An agreement that served as an opportunity to heal Dimitry’s wounds and learn more about medical treatment in this world. What was not to love? “I’ll agree to that.”

37. Green Water, Green Sky

A boat’s central location, Dimitry once read in a cruise pamphlet, was where the vessel rocked least. That was why he spent all day sitting in the middle of the cargo hold. Theoretically, staying here should dampen the seasickness. It was his only hope in a ceaseless struggle to suppress the urge to vomit that grew with every one of the boat’s nauseating rolls and sways.

And it wasn’t working.

The pamphlet was full of shit.

Attempting to keep himself distracted from the nagging discomfort in his gut, rising and falling like the tides, Dimitry palpated the bulging core of one palm. Although the collection of turgid purple vessels bounced back painfully with every stroke, they ached much less than yesterday. Ignacius’ treatments were working. The wizard used magic to decrease the pressure in Dimitry’s circuits, causing them to gradually retreat under his skin.

Disappointingly, Dimitry couldn’t replicate the therapy—to do so required the ability to cast relaxia among other spells. When he asked Ignacius for magic lessons, the old man laughed, saying it would take months to attain a basic understanding of relaxia and even longer to cast the spell with the control necessary to assuage overload’s symptoms.

A disappointing development.

Iron footsteps against wood interrupted the sound of creaking planks and sloshing water. It was the Zeran shield, Reece. He descended the ladder into the cargo hold and held up his arms as if to catch a basketball rebounding from an overhead hoop. “You can climb down now. Don’t worry! I’ll catch you if you fall!”

“Okay…” Selene quietly replied. Her foot shot down to a lower rung on the ladder, then retreated. The process repeated for several minutes.

Dimitry shook his head. Was a hesitant child like that supposed to be humanity’s defense against the stone giants raiding the world’s coasts? Either there was something he didn’t know, or the Church was desperate. He turned away from the scene, hoping that Reece wouldn’t strike up a conversation with him.

But his fears always became a reality.

“Hey, Arnest,” Reece said. “What are you up to?”

Dimitry suppressed his sigh. Although a pulsating headache made conversation laborious, staying within the knight’s graces was a priority. “Just trying to keep my lunch inside my stomach. How about you?”

“Oh, you know. Just taking a look around, seeing what everyone’s up to.” Reece leaned his shield against a layered plank wall. “Rosaline had me reciting prayers all morning. I just had to get away, know what I mean? I know Zera’s great and all, but I don’t think we’ll impress her by repeating the same passages over and over—”

Reece’s monologue ended when he turned back to look at Selene. The little girl crept towards Saphiria, who sat motionless in the corner, eager to avoid attention.

Saphiria’s unwillingness to converse sourced from the two articles of sacrilegious luggage beneath her cloak: a faerie and a collar with a suppressed enchantment. If Zerans discovered either, the uneventful journey would end here.

A situation Dimitry had to prevent.

“Selene,” he shouted as excitedly and child-friendly as possible. “Want to see something really cool?”

Five steps from Saphiria, the child stopped and turned back. Curiosity filled her eyes.

Now that Dimitry had Selene’s attention, he needed to find something ‘cool’ to show her. Did such an object exist? Frantically digging through his leather bag, he pushed aside shreds of fabric, primitive surgery tools, and bottles—all mundane items from the perspective of a child.

Then he found something that might work. It was a dumb idea, but also the only one he could enact with guaranteed results.

“Come look at this rock I found!” Dimitry held up the black orb from the cathedral’s shrine. The relic begged to show him a vision. Although he tried to resist its pull, it quickly overpowered his senses.

Time froze.

Alien algae seeped in through the boat’s hull while tumors and creatures rose from the floor, one of them enveloping Selene, melting the child’s skin before replacing it with a rough green carapace. Her spine bent with a loud crack and her face disfigured. Insatiable hunger in her eyes, she glared at Dimitry. A horrific vision he never wanted to see again.

Time resumed.

Dimitry’s shoulders loosened when he saw Selene was safe. She approached him with greedy, outstretched hands. He never intended to hand the relic over, but after seeing that, his thoughts on the matter intensified. “You can only look.”

Selene studied the object at arm’s length before running to Reece.

Crisis averted.

The young knight rested a hand on the child’s shoulder and shot a glance at Saphiria. His righteous glare sought to make amends. “Arnest, is your friend alright? She’s been sitting in the same spot all day. I think she might be in pain.”

Dimitry massaged his forehead. Not another one. He thought the Church would be terrifying in person, but Selene was just a curious child and Reece a do-gooder. All undesirable traits. Considering what Saphiria hid under her hood, their desire to butt into other people’s business was a disaster in the making.

To keep Precious and Saphiria’s secrets hidden, Dimitry concocted a scheme based on an illness that existed even in medieval times. “Have you ever heard of rabies?”

Reece frowned. “What’s that?”

Did the virus not exist in this world, or did it merely go by a different name? “It’s an ailment that spreads through biting. When rabies attacks a host, it makes them want to bite others to spread the disease. Does that sound familiar?”

“Do you speak of the poison fyrhounds and vicious dogs bear in their teeth? In Olsten, we hunt down entire packs to stem the outbreak every summer. People get really sick otherwise.”

“Precisely. The poison those dogs have in their teeth is what we doctors call rabies.” Dimitry pointed to Saphiria. “She’s my patient. To defend a small village, she fought off an entire pack of fyrhounds alone, getting bit in the process. Unfortunately, one of those fyrhounds had rabies. The poison spread to the girl.”

The knight’s eyes opened wide. “Are you saying she sacrificed herself for innocents?” He faced Saphiria and bowed. “I commend you, brave stranger. May I one day possess your valor as well.”

“She’s a hero,” Dimitry said. “My hero. Out of gratitude for saving my village, I vowed to heal her, to do whatever it takes, but the only cure for rabies lies in a distant land. That is why we are aboard this ship.”

Reece stepped forward. “I wish to help!”

“And you can.” Dimitry prepared a lie devoid of medical truth. “It is rare, but sometimes rabies affects humans as it does dogs. My patient suffers such a fate. She works hard every day to fight back the temptation to bite others, and her will is strong, but by getting close, you only entice her. The impulse is stronger than you can imagine. Please show her the respect she deserves by keeping a distance. If she tried to bite through your metal armor, it’d break her teeth.”

Dimitry thought he heard a faerie giggling.

The old man, who stayed silent for hours, lowered his pipe and blew a thick cloud of minty smoke. “That boy speaks the truth. The little miss can certainly be vicious if you get too close. I advise against it.”

Reece pivoted as if to rush away. “Are you sure you don’t want me to get the gospel? If I read them—”

“While I appreciate it,” Dimitry said, “she gets headaches when people make too much noise. It’s better if we just stay silent.”

Saphiria bared her teeth. It was adorable.

Reece dragged his gaze away from her. “Come on, Selene. Let’s quietly watch some more islands drift by.”

The child’s head twisted curiously as the knight guided her up to the deck.

Lying to an honest boy evoked discomfort within Dimitry, but Saphiria’s safety was more important than transient discomfort. He sat beside her. “Hey. Sorry if I said something stupid. Rabies was all I could come up with at the time.”

“I understand,” Saphiria said coldly, “but if you give Precious any more ammunition, I may end up biting you.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it.”

A slight smile vanished from Saphiria’s face as quickly as it appeared.

Dimitry sighed. “You’re having fun teasing me, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

Two more days passed. When Dimitry didn’t receive treatments from Ignacius, he sat still, suppressing the urge to hurl. To his delight, the impulse gradually lessened. The newfound hope of relaxed travel and a growing apathy birthed from staying in the cargo hold for three continuous days impelled him to venture a trip to the deck.

Leaning over the boat’s railings, Dimitry watched gentle, green waves brush against the hull. Water bumped against wooden planks and toppled back down, forming a thin layer of white foam on the ocean surface that bubbled away as quickly as it appeared, icy winds carrying up the salty and earthy odor with every gale.

Dimitry inhaled a deep breath and released it slowly. White mist departed his nostrils, leaving behind a long-forgotten sense of tranquility. The calm dismissed tension from all parts of his body. All parts except one—his right arm.

The emblem on his wrist gently pulled towards a distant, dark green horizon. Was there a shrine in that direction?

Beside him, Old Man Bryce tapped on an oak cask, which emitted a hollow sound. “Fucking thing’s almost empty,” he mumbled.

“Bryce,” Dimitry said.

The seasoned boat captain wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. “What?”

Dimitry pointed over the ship’s side. “Are there any cities that way?”

“You’re pointing to the south—only endless water and ice there. Have you been puffing on that old bastard’s pipe or somethin’?”

Was he talking about Ignacius? Although his choice of otherworldly smoking product interested Dimitry, the emblem’s pull intrigued him more. “You’re sure about that?”

“I’ve been doing this sailing shit for twenty years.” Old Man Bryce carried the cask away. “Nothing there but ice sheets and scattered islands.”

“I see. Thanks.” Dimitry leaned over the ship’s side once more. He couldn’t tell if his arm gravitated towards the horizon or distant ocean depths; the constant bobbing complicated differentiating between the two. Whichever the case may be, the emblem’s guidance was irrelevant. Dimitry’s priority was getting to Coldust alive. Shrines, especially those erected in the middle of the ocean, held no appeal.

“What are you up to?” a boisterous voice approached from behind. That of Reece.

Just when Dimitry managed to relax, the knight had to appear again. He turned around. “I was just enjoying the fresh air and silence.”

“You too, huh? I don’t like it when things are too loud either. It ruins the ambiance. There’s this one guy back in Crucium who never stopped talking.” Reece laughed. “But then again, neither do I.” He paused for a moment that didn’t last anywhere near as long as Dimitry hoped it would. “Say… about your patient in the cargo hold.”

“What about her?”

“I don’t mean to sound rude, but should you let her just sit in the same spot all day? I’m not a doctor or surgeon or cleric, but… it’s just weird to me.”

Dimitry placed an arm on Reece’s shoulder. It was time to build rapport with the enemy. “I can tell that you worry a lot about other people. You’re a great man and a dutiful knight.”

Reece massaged the back of his neck. “Well, thank you. That’s very nice of you to say.”

“I couldn’t hope for anyone more reliable to protect us from the heathens.”

“Stop it.” Reece laughed.

A distant, deep whistle pierced the night, interrupting Dimitry’s train of thought.

“Oh… oh, no.” Reece stepped back. “I’m going to get Selene and madam Rosaline. Arnest, get to the cargo hold.”

“Wait!” Dimitry shouted over the sudden noise. “What’s happening?”

There was no reply. Reece dashed across the deck, already halfway to the cabin.

Old Man Bryce and the crew glanced over the ship’s side. No one said a word. Then, as if coming to grips with the situation, they shouted and darted in every direction, preparing for some mysterious disaster.

The whistling grew louder.

What was a calm surface now erupted with meter-high waves around an approaching body. A giant blob, shaped like a blimp, slowly rose from the ocean depths. The thousands of lines carving its gray carapace swerved and interlaced like those of heathens Dimitry saw near Estoria’s port and forest. Their blue glow illuminated the night.

“Reece, stay in front!” the bishop commanded as she strutted across the deck. “Make sure to block every feather from the flying devils while I kill the carrier.”

The Zeran knight barged forward with his giant steel shield held in front of him. “Yes, madam!”

“Selene, stay behind me. Watch carefully, but don’t move! Learn as much as you can!”

The little girl cowered behind the bishop.

“I’m counting on you, your holinesses!” Old Man Bryce said. “Celeste guide us.”

Dimitry ran for the cargo hold as instructed, but stopped midway. Although his knees shook and cold sweat covered his hands, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the bizarre sight of a giant heathen.

It floated around a hundred meters away. After releasing another deep whistle, two flaps opened on its back.

38. Whale Watching Cruise

The absurdity and terror that accompanied a naval face-off with a giant heathen left Dimitry breathless. He stared, paralyzed.

Although the beast was a hundred meters away, its gray bulk and blue glow contrasted against the bleak night, broadcasting monstrous features to anyone who dared stay on the deck for an extended look. Besides a gargantuan body, a bumpy tail peeked out from the ocean’s surface. The creature resembled a bony whale, except that it had a stone constitution and two open flaps on its back, each revealing a pitch-black chasm.

“It’s releasing flying devils!” the bishop bellowed.

Reece planted his shield into the deck and leaned forward.

After the carrier heathen moaned an agonizing wail, a figure soared from its back and into the sky. It looked like a bird. Two long, trapezoidal wings abound in jagged spikes flanked its slim torso. Mazes of blue lines illuminated every rocky organ until it disappeared into dark green clouds. The monstrosity reemerged moments later, swooping down towards the boat.

“Dropia!” the bishop chanted.

The stone bird only accelerated.

Reece raised his shield, holding it parallel to the deck to cover both the bishop and Selene.

The flying devil whizzed over them, dropping projectiles as it passed. They plonked into wood, clanged against metal, and splashed into water.

Alarmed by the danger, Dimitry fled down the ladder to the cargo hold, but a child’s whimpering shriek gave him pause. The cries were Selene’s.

“Arnest!” Reece’s shout echoed throughout the night. “Are you still there?! We need a physician!”

Dimitry stopped halfway down the ladder. Should he risk all to help? He despised the Church. The way they blackmailed the sickly, enslaved the unrepentant, and brainwashed the hungry. Although Dimitry became a monster, killing wherever he went, he couldn’t abandon Selene. She might have been with the Church, but she was also just a little girl.

Fire burned within his chest.

This rush was why he became a surgeon.

Maybe he hadn’t regressed to scum.

“Coming!” Numbed by adrenaline, Dimitry clambered up to the deck and dashed towards the girl.

Selene lay curled into a ball. A spike surrounded in heathen’s blood protruded from her hand. The childish screams intensified, pitiful and urgent.

“Get her out of here!” Reece said. “I can’t protect her.”

The bishop stomped. “Shut up and focus!”

“Yes, madam!”

“It’ll be okay.” Dimitry crouched beside Selene to pick her up. “Can you be a good girl for me and take deep breaths?”

His words had no effect—Selene’s screams grew more agonizing.

Dimitry cradled her in his arms and ran toward the cargo hold.

A second wail cut through the clamoring of panicked crew members. The whistling loudened as the carrier devil approached, its course perpendicular to the ship. Like a vertical torpedo, another stone bird launched from its back.

“It’s returning,” Reece shouted. “Arnest, be careful!”

The first flying devil dove. Its wings outstretched, it prepared to shoot another salvo of stone spikes. This time, the targets were Dimitry and Selene.

“Dropia!” the bishop chanted.

The bird-like heathen shattered as it slammed into the ocean, stone organs plunging into dark green depths.

Relief coursed through Dimitry. He could breathe once more.

“Take that, you fuck!” Old Man Bryce said.

“Woohoo!” Reece shouted. “Gotcha this time!”

“Focus!”

“Yes, madam!”

Dimitry balanced a squirming Selene over his shoulder and slid down the ladder. “Everyone, clear some space.” After the crew formed a circle, he eased the girl against the floor of the cargo hold. Tears streamed down her cheeks and snot discharged from her nose.

Ignorant to heathen injuries, Dimitry wasn’t fit for the job. Only an irresponsible surgeon operated beyond their expertise when someone more capable was around. He pointed to the stone feather in the girl’s hand. “Can anyone treat this thing?”

The crew shared glances and shook their heads. The worst-case scenario. In silence, they threw all the responsibility onto him.

Shit. Dimitry had to wing it. “Ignacius, I need your help.”

The old man lowered his pipe and jogged closer. “What is it, my boy?”

“Can you put her to sleep or numb her or something? I can’t do anything with her rolling around like this.”

Ignacius reached into his cloak and, without a word, Selene fell unconscious.

“Move out of the way!” Dimitry pushed through two men blocking the path to his leather bag, which rested against the cargo hold’s wall. He tossed it over his shoulder and returned to Selene’s side. Taking the girl’s injured hand in his, he tried to make sense of the damage.

Both human blood and bright blue heathen’s blood flowed out from the base of a stone feather lodged into the back of her hand. The wound smelled of burnt iron as the two liquids mixed, fizzling and coagulating on her skin. Luckily, the projectile entered sideways, missing any major tendons or muscles.

“Dropia!” the bishop’s voice bellowed from the deck.

Dimitry took a deep breath to calm his nerves. He wanted to act immediately, but collecting information came first. The biggest unknown was the heathen’s blood. Although he saw it wilt shrubbery into brown husks, its effect on vertebrates remained a mystery.

“Ignacius, my village had no heathens, so I need some information. Just answer yes or no.”

“Speak fast, boy.”

“Is heathen’s blood safe to remove with water?”

“Yes.”

“Does this stone feather have any magic on it I need to know about before removing it?”

“No.”

“How does heathen’s blood affect flesh?”

“I’m no field cleric, my boy. But from what I’ve seen, it turns it into mush.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“Aside from something to do with astrology charts, I’m not sure.”

Damn. That wasn’t much information at all!

Dimitry opened his leather bag and grabbed a pair of tweezers. There was no time to disinfect them—the flesh around the wound ulcerated. First, he had to stem the damage by flushing away excess heathen’s blood. He gripped the stone feather with tweezers and yanked it out.

A slurry of thick, violet goo coagulated at its base—likely a mixture of platelets, red blood cells, and that strange blue liquid. However, now wasn’t the time to analyze samples. The skin continued to ulcerate and darken.

“Ugh, I can never get used to that,” one of the ship’s crew said.

“I don’t think Selene will make it.”

“Come on, Arnest! Save the little priestess!”

Dimitry reached for a jar and popped the wooden cork. There wasn’t much boiled water left, but it would probably be enough. He poured it generously on the skin around the wound, flushing away excess heathen’s blood from its surface. Now came the tricky part.

Cleaning inside the wound.

An injury he knew absolutely nothing about.

Dimitry pulled back the blistered skin surrounding the site of the stone feather’s impact. Thick, purple liquid sloshed inside the shallow wound. Exposed flesh seemed to melt into goo, widening the injury—the most horrific case of liquefactive necrosis he ever saw. Like an internal chemical burn.

The carrier heathen’s loud whistle pierced through the agitated atmosphere. It got closer.

“You giant, fucking prick!” Old Man Bryce’s tense voice came from the deck.

The boat made a sudden turn.

“Hold on!” a crewman shouted.

Dimitry ignored the impending doom as he poured water into the puncture wound, which mixed with the soup of slushing tissue inside. The slurry thinned and overflowed, erupting onto the surrounding skin. Dimitry used a rag to wipe away as much as possible. He irrigated the wound until it became bright pink and oozed only human blood. Hopefully, heathen’s blood didn’t have caustic components that diffused into lymph, cardiovascular, or circuit vessels. From internal burns to venom-like paralysis, who knew what could happen?

The boat stopped turning. Everyone stood silent, their breaths stifled as if awaiting news regarding a gravely injured family member admitted to a trauma center.

A faerie’s frantic giggle could be heard but went unnoticed.

“That’s right. Get out of here, you bastard!” Old Man Bryce shouted from the deck. “Dirty Matilda survives yet another voyage!”

The six crewmen surrounding Dimitry erupted in cheers. At the sound of descending metal boots, they charged toward the ladder to thank their saviors: a boisterous man with a large shield and a robed, older woman.

Dimitry ignored the commotion. Although Selene’s condition appeared to stabilize, his job wasn’t done yet. Her injury was prone to infection. No, it was almost guaranteed to become infected. Children had weak immune systems. Sepsis would eventually take hold, killing the little girl. Could he disinfect exposed flesh and keep it clean?

Hell, were pathogens even the largest worry? Dimitry knew nothing about heathen’s blood. The damage resembled liquefactive necrosis like that from contact with strongly alkaline substances, perhaps similarly resulting in solubilized protein, saponified fats, and dehydrated cells. Was heathen’s blood simply a powerful base? If not, were there other hazards?

Until he could decide on proper treatment, he wrapped a sterilized rag around Selene’s hand to stem the bleeding of scattered ulcers and an open wound under sloughing skin. Someone else would provide proper treatment once they reached Coldust. Hoping the little girl would survive that long, Dimitry took a deep breath and leaned back against a crate.

“Well done, boy.” Ignacius patted Dimitry’s shoulder. Upon seeing the knight, the wizard shoved his pipe back into his mouth and sat by a wall. Was he avoiding the Church, too?

Reece barged through the jubilant crowd. “How’s Selene? Did the injury take her hand?” He knelt on the other side of the girl and lifted the rag that hid a layer of inflamed epidermis and drying blood. His dark green eyes rose to meet Dimitry’s. “Thank you.”

“It was the least I could do while you were risking your life on deck,” Dimitry said, “but I’m not sure if I did it right.”

“Let me see that.” The bishop strutted closer with self-assured steps. After poking at the wound with dirty hands, a cardinal sin, she coiled the rag back around it and looked up. “Arnest, I want to talk to you about something.” Her voice was grim. “In private.”

An icy shiver shot down Dimitry’s spine. Did he do something wrong? “Is it about the wound? I tried my best to—”

“Come with me.” She climbed up to the deck.

Although the bishop’s request was ominous, Dimitry had no choice but to abide. The crew worshiped the Church. More so now that a knight and bishop had saved their lives from a maritime heathen attack. If he declined or fought back, they might throw him overboard.

As he walked towards the ladder, he shot a glance at Saphiria, who sat in an isolated corner, reaching for the sheath strapped to her leg. He shook his head. She gave a slight nod and put away her dagger. The right choice.

Dimitry reached the ship’s deck to find the bishop waiting for him on the other side.

She beckoned him forward while opening the cabin’s door with an outstretched hand. “Get in.”

“Before I do, what is the topic of our conversation?”

A frown took form on her face. “Get in. I don’t want anyone else to hear, and neither do you.”

That was enough to convince him. Dimitry entered the room containing a dozen straw bunk beds and sat on the one closest to a red-glowing incendia statuette. The warmth returned sensation to his outstretched hands.

The bishop slammed the door shut and sat across from him. It was a while before she spoke. “Reece is an idiot.”

Dimitry’s eyebrows furrowed. “Excuse me?”

“You may have convinced him, the crew, and Bryce that you’re not the convict Estoria’s looking for, but I’m not that foolish. Pale green eyes never existed before you.”

He urged his voice to remain steady. “That’s because I’m not him. The Crimson Knights confirmed that when they searched the cargo hold with me in it.”

Emphasized by the light of an illumina lamp attached to the cabin’s ceiling, the wrinkles on her forehead deepened. She tugged on his hand. “Is that why you bled blue bile when they left? Your overload says it all. I don’t know if you cast miragia or whatnot, and frankly, I don’t care. That’s not why I called you here.”

Did she assume he used ordinary magic to escape? Thankfully, she didn’t know him as the ‘disappearing man’, but merely as a wanted fugitive.

“So, why did you call me here?”

“Originally, I intended to report you to the authorities when we reached Coldust, but after you risked your life to save Selene, I had a change of heart. You’re Amalthea’s enemy, not ours. That’s why I want to strike a deal with you.”

So it was true. She didn’t receive word that Dimitry assaulted Church members in Ravenfall. Another bullet dodged. “I’m listening.”

“If you can keep the girl alive until we reach Coldust, I’ll pretend I don’t know who you are. Got it?”

“That’s fine. Keeping her alive has been my intention from the start.”

39. Shackles Unbound

Dimitry returned to the cargo hold after his meeting with the bishop. The entire crew, all except for one man plucking stone feathers from the ship’s deck, huddled around a prideful Zeran knight, showering him with compliments and prayers. The toasting of wooden cups drowned out the creaking of twisting planks. A jubilant atmosphere. Dimitry, however, wasn’t as thrilled.

He navigated past a sleeping Selene and sat beside Saphiria, who stayed almost entirely in the same spot for the past three days. Underneath her cloak hid Precious—the ‘person’ Dimitry came to consult with.

“What happened?” Saphiria whispered.

“The bishop knows I’m the convict with ‘pale green eyes’, but she doesn’t know about you or Precious. She said I have to keep Selene alive, or else she’ll turn me in once we reach Coldust. I need to know if she lied.”

Saphiria tilted her head down. “Precious didn’t sense anyone lying recently.”

Dimitry exhaled a relieved breath. From the start, he intended to nurse the little girl to health. Contaminated bandages encased Selene’s wound, one that would eventually get infected, and treatment required supplies that weren’t available on an unsanitary old boat. Unless there was another way.

And maybe there was.

“I’ll be right back,” Dimitry said. “I want to test something.”

Saphiria grabbed his ankle. “Be careful. The Church can’t be trusted.”

“Normally, I’d agree with you, but I doubt an eight-year-old girl would try to trick me. As for the bishop, that’s another story.”

“… Understood.” She let go.

Dimitry picked up Selene, who slept on two combined crates, and rested her over his shoulder. He brought her to Ignacius.

The old man released a cloud of minty smoke. “Everything all right, my boy?”

“I want to experiment with some magic if you don’t mind.”

“Say no more!” The exhilarated glare in Ignacius’ eyes was like that of a child watching a rocket launch into space. “You’ve come to the right person!”

“Do you know how to cast preservia?” Dimitry asked.

“But of course.”

“Can you enchant an object with it?”

“Unfortunately not.” Ignacius sighed. “It’s a completely different skill. If my daughter were here…”

Although his answer wasn’t the one Dimitry hoped for, his idea could still work. The plan was simple. Back in Ravenfall, he used a preservia blanket to keep severed corpses fresh. Normally, microorganisms like bacteria and fungi decayed flesh, but under the enchantment’s influence, body parts rotted at a decreased rate. That meant one of two things: either preservia prevented germ growth or killed them altogether. Both outcomes served as a means for sterilization—a development that could revolutionize medicine.

As for how well that worked in practice, however, remained to be seen.

Dimitry leaned Selene against a wall. “First, I want you to cast preservia on my arm.”

Ignacius combed four fingers through his beard. “Could you tell me why?”

“I want to see if it’ll hurt me before I use it on Selene. If my plan works, I’ll tell you all about it.”

The old man glanced at the blonde girl’s hand. “If you intend to mend her injury, I’m afraid I can’t guarantee results.”

Ignacius’ comment didn’t deter Dimitry. Chances were that people cast the spell onto infected wounds only to reinfect them shortly after with unsanitary equipment. A blunder he wouldn’t repeat. “Could you just try it, anyway?” Dimitry placed two vol pellets onto the cargo hold’s floor, then held out his arm.

Ignacius tapped his pipe against a crate. Orange powder shifted within the bowl. “One pellet’s more than enough for both of you.” He picked up a pellet. “Just the hand?”

“Yes.”

The vol pellet in the old man’s palm shrunk.

Dimitry felt no different. “Is that it?”

Ignacius nodded.

The spell seemed safe enough.

Dimitry considered unwrapping Selene’s bandage to peek underneath, but changed his mind. There was no point in tearing away fresh scab. It would only result in bleeding from a small girl who didn’t have blood to spare. If the heathen’s blood didn’t have any delayed symptoms, Dimitry guessed that the affected area would look like a severe burn: red and black skin with interspersed blisters. A pathogenic playground. He had to sterilize it right away.

“Now, cast it on her arm and bandage.”

Without a word, the pellet in the old man’s hand decreased in size once more.

“Was that your whole experiment?” Ignacius exhaled smoke from his nose. “Don’t get your hopes up. People have tried it before.”

“Hey, what’s going on here?” A joyful Reece said as he approached. “Is Selene okay?”

“She’s fine.” Dimitry examined the rosy-cheeked knight. “Have you been drinking?”

“Just ale.”

Aside from wine, ale was the only potable liquid they had on the ship. It couldn’t even be considered alcoholic. The knight wasn’t drunk—Dimitry could trust him with the girl. “In that case, can you do me a favor and take Selene to bed? She needs rest.”

“Sure!” The knight placed the small, blonde girl over his metal-clad shoulder. Her blonde hair spilled out of her hood.

“One more thing. Don’t lift her bandage or poke around. I put special medicine on her hand that only works when it stays covered.”

“You worry too much!” Reece pounded his chest and grinned. “Leave it to me.”

“I’m counting on you.”

The knight’s metal boots pounded against the ladder as he clambered out of the cargo hold.

Ignacius chuckled. “Special medicine, huh?”

“I like to keep things simple,” Dimitry said. “Besides, if I told him the treatment was preservia, do you think he would take my advice seriously and resist the urge to look?”

“An overactive boy like that one? Probably not.” The old man took another puff from his pipe. The minty smoke escaped from the cargo hold through chinks between layered oak planks.

Although Dimitry didn’t smoke anymore, he wanted nothing more than to occupy his mind. The burning orange powder tempted him. “What’s that in your pipe?”

“This? It’s just regular feracide.”

The fumes left Dimitry light-headed. Not in a bad way. “Does it have any interesting effects?”

“Aside from keeping pesky thoughts at bay,” Ignacius said, “Not much else. Want to try some, boy?”

Feracide sounded like a substance that could deliver peace of mind. A tempting proposition. Dimitry spent the past few weeks murdering, butchering, and running from authorities without stopping to rest. Every morally abhorrent act, every near-death encounter pushed his adrenergic system closer to its limit. If he kept it up, a sustained stress response would eventually lead to illness. He needed a break.

“Do you have a spare pipe?” Dimitry asked.

Ignacius reached into his robe. “Horn or clay?”

“Horn.”

Dimitry took the pipe from the old man. With no cracked parts or crumbling pieces, he determined it was safe to smoke from. But there was another problem: the lip. Has it ever been properly cleaned of whatever microorganisms festered on the surface? Probably not. He dabbed the edge of a rag with aqua vitae and got to work.

“What’s that for?”

“I heard that cleaning a pipe makes the product taste better.”

“Is that so? Do the same for mine, would you?”

Dimitry disinfected both pipes, removing a layer of dried grime from each. Ignacius filled their bowls with feracide and lit them with a glance.

Every inhalation sent a wave of dense smoke into Dimitry’s lungs. It reminded him of his teenage years. However, unlike the cough-inducing mixture of tobacco and marijuana his ‘friends’ smoked, feracide’s vapors soothed all as they traveled through his throat, larynx, trachea, and finally, into his lungs. Despite the minty taste, there was no cooling aftereffect. Warmth relaxed his body. The perfect compliment to a tense voyage across frigid oceans filled with heathens.

Ignacius heaved a full-bellied laugh. “Looks like you’ve found yourself a new hobby, boy.”

His head lighter, either from oxygen deprivation or feracide’s effects, Dimitry nodded. “I’ll be honest, it’s quite pleasant.”

“A necessity after any heathen attack.”

“It certainly helps.” The drug calmed Dimitry’s nerves, which remained unhinged after that unbelievable sight. He never expected to see a gigantic stone whale housing murderous birds in its back. A combination that seemed to exist only for war. “Do they always attack boats?”

“No,” the old man said, “but it happens frequently in Roland’s Gulf. There are three cities nearby, and vol usage attracts devils.”

Dimitry recalled hearing the same from Saphiria back in Ravenfall. “It would be best if we reached Coldust soon, then.”

The two men sat against the wall smoking until everyone else cleared out, save for a half-awake Saphiria. She nodded off on a twisting oak hull that creaked with every dip and dive from a boat resisting the throes of ocean waves. A small illumina lamp atop a crate brightened the otherwise gloom space.

Dimitry struggled to keep his eyes open. Whether the fatigue sourced from an eventful night or the mellowing effects of feracide was unclear. In either case, he overindulged. With the drug’s long-term effects a mystery, he decided he had abused his respiratory system enough. “I think I’m going to go get some sleep.”

“Just a moment before you go.” Ignacius glanced at Saphiria. “Now that everyone else is gone, it’s a good opportunity for me to bring this up.”

“Bring what up?”

“That the little miss is an escaped servant.”

Icy waves shot down Dimitry’s limbs, perking him up instantly. “Why would you say that?”

“I saw her collar.”

Dimitry jumped to his feet. The sudden movement made Saphiria’s head shoot up.

“Don’t be alarmed, boy. You two are not the only ones at odds with the Church.” Dense streams of smoke escaped the old man’s nostrils. “Besides, the little miss already knows that I know. She promised not to speak of it after... some things happened.”

Saphiria nodded.

What went down while Dimitry lay unconscious? Although he trusted Saphiria, he couldn’t trust Ignacius. Agatha and Delphine’s deception proved that anyone could be an enemy. “Are you sure he isn’t lying?”

“Yes,” Saphiria said.

“How about the part about being at odds with the Church? Was he trying to mislead me?”

“No.”

“So no maliciousness at all?”

Saphiria shook her head.

“How can she know for sure?” Ignacius asked with wide-open eyes. “Is it more strange magic?”

The old man wasn’t plotting a devious scheme, yet Dimitry didn’t risk revealing Precious’ existence. There was no predicting how someone would react to a corrupted creature. “We all have our secrets, but it has nothing to do with you.”

“I must know, boy!”

“That’s enough.” Saphiria walked closer. “Arnest, I apologize for not saying so earlier, but this agreement benefits us both. Allow me to handle this.” Her gaze shifted to Ignacius. “As for you, since you’ve decided to speak, does that mean you’re ready to remove my collar?”

Did Saphiria and Ignacius come to an arrangement behind Dimitry’s back? Although he felt betrayed for being kept out of the loop, he didn’t voice his concern. He had no reason to believe she plotted anything nefarious. Everyone would benefit if Saphiria shed her collar, and the girl deserved her freedom.

“Sorry for getting out of hand,” Dimitry said. “If you do this for her, we’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“Not a bad turn of events.” Ignacius took a massive pull, and his shoulders slumped. “Truth be told, the only reason I bring this up now is because you became that lamb’s surgeon. You’ll be looking after her all day, and the bishop will hound you until we land in Coldust. This might be my last chance to see your disappearing magic.”

“That wasn’t what we agreed on,” Saphiria hissed. “Arnest needs more time to heal. I won’t let you force him into—”

Dimitry tugged on her wrist. “Getting rid of your collar is more important than a few extra days of recovery. If I’m looking after the child, the Church will be around us even more than usual. I rather not risk them discovering you.”

“But what if your overload worsens?”

“Ignacius fixed it before.”

“And if he can’t do so again?”

The wizard chuckled. “Seeing you kids so passionate makes me feel young again. Guess Remora hasn’t rotted this geezer’s heart yet.” Ignacius covered his pipe’s bowl with his palm, extinguishing the flames. “Don’t worry, little miss. He’ll be fine.”

“If he gets hurt, you die. Do well to remember that.”

Saphiria’s unbridled concern for Dimitry filled his chest with warmth. Her sentiment would be sweeter if not for the sharp language. “You should let Ignacius remove your collar.”

“Are you sure?”

Dimitry nodded.

Saphiria hesitantly pulled back her hood and unbuttoned the top of her cloak. A gray glowing scarf constricted her lower neck. She untied the knot, and the enchanted cloth fell to her shoulders. A collar peeked out from beneath long, raven black hair.

Ignacius reached into his red robe. “This should do it.”

The collar’s silver aura vanished.

Saphiria looked down in disbelief at an engraved steel choker that no longer had its glow. Her indigo eyes reddened, and she sniffled.

Seeing a stoic girl release pent-up emotions choked Dimitry. He retrieved a clean cloth from his bag and draped it over her trembling hand.

“Thank you,” she muttered.

Ignacius discreetly wiped his face with his sleeve. “I’ll… I’ll be using meltia next. That was only dispelia.”

“One second.” Saphiria dabbed her eyes with the makeshift handkerchief. “Dimit—Arnest, can you give me another?”

“As many as you need.”

She spread the second strip of cloth at her feet. After shoving her enchanted scarf into Dimitry’s bag, Saphiria leaned forward. “I’m ready.”

“Don’t move, or I’ll melt more than just your collar.” Ignacius reached into his robe once more.

Droplet after droplet, steel dripped onto the rag below Saphiria’s neck. The metal didn’t radiate heat. Instead, as if violating the laws of physics itself, lustrous molten steel hit the floor without starting a single fire in a cargo hold full of flammables. A vertical gap cleaved the collar’s front, and before long, another through the back.

The collar split into two.

Both semicircle fragments fell with a loud clang.

“I-I…” Saphiria dropped to her knees.

Was her reaction purely emotional, or did the magic injure her? Perhaps the sudden removal of the steel collar pained her. Restrictive tightness over years could have resulted in permanent nerve or structural damage.

Dimitry crouched beside her. “You okay?”

Silent tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Do you mind if I take a quick look for injuries?”

She shook her head.

Aiming not to bother her for long, Dimitry performed a brief visual examination of her neck and palpated for deformities. There were none. All that remained were bruises and hematomas from years of carrying heavy metal upon her slender shoulders—fleeting glimpses into the hell she endured.

“Is it really gone?” Saphiria whispered.

“Yeah. It’s really gone.”

Conflicting emotions took residence within Dimitry: one that weighed him down as if to pay respects at a solemn funeral, and another that filled him with the ecstasy of seeing a wardmate send their cancer into remission. Pity at a society that enslaved fellow humans and boundless pride that a good friend overcame it.

For a while, all one could hear were sniffles, waves washing against the hull, and wooden creaks from planks warping under the boat’s rocks and sways.

Wiping her eyes with her sleeve now that both handkerchiefs became wet, Saphiria stood up. “I’m sorry.”

He gave her another cloth. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“To finally be free of the Church—I know that feeling well.” Ignacius softly chuckled. “Of course, my situation differed from yours.”

Dimitry tore his eyes away from the girl who finally tasted true freedom. “What kind of situation is that?”

“Oh, that’s a long story, my boy. I don’t think anyone would be interested in this old fool’s life. Besides, it’s time for you to hold up your end of the bargain.”

40. High Vol Mileage

A chunk of rock enchanted with illumina, this world’s equivalent of a lamp, filled the ship’s cargo hold with light. Incandescent rays reflected off of all, including the cool and weighty pellet in Dimitry’s hand. Soon, the dark green metal would vanish, its power converted by a series of circuits and cores running through his body to cast invisall—the spell Ignacius asked him to use.

Dimitry winced at the thought. Although Ignacius’s treatments were working, his body was still in shambles. Purple vessels protruded all across his arms and chest with thick walls that radiated pain at the slightest touch, often keeping him awake at night. Abusing magic further wouldn’t improve his situation.

“Will you not accept gold instead?” Saphiria’s voice was soft after her collar’s removal. “I do not wish for my selfishness to hurt Arnest.”

The old wizard sitting across from them wore an expression that was somehow calm and excited. “You children worry too much. When I was younger, we did all sorts of crazy things with vol.”

To soothe a kindhearted girl and perhaps himself, Dimitry questioned Ignacius. “Are you sure I won’t die from this?”

“I’m right here. You’ll be fine. Last time, you suffered as much as you did because you didn’t receive treatment right away. There was a bit of a… misunderstanding. A well-timed relaxia and you’ll be fine. This isn’t my first time doing this.”

Although Ignacius resuscitated Dimitry before and was capable enough, doubts remained. “But you saw me use invisall last time. What value is there in you seeing it again?”

“Good question, my boy.” Ignacius fished for something in his robe’s pocket. “This time, I’ll be using revealia.”

Dimitry glanced at Saphiria, whose moist indigo eyes widened. She understood something he didn’t. “What difference does that make?” he asked.

“Have you ever wondered why your so-called ‘invisall’ hurts you so much?” the wizard asked.

He had. Whenever Dimitry used snoozia, he suffered far fewer side effects if any at all. Neither Saphiria nor Precious could tell him why. “Go on.”

“Revealia lets me see how vol moves through your body.” Ignacius continued to dig inside his robe. He looked up. “Little miss, I think I’m all out. Do you mind?”

Saphiria placed several pellets onto the cargo hold floor.

The old man reached for one. “Normally, it takes many years to learn to control your cores and circuits well enough to spread vol evenly throughout your body. You, my boy, are young and did so effortlessly while panicking. But that’s not the strangest thing. Somehow, despite your great skill, you’re hurting yourself.”

Feet numb from sitting in the same position, Dimitry put a knee up. Apparently, spells that affected the entire body were difficult to pull off. When he hid from the Crimson Knights, all he did was chant the word, and the rest took care of itself. At no point did he have to ‘control his circuits’. “Are you saying that I’m simultaneously good and bad at magic?”

“What I’m saying is that I have no idea what’s going on.” Ignacius combed his beard with wrinkly fingers. “I’ve raised and tutored three granddaughters who are almost your age now. All of them were promising students. Although I haven’t seen them in years, I doubt they can do what you did.”

Dimitry gripped the vol pellet tighter. “Would you be able to learn anything with revealia?”

“I don’t know.” The old man grinned as he placed the illumina lamp inside a crate, turning the room pitch black. “And that’s the exciting part. Ready?”

“Are you sure that you can prevent feedback with relaxia?”

“Sure am.”

Saphiria, a conduit for Precious, nodded to confirm Ignacius’s sincerity.

“In that case, I’m as ready as can be.” Dimitry steeled himself for the upcoming pain. Although risky, the potential to understand his magic was worth it.

The pellet disappeared from the old man’s hand.

Dozens of green glitters, like tiny stars, surrounded Dimitry. Each one’s light either intensified or abated, continually phasing in and out of existence in mid-air. It reminded him of the night of repentance. The only difference, however, was their smaller size and the fact that they gathered around the old man’s palm.

If he weren’t about to cast a painful spell, their beauty would have charmed Dimitry. They filled him with trepidation instead. “What are those?”

“These?” Ignacius lifted his arms, and the green ‘stars’ moved with them. “It’s exhaust. It appears wherever vol is used. Now quit dallying—revealia’s effects don’t last forever.”

Dimitry glanced at the pellet in his hand and inhaled deeply. “Invisall.”

The vol melted into his palm, burning through his arm, shoulder, and across his chest. He slammed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth to bear the pain. Just as circuits swelled out of his skin as if ready to burst, the building pressure dissipated, and a soothing calm took its place.

“Zera preserve me…” Ignacius mumbled.

He opened his eyes to discover an open-mouthed old man and a motionless Saphiria. They stared at the spot where his body vanished. “Why are you two looking at me like that?”

“Are you all right?” Saphiria asked. “Does it hurt?”

“It did for a moment, but it didn’t last long.”

Ignacius lit his pipe, took a huge puff, and blew a cloud of smoke towards Dimitry. The minty vapors wrapped around him, forming a hollow silhouette.

“The boy didn’t disappear… we just can’t see him. And there’s no exhaust either.”

Unlike the many green sparks around Ignacius, none coalesced around Dimitry. “Is that a bad thing?”

“It means your magic is perfectly efficient. I’ve never seen anything like it.” The feracide in the old man’s pipe crackled. “Usually, when someone casts a spell, some vol leaks out of their circuits and into the air. It’s a big problem for beginners, but even I…” He exhaled and leaned back, resting his white hair against a wall. His thoughtful gaze watched the oak ceiling.

Dimitry fanned the minty smoke away. “Are you saying that my magic uses every bit of vol whereas normally a lot of it gets wasted? Could that explain why the feedback is so extreme?”

Ignacius didn’t respond right away; he chewed on the lip of his blood-colored wooden pipe instead. “My boy… you may be right.”

“Also, another thing. When my magic wears off and I ‘appear’ again, I feel drained. My body gets heavy, and I have trouble thinking. Do you know why?”

“That sounds like novice fatigue,” the old man said, “but it doesn’t make sense. Why would you, someone with perfect efficiency, something that takes endless practice…”

It made sense to Dimitry. Before brain cancer took away his ability to walk without stumbling, he used to lift weights at a gym. Every new workout or change in his routine would make him sore—the aftereffects of a body unused to new, demanding activities. With enough training, the soreness didn’t return. Was magic the same?

Circuits were as tough as arteries, hinting at a thick layer of smooth muscle within every purple vessel wall. If he continued to cast spells, would the vasculature acclimate, allowing Dimitry to use magic without as many side-effects? Would the discomfort eventually disappear altogether? Or was there another mechanism involved?

All experiments for another time.

Dimitry’s overload prevented him from testing his hypothesis. Senseless use of magic would only worsen the condition. To make matters worse, he would part ways with Ignacius once they reached Coldust, his ‘treatments’ lost forever. For now, Dimitry had to focus on getting to Malten alive.

His gaze shifted towards Saphiria. Dried tears smeared the dirt specks covering her face. She lay against the cargo hold wall, fast asleep. Dimitry covered her with a blanket.

Eyelids heavy, either from dealing with the Church, casting magic, or a confrontation with a giant stone monster, he soon fell asleep himself.

Two days later, Dimitry stood on the side of the ship. A gentle wind blew through his hair, brushing dirty blonde strands against his cheek. Above the vast blue ocean, puffy white clouds surveyed over all with backs illuminated by an emerging sun. The beautiful view was amplified by a landmass that drew closer. Near the coast, an enormous wall became distinguishable.

Coldust’s heathen barrier. They would arrive soon.

Next to him, Selene playfully swayed side to side as she mindlessly watched a distant horizon. He placed the back of his hand against her forehead for the umpteenth time. It was warm—not hot. As far as Dimitry could tell, the little girl no longer had a high fever. Still, it would have been better if he had precise methods for measuring body temperature. How he wished for a thermometer. Although he preferred digital thermometers, even a mercury variety would do.

“How do you feel?” he asked. “Any better?”

The little girl shrugged. “I’m bored.”

Dimitry chuckled. “Do you feel tired at all?”

“A little sleepy.”

“As sleepy as before?”

Blonde hair flew out of Selene’s hood when she shook her head.

Dimitry exhaled a relieved sigh.

He had spent the past two days doing three things: smoking with Ignacius, chatting with Saphiria, and taking care of a young girl. Although Dimitry didn’t mind doing the latter, it wasn’t entirely out of goodwill. The bishop’s threat held weight. Both Saphiria and Ignacius mentioned that high-ranking Church ladies were not the type to upset.

Selene had to survive.

The day after the heathen attack, she woke up pale, weak, and with a burning forehead. However, quicker than Dimitry expected, her condition stabilized. Was it the result of vigilant medical treatment or preservia?

“Have you been eating well?” he asked.

“I don’t like dried meat.”

“But did you eat it, anyway?”

Selene nodded.

It was fortunate that her appetite improved. She didn’t eat for an entire day after the carrier devil attack—an outcome that distressed Dimitry. He patted her head. “Good girl.”

“Can we play some more?” she asked.

“Let’s see what Madam Rosaline has to say first. She’s really worried about you.”

“Okay.”

The little girl, hindered by a white robe, ran across the deck as fast as Dimitry walked. They passed a group of noisy crewmen and entered the ship’s cabin.

Inside, an aging woman in a gray robe sat on one of many straw beds, scrolling through yellow rolls of parchment. The bishop looked up, her partially wrinkled face illuminated by the combined efforts of a lamp and sunlight leaking through chinks in the wall. “Arnest, how often do you read the scriptures?”

A random question that caught Dimitry off-guard.

He would be foolish to say he ignored them altogether in a society as religious as this one. However, if she quizzed him, Dimitry needed a reason not to be well-versed in the teachings. “They are my source of hope when a patient passes away, so thankfully, not too often.”

“Perhaps that’s a good thing.”

“I like to think so.”

Rosaline held Selene’s hand. “Over the years, I’ve seen many lambs die before ascending to priestesshood. Some killed by a heathen, others at the hand of a bandit or a beast, but most often it is wound rot and coughing sickness that culls the young and old alike. However, I don’t see the same deathly look in Selene’s eyes that I often do. You’ve done well.”

Although Dimitry had little sympathy for the Church, especially since they sent children to the front lines, he agreed with Rosaline: a young girl getting to live the rest of her life could never be a bad thing. “It was my honor and my pleasure. My only hope is that she may rest several weeks before… more encounters with heathens.”

“It’ll be as you say. Your expertise is worth considering.”

“You humble me.”

Rosaline’s eyes narrowed. “Is it true that preservia can mend injuries?”

Dimitry froze. “Where did you learn of that?”

“The crew confesses much to me. It is only natural that I know.”

Bryce’s men must have overheard Dimitry’s conversation with Ignacius. He hoped they didn’t overhear much else. “The matter is slightly more complex than that, but I believe the principle has merit.”

“I see.” The bishop sat in silence a while. “Have you ever considered serving as a field cleric?”

A field cleric? Dimitry assumed the position resembled that of an army combat medic. While the Church’s defense against heathens deserved respect, their exploitation of patients like Milli and Rowan irked Dimitry. The organization wasn’t one he could support. “Nothing would please me more, but unfortunately, I don’t work well under pressure.”

“I disagree.” The bishop rolled up her parchment and tossed it aside. “The night the carrier devil attacked, you demonstrated bravery most wouldn’t. It’s a valuable asset that could save hundreds.”

“I think it was because of the wine,” he said despite avoiding alcohol as much as he could during the voyage. “Usually, I wouldn’t risk my life so selflessly.”

“We can fix that—even if you’re already a grown man.”

Her words harrowed Dimitry. What would entail ‘fixing’ him? “Your words honor me, but there’s already a patient under my care that needs my help for the foreseeable future. I cannot abandon her.”

“That ‘rabies’ girl Reece spoke of?” The bishop’s face curled with disgust. “Work so menial is unworthy of someone with your potential. The Church can learn from your preservia treatments. Grow. Save more lives than you could alone in a lifetime. Besides, whatever crimes you’re wanted for in Estoria must be repented for. There is no better way to rectify sin than living in service to Zera. You and I both know that.”

No. Dimitry didn’t know that. Although he might revolutionize the Church by bringing an end to marks of devotion and the ‘holy’ practice of cajoling suffering peasants into purchasing exorcisms, most likely, he would die when word of his sacrilegious crimes in Amalthea inevitably reached Rosaline’s ears. But she didn’t seem interested in taking no for an answer.

“Can you give me time to think about it?” he asked. “The decision is diffi—”

“What is there to think on? We need you, and you need us. As soon as we arrive, I’ll have my subordinates escort you to the cathedral for your initiation.”

“I have a patient to look after! Do you expect me to toss her aside?”

“Tell her to find another barber-surgeon. The barbarous fools crowd every main street.”

Heart racing, Dimitry inhaled several deep breaths. He couldn’t let Precious catch wind of his panic or else Saphiria might attempt a suicidal rescue. “You said you respected my valor, but I’d be a coward if I abandoned a patient who needed me at the sight of a better opportunity. Is that the field cleric you want?”

“What’s the alternative?” Rosaline stood up, stepped closer, and frowned. “Do you expect me to let you leave? Expect me to let your techniques be lost forever were you to die on some frivolous journey? I offer this for your benefit. The pay will be enough, and if you labor diligently, you’ll have your own hospital within a decade.”

She wasn’t giving up!

Dimitry considered fleeing with invisall, but where could he go? He was trapped on a boat, they would pass under Coldust’s heathen barrier soon, and the Church would swarm him when they arrived. A plan so reckless would get him killed. He needed to buy time. Time to plan, time to consult with Saphiria, time to explore better opportunities for escape.

“You’re right,” Dimitry muttered, glancing down at his feet. “Perhaps my sin can only be absolved by a devotion to Zera. I’m done running away from my past.”

Rosaline nodded. “Just as I was once a petulant orphan who rebelled against my destiny, you rebel against yours. The weakness leaves us all eventually. We must all rise above our selfishness.”

“Unfortunately, some selfishness remains in me. Before I relinquish myself to the Church, there’s a favor I can’t help but ask.”

“Then ask.”

“You’ve mentioned that barber-surgeons are barbarous,” Dimitry said, “and I agree. That’s why I’ll need at least a week to find a physician worth entrusting my patient to. Her condition is rare and requires travel to—”

“An evening.”

“Excuse me?”

Rosaline pushed Selene out of the cabin. “I have lived a long life, and I’ve heard many honeyed words. Your actions prove you are a sympathetic surgeon, but with how often ‘good’ men try to deceive me, trust is something you’ll never pry from me. My subordinates will escort you through Coldust, and come evening, drag you back to me. You have until then to dispose of your patient.”

41. Cold Desert

Dirty Matilda navigated through a grand arc beneath Coldust’s heathen barrier. Magic chants and military orders came from the battlements above as the combined forces of the Church and the town guard fought off the occasional stone monster. Compared to Estoria, the wall wasn’t as grand, and assaulting heathens were fewer.

The cityscape ahead—a mass of stone buildings surrounded by boundless desert and animal hide tents—was smaller, too. All of civilization clustered within circular walls or around a river—the only place not a sandy wasteland. Rare greenery flanked the water from both sides.

Normally, Dimitry would have taken deep pleasure in his new environment. As long as he had solid ground to walk upon and a reprieve from the stenches of stale ale and sulfur and decaying seaweed and whatever else plagued a rocky voyage, he could be content.

But not today.

Today, Dimitry stood on the deck of a berthing ship, an iron chain tethering his wrist to the arm of a knight with gold and green glowing armor. A platoon of priestesses approached from the nearing port, crewman gossiped about a detained surgeon, Old Man Bryce watched on silently, Ignacius shivered while distancing himself from the commotion, and from across the boat, indigo eyes seared a hole into Dimitry’s head.

Saphiria’s glare grew more desperate by the moment.

Perhaps she was conveying her worry and sympathies, telling Dimitry he didn’t stand alone. Or maybe she urged him to make a diversion so she could massacre everyone aboard The Dirty Matilda—a pointless bloodbath that would get them executed upon reaching Coldust even if she somehow succeeded.

Although Precious lay beneath her cloak, relaying to her Dimitry’s every emotion, neither of them knew what had transpired during his meeting with the bishop. Rosaline bound him in chains and signaled for reinforcements right after their conversation ended.

He and Saphiria did not speak since. She didn’t know of his plan to sever his chains while searching for his barber-surgeon replacement. To provide her temporary comfort, Dimitry flashed her a knowing smile.

Saphiria hesitantly nodded.

“Sorry about this.” Reece lifted his arm to scratch his head, and the chain linking him to Dimitry jangled. “We really need talented clerics like you out there, but don’t you worry!” He flashed a heroic smile. “I’ll definitely help you find someone to look after rabies girl.”

“Thanks.”

Beside Dimitry stood Rosaline. The bishop’s aged eyes watched priestesses rush closer, their leather boots striking the port’s uneven stone floor. “Reece.”

“Yes, Reverend Mother?”

Rosaline frowned, and her forehead wrinkles deepened. “Did Celeste ever apologize for bringing order to humanity at the primacy of woman and man?”

“N-no.”

“Then I don’t want to hear you apologize, either. How can we expect to defend the world from the corruption and the demonic forces when we can’t even defend our own principles?”

Reece’s face flushed red, but like a disciplined soldier, the teenager straightened his back. His iron boots stomped The Dirty Matilda’s deck, eliciting a stressed squeal from oak planks. “I am ready to accept my punishment!”

“You’ll be reading the gospel until next moon to redeem yourself. You will repeat your sacred duties again and again until you ingrain them into your mind.”

“Only through Celeste’s guidance will my disgrace be forgiven!”

“You best not forget,” Rosaline said.

Open-mouthed, Dimitry looked on. Seeing Reece receive disciplinary action upon expressing regret for forcibly inducting Dimitry into servitude removed all doubt—the Church was little more than a militarized cult. They claimed to work in service of humanity, yet their methods included enslaving children, extorting the public, and forcing compliance.

An organization best avoided.

But Dimitry would become part of it soon.

Icy dread, even colder than this frigid desert, trickled down his spine, his veins, and into every limb. He had to escape. As soon as he got off this boat, as soon as he entered the city, Dimitry needed to break free from his shackles and flee with Saphiria.

But how?

Could he sever his chains before evening with a knight accompanying him? Even if he could, where would he go? And how would he traverse a city dominated by the Church? Invisall wasn’t an option. Without Ignacius to treat him, the overload from his magic would leave Dimitry for dead.

When The Dirty Matilda berthed in the port, crewmen in thick tunics began running back and forth through freezing temperatures. They discussed gambling and getting drunk while heaving crates off the boat and onto the dock.

A shout brought their labor to a halt.

“You!” A priestess fixed her gaze upon a red-robed senior attempting to slip past alarmed watchmen. “Don’t I know you from Olsten?”

“Me?” Ignacius chuckled. “No, no. I’m just an old-timer trying to get home to his grandkids.”

“That voice.” The priestess’s eyes widened. “Now I remember. You’re—”

Ignacius reached into his robe, but a glance at the dozen knights and priestesses surrounding him gave him pause.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“I was just… straightening my undertunic. My bones get so chilly these days, and the cold’s bad for the blue bile. Don’t you kids know that?”

Rosaline’s finger curled. “Bring him to me.”

Four priestesses pushed Ignacius towards the bishop. The old man’s gaze fell to the deck as a knight patted his clothes for vol and women whispered around them.

Ignacius mentioned being at odds with the Church, but what ‘crime’ did he commit? Perhaps his sin resembled Dimitry’s—the possession of a skill useful to the pious. Did the wizard’s knack for magic garner Rosaline’s fancy? Dimitry leaned forward to listen, hoping the information could save him, yet the whispers remained indistinguishable.

Two priestesses bowed before dragging away a weary old man.

It seemed no one could escape Zera’s voracious clutches. Not alone they couldn’t. But together, perhaps they could.

Dimitry shot Saphiria a glance and tilted his chin towards Ignacius.

She nodded.

His message was simple: ‘Have Precious track Ignacius.’

A bright sun failed to warm Dimitry as he passed through a frigid market filled with creatures that resembled miniature mammoths. Their backs laden with large bags, one stood beside each tent. The scattered teepee-like structures served as stalls for merchants wearing colorful dresses, who peddled everything from bows with sharpened limbs to white-scaled leather armor.

But none of the foreign products provided Dimitry a clue. Neither did the signs that displayed novel yet decipherable characters resembling squirming snakes, nor did the chatter of grouped women in bright blue dresses. He had only until evening to escape the knight and two priestesses ‘escorting’ them, and it was already midday.

Just as his head twisted, scanning the surroundings for anything that could offer a solution, so did Saphiria’s. Her indigo eyes jumped from inn to goat to stall as she walked beside him.

“See any barber that can take you in?” Dimitry asked, hoping his meaning came through. “We’re in a bit of a hurry.”

“I don’t,” Saphiria said. “We should explore some dead-end alleys. I hear the best physicians stay out of sight.”

Did she want to isolate and kill Reece and both priestesses? When dealing with Church soldiers capable of murdering heathens, it was a reckless plan. Dimitry shook his head. “The hidden barbers let too much blood. Those that don’t work so violently are safer, and I’m sure we’ll find one soon.”

“By then I fear it’ll be too late.” Saphiria glared at the side of his head. “My temptations are returning. If you don’t decide on your replacement soon, I’ll end up biting you.”

Goosebumps rose from Dimitry’s neck. “Everything will be fine. I’m sure of it.”

She scowled and looked away.

“W-wait,” Reece blurted. “Is she actually going to bite you?”

“I will,” Saphiria said.

The knight’s eyes shot open.

A glance at Saphiria’s tense shoulders pained Dimitry. Her anger sourced from fear. Fear for Dimitry’s safety. She and the faerie hiding beneath her cloak could have escaped if they wanted to, yet they risked their lives to aid him despite Church cultists so close by. Their loyalty gave him hope, but he would have appreciated it if Saphiria suppressed her impatience.

“Arnest.” One of two priestesses reached into her gray garbs. “Rosaline told us about rabies girl. Rest assured. If she threatens you further, I won’t hesitate to put her down.”

“Don’t!” Dimitry yelled.

Patrons, merchants, and both priestesses turned to face him as if he were a stabbing victim pleading for an ambulance.

Recognizing his error, Dimitry coughed. “Sorry, I’m just a little jumpy from a long voyage. What I meant to say was, don’t worry. She may feel a temptation at times, but nothing will happen. I gave her a medicine that subdues the need to bite.”

“You mean like the medicine you gave Selene?” Reece asked.

“Something like that.”

“I was mistaken.” Saphiria’s frown transitioned into blankness. “It was only a passing temptation.”

“See?” The happy-go-lucky knight smiled at his comrades. “There shouldn’t be a problem!”

Removing her hand from her garbs, the priestess brushed away golden hair to reveal facial features attributable to a middle schooler. “I won’t be so nice next time.”

So young, yet eager to kill.

Perhaps that shouldn’t have surprised Dimitry. Child soldiers existed on Earth, and given the decreased lifespans of people here, they would naturally embrace the concept on a societal scale. Few alternatives existed when colossal abominations ravaged the seas and coasts.

However, despite the youth of his captors and the tragedy of their circumstances, Dimitry wasn’t above taking advantage of their gullibility. He glanced at Reece. “Hey.”

The boy’s brows, like those of an affectionate dog, shot up inquisitively. “What is it? Do you see a barber-shop you want to visit? Want me to carry your bag?”

“Not exactly.” Dimitry shook his arm, rattling the chain binding him to the knight. “I was just wondering if you can loosen the cuff a bit. There’s no space to move, and my hand is really starting to ache.”

“No can do.”

“A surgeon can’t work if his wrist gets crushed. Surely you understand that?”

“I do understand.” Reece sighed, white mists escaping his mouth. “I just don’t have the key.”

“How about you ladies?”

Both priestesses shook their heads.

Damn. Dimitry hoped for an opportunity to escape, the moment Reece released the handcuff to loosen its grip, but Rosaline foresaw this. Either that or the bishop distrusted her subordinates as much as she did everyone else.

Saphiria’s gaze lifted from a fluffy sheep. Indigo eyes, big and wavering, looked at Dimitry as if to offer their sympathy.

The group spent two hours mindlessly ogling any building displaying a barber’s pole. Although the sun grew brighter and a sky devoid of clouds reigned above, the icy gales of a frigid oasis only blew colder.

During that time, Dimitry’s thoughts flickered from idea to idea. He considered using his snoozia canister to incapacitate his captors, but Reece’s enchanted armor and the priestess’s glowing underclothes rendered direct magic an unsafe bet. His most promising schemes relied on Ignacius’ melting his binds or getting Reece and the priestesses drunk. Although the prospect of intoxicating children troubled Dimitry, a lifetime of forced servitude to the Church instilled him with dread.

However, before initiating a plan, Dimitry wanted to consult with Saphiria. Unfortunately, the priestesses and Zeran Shield trailing them eavesdropped on every word. They needed a place they could converse in secret despite being near their captors.

And perhaps such a place existed. The shouting of patrons and the clanging of cups leaked past the windows of a nearby pie-shaped building. A loudness that offered privacy.

An inn as his new destination, Dimitry jumped forward.

Hauling a massive shield with a green aura, Reece trailed behind him. “Something wrong?”

“Just thinking we can use a rest after that long voyage. Don’t you want to eat something besides preserved meat and stale ale?”

“Sure, but I don’t think Rosaline will give you another chance to find a barber if we waste our time here.”

“That’s fine,” Dimitry said. “We found some good options. I just need somewhere I can discuss prospects with my patient before deciding who to entrust her with.”

Saphiria nodded. “I’m picky with my physicians.”

“To fuss over trivialities is a sin,” a priestess the age of a high school senior preached. “Celeste provides guidance to us through the mediocrities of life. To doubt our destiny is to disgrace her legacy.”

“I’m well aware of the destiny Zera offered to me,” Saphiria hissed.

“Your tone spits poison, my sister. I advise you to quell your tongue.”

Both priestesses glared at the girl, and she back at them.

To disperse the tension, Dimitry pounded his finger into the granite plaque beside the bustling inn’s arched doorway. He leaned in to read hastily carved words that resembled slithering snakes. “Look, everyone! It says they serve spiced ale and seared dunewyrm. I’m sure you’re all hungry by now.”

Saphiria’s fingers flexed as if reaching for her sheath, but after a glance at Dimitry, her hand fell to her side instead. “It seems I misspoke. Forgive me, my sister.”

“Pray well tonight.”

The hostilities halted, and Reece breathed a relieved sigh. “So… dunewyrm. What’s that?”

“A nuisance,” said the older priestess. “They construct tunnels in the sand with spittle and consume anything that falls into them.”

“My friend died that way.” The younger priestess’s gaze fell to the fur-trimmed boots protruding from beneath her layered gray garbs. “We were lambs on our first patrol.”

Unsure if he could decline work as a field cleric if he heard a twelve-year-old recall further trauma, Dimitry opened the door to the inn, and a blast of hot air blew into his face as if to wash away the heartache.

Patrons wearing robes, tunics, and brightly colored ceremonial dresses filled the spacious, domed structure. They sat around carved stone tables, conversing while gambling or eating. The patrons’ accumulated chatter could drown out the voices of anyone hoping to speak in secret.

Perfect.

The older priestess grimaced at Saphiria before dropping onto a chair beside a small and circular table. Her younger co-worker followed her.

Dimitry needed to distance himself and Saphiria from them. Hoping to create space, he turned to Reece. “Have you ever heard of doctor-patient confidentiality?”

“Of course!” The boy flashed an enthusiastic smile. “I won’t tell anyone you’re abandoning your patient!”

Reece was a good kid, but he was also a dope. “That’s not the kind of confidentiality I’m talking about.”

“Oh?”

“My patient and I need a moment to speak about the details of her care. That can be embarrassing for her, so we’ll need some privacy.”

“Oh!” Reece slammed a fist into his breastplate. “I won’t let anyone listen in!”

Dimitry dropped his hand onto the kid’s shoulder. “You’re a good man.”

Blushing, Reece joined the two priestesses while Dimitry and Saphiria sat at another table a chain’s length away.

A server in a decorated lime dress approached. Her gaze traveled from the surgeon who wore a brine-stained cloak to his traveling companion—a girl with a dirt-smeared face. She clicked her teeth and glanced at the front desk. “Hey, Ejeek! We’ve got some more damned Amaltheans here.”

Disappointed the woman’s personality wasn’t as bright as her clothes, Dimitry sighed. “We’re just here for some food.”

She waved her hands in front of her face. “My apologies, I thought you two were… someone else.”

“I’m sure you did. Bring us some spiced ale, seared dunewyrm, and grapes if you have them.”

The server bowed and rushed away.

Saphiria examined Dimitry’s face. “You can speak Melvum too?”

Melvum? He assumed that was the name of Sundock’s language. After discovering the capability to communicate in Estorian and Whorlfahst, further expansion to his speech came with no surprise. “Seems that way, but we’ve got more important things to discuss. Did you keep an eye on Ignacius?”

She brushed raven black hair behind her ear and leaned in. “Precious says Ignacius is below the cathedral we passed on north main street. He’s gone. We mustn’t depend on him.”

The thought of abandoning an old man, the one who treated Dimitry’s overload and freed Saphiria, elicited a hollow sinking within Dimitry’s chest. But Saphiria was right—assaulting an institution full of heathen murdering machines entailed insurmountable risk.

“Alright.” He exhaled deeply. “Ignacius is out, but I have another idea. I was thinking we get Reece and the priestesses drunk on aqua vitae. He’s young and the girls are tiny, so their alcohol tolerances can’t be too high. We can shatter the cuffs after they pass out.”

“That won’t work.” Her finger trailed the metal constricting his wrist. “These shackles are made from wrought iron. They’ll bend before they break. Without a sharp and sturdy tool, they won’t come off.”

Another option down the drain. His heel restlessly bounced against the floor. “So I’m screwed?”

“No.”

“You’ve got an idea?”

Saphiria nodded. “We sever the Zeran Shield’s hand.”

The sheer brutality made Dimitry shudder. “What?”

“Like in Estoria, we lead them into an alley, you distract them, I kill them, and then we sever the hand. The cuff will slide off.”

“W-we can’t just kill them. Reece is a good kid, and one of the priestesses isn’t even thirteen. I doubt either of them chose to be brainwashed by the Church.”

“We won’t kill them.” Saphiria looked deep into his eyes. “I’ll kill them.”

“That doesn’t make it any better. Besides, these aren’t some thugs. They’re trained soldiers. With me unable to use magic and you armed with only a dagger, your plan is too dangerous. You’ll get hurt if not worse.”

“You believe I’m not aware? Then what do you wish me to do? Allow the only person who—” She choked on her words. “Severing the Zeran Shield’s hand is the only way to release your binds, and to do that, I must slay him!”

Alarmed by the sharp whispers, an inn patron glanced in their direction.

Dimitry inhaled a sharp breath. “Fine, let’s assume for a moment you manage to fight off two priestesses and a kid in enchanted steel armor. They’ll still have more than enough time to yell for reinforcements. How do we run away from the Church and guards in a place we barely know?”

“I’ll ask a merchant guild for transport,” Saphiria said. “The Blue Compass operates in Malten and this city. They often traded with Father. My family name will be enough to secure a voyage home.”

“And you think a merchant’ll help us? Rosaline knows what we look like. If we piss her off by killing three pious children, she’ll sic the entire Church on us. I doubt anyone will risk their reputation for two heretics.”

“We must try! I won’t cast you by the way—”

Seeing the server approach, Dimitry glanced away, and Saphiria fell back into her chair. The woman delivered a tray carrying two slabs of tender meat lightly seared on both sides, a large pitcher of earthy ale, and a vine of grapes. Perhaps sensing the tense atmosphere, she eyed both of the table’s occupants and darted towards the front counter.

Saphiria’s gaze navigated Dimitry’s face as if scrounging for an answer.

Unable to bear the barrage of concerned indigo eyes any longer, he looked down and sighed.

A tiny hand reached from Saphiria’s tunic and waved. “Hey, I know you guys are in the middle of a spat right now, but can I get fed already?”

Damn it, Precious!

Saphiria stuffed a grape down her collar to silence the faerie.

Dimitry glanced left and right for anyone who witnessed the tiny limb. He exhaled a half-relieved breath upon realizing no one discovered their second dirtiest secret.

The first lay in his bag—the two halves that comprised Saphiria’s steel collar two days ago. He had considered tossing both shards away aboard The Dirty Matilda, but stashing the evidence avoided having him sneak the blasphemous cargo past crewman and the Church and provided for good emergency weapons.

But perhaps the illicit metal had another use.

An idea formed in his mind.

“Saphiria,” Dimitry said.

“I shouldn’t have ignored her—”

“Forget Precious.” He lifted a narrow steel edge from his leather bag. “You said you needed something sharp and sturdy to break my cuffs, right?”

Her indigo eyes gleamed. “If we apply pressure with propelia at the right angle, it’ll definitely cleave wrought iron that thin!”

Grateful for his metallurgical expert of a traveling companion, Dimitry grinned. “Here’s the plan: I’ll put the kids into a drunken stupor and you—”

Saphiria held a finger to her lips.

“Something wrong?” Dimitry whispered.

Her head darted towards a small green window, behind which Zeran knights and priestesses rushed closer. “Precious says they’re hunting for someone.”

The doors to the inn burst open.

Oh no.

Fearing the worst, that his escape plans had become known, Dimitry threw his bag to Saphiria. “Get the hell out of here.”

“But what will happen to you?” Her voice trembled.

“I’m sure it'll be fine,” he said whatever was necessary to make her leave. “Just make Precious find me later!”

Saphiria hesitated a moment before grabbing his bag, containing all his belongings, and sneaking up the stairs.

Church subordinates scoured the inn.

A wizened bishop marched towards Reece. “We have come to take custody of the so-called surgeon and the escaped servant accompanying him.”

The kid kicked his chair back, fumbled with his shield, and stood at attention. “H-he’s with us, Reverend Mother!” He pointed back. “I didn’t see a—”

“Stop talking and search!” The woman strode past an agape Reece, grabbed Dimitry’s face, and pulled his eyelids wide open. “Pale green. So this is the man responsible for the assault of Bishop Marianne of Ravenfall and the condemnation of a Sinner Servant to eternal purgatory.”

42. Travel Arrangements

Tighter than the cramped self-storage compartment Dimitry leased on Earth, black speckled granite walls surrounded him from all sides except for one. Prison bars separated him from a shadowy corridor through which, among many unpleasant smells, wafted a familiar metallic scent. That of blood rubbed onto skin. The stench accompanied the whimpers and repentant prayers of prisoners, whose agonized utterances interrupted hymns echoing from an upstairs cathedral.

Dense and cold air sapped heat from Dimitry’s body as did the freezing granite bench he occupied. Although the warmth from his butt couldn’t warm his seat, remaining icy for over an hour, the threat of hypothermia troubled him little. This frigid cell wasn’t what made him shiver.

Rather, his shuddering sourced from thoughts of what would happen next. Now that the Church had caught Dimitry and discovered his sacrilegious crime spree in Ravenfall, would a bishop execute him? Crucify him? Enslave him with an enchanted collar?

And what of Saphiria? Dimitry had convinced her to abandon him, but knowing her, she might assault the cathedral and end up a fellow inmate. To suffer here alone was tragic. Knowing he led another to suffer alongside him would be tortuous. Praying the girl’s rationality trumped her principles, Dimitry palmed his face and massaged his eyelids.

“Boy,” said the old man pacing the cell across from his. “Try not to worry so much. Everything will be fine.”

A glimmer of hope burned within Dimitry. He glanced at his neighbor and whispered. “You know a way out?”

“A way out?” Ignacius held up the gray-glowing iron gloves that suffocated his hands. “Even if I did, I couldn’t crawl my way out of a hole or cast a defensive spell. They’ve got me good.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“There is no plan.”

“Then in what way is everything going to be fine?”

“I was just trying to be supportive and uplifting, my boy. It’s the duty of the elderly to put at ease the minds of the young.”

Feeling neither supported nor uplifted by a geriatric who continued to pace his cell like a panicked old-timer fretting the obstetric complications of a grandchild’s risky birth, Dimitry’s trembling intensified.

He scoured his thoughts once more for anything that could help him flee. Magic wasn’t an option; Saphiria had his vol pouch. She also held his bag, which contained every surgical tool he might have used to pick the cell’s lock. Not that he regretted entrusting his belongings with her. The bishop that strip-searched him would have found the broken collar fragments, arming the Church with concrete evidence of his crimes.

Once more every thought led to a dead-end, and once more dread gripped Dimitry’s lungs, suffocating him. But he couldn’t sit idle. Although an immediate escape held little promise, gathering information that allowed him to take advantage of a future opportunity took priority.

Dimitry glanced at his neighbor. “Do you know what they’re going to do to us?”

Ignacius shrugged. “Since you’re here for freeing a servant, you’ll stand trial in The Holy Empire. As for myself, I’m sure I’ll stand trial as well, but I’m guessing we’ll end up in different cities.”

Although thankful for the civility provided by a judicial system, Dimitry doubted a religious court would show leniency for his crimes. “Do we get a lawyer?”

“You’ll get a gospel.”

“That doesn’t sound very useful. Can we at least defend ourselves?”

“Defend ourselves?”

“In court, I mean.”

“As I’ve said, try not to worry too much.” Ignacius’ tired gaze fell to a black granite floor. “I know you want to see the little miss again, but you should take comfort that your girlfriend isn’t here with us.”

Dimitry sighed. The old man, this world’s worst motivational speaker, only reminded him of his second biggest fear. “She wasn’t my girlfriend. She just wanted to show me Malten.”

Ignacius’ head shot up. “Malten?”

“That’s where she comes from. Apparently, it’s a lovely place.”

A slow and hopeless chuckle departed the old man’s mouth. “Strange how we were both going there at a time like this.”

“What makes now so special?”

“It’s just that no one’s really sure what’s happening in the Gestalt Empire right now, my boy, but it seems we all had our reasons for going.”

Curious as to the motivations of a wizard, Dimitry leaned back against a wall, resigning to enjoy his last moments of ‘freedom’. “What were your reasons?”

“Just wanted to see my family again.” Ignacius wore a nostalgic smile that had abandoned all hope. “My daughter used to make the loveliest chicken pies. A crunchy crust, sweet samul, and savory juice seeping through the dark meat—nothing like it in The Amalthean Kingdom, I promise. And my granddaughters are the sweetest. I imagine they’re married by now. The oldest is a promising enchantress. I’ve instructed Angelika and Emilia in thaumaturgy too, but they were were still children when I left.”

Ignacius’ eyes clouded over. “But the Church left the Gestalt Empire eight years ago, and as for what happened since, there are all sorts of rumors.” His wrinkled fingers slid down the granite wall of his cell. “I hope they’re alright.”

The old man’s worries had justification. Malten was part of the Gestalt Empire, and if the Church had left, that meant the city fought off heathens on its own. Although troubling, Saphiria mentioned that Malten produced some of the best weapons in the world such that even farmers could dispatch the monsters. Life there would have been safe. More accurately, without a need to hide from the Church, life there would have been great!

But that mattered no longer.

Steel boots stomped down the dungeon’s central corridor and stopped in front of Dimitry’s cell. A metal heel pummeled into the iron bars.

Ear-splitting reverberations coaxed a wince from Dimitry. He glanced up to find a kid whose fingers reddened from clenching gray-glowing handcuffs with excessive force.

“Why’d you do that?!” Reece yelled. “You were kind enough to heal Selene, but what corrupted devil tempted you to harm bishop Marianne?! And as for this… this Saphiria Pesce. How could you disrupt a sinner’s repentance?! That was her chance at salvation, but you damned her to eternal purgatory!”

Ignacius’ mouth dropped open. “S-Saphiria Pesce?” Mumbling to himself, the old man retreated to a corner.

Dimitry yearned to tell the kid that his views were too narrow, that Celeste’s guidance wasn’t the all-encompassing truth he thought it was, but any attempt to dismantle the web of contractions that were Reece’s beliefs would only enrage the kid. He instead offered whatever words could earn him sympathy and potentially more lenient treatment. “Forgive me.”

“Forgive you?!” Reece shook the cell’s iron bars. “That’s all you have to say for yourself?! How can—”

“That’s enough.” A calmer set of boots strode down the corridor. Bishop Rosaline’s aged visage soon came into view. “Shield Reece, why do you think I brought you here?”

“To see those damned blasphemers for the liars they truly are?”

She shook her head. “This is what happens when we don’t defend our principles. Despite every attempt to guide the people, they spit falsities in our faces, deceiving us as if possessed by the ancient evil itself.”

“Will we exorcise him?”

“No. Not us. This is a matter for the judicators in The Holy Kingdom. Detain them both and prepare them for transport.”

“Both?” Reece asked.

Rosaline glanced at Ignacius. “The deserter channeling mule, too. They were on the ship together. We believe they cooperated in Saphiria’s damnation, but only their combined testimonies under servia can reveal the truth.”

Evening set upon the desert city. A red sun lowered in an orange sky, half-frozen pools of bedpan fluid fouled the air, and insulated windows slammed shut above Saphiria’s head as she rushed through east main street. Like in the stories Father once told her, vermilion sand clouds rose from beneath her boots with every frantic stride, yet she hadn’t the opportunity to examine them. Dimitry could have been getting tortured for aiding Saphiria.

Or worse.

What if he waited his turn for a binding ceremony? Dimitry could become a Zeran servant at any moment! For the crime of helping Saphiria! Heart pounding faster, hot and icy waves flushed across her spine. “How is he?”

“Dumitry is still with Old Guy below the cathedral!” whispered the faerie hiding beneath Saphiria’s new dress.

“Are they hurting him?”

“No, but they’re moving!”

“Already?! Where to?”

“How am I supposed to know?! They’re just moving, alright? Maybe if we actually did something instead of running around in circles, buying clothes and bathing, we’d know for sure!”

Saphiria’s jaw clenched, her stressed breaths escaping through gritting teeth as white mists. “Our goal is to secure passage to Malten before we rescue Dimitry. What use is there in liberating him without an immediate escape?”

Precious pinched Saphiria’s earlobe. “Is that your excuse for taking a luxurious bath at an inn while he might have been getting executed?”

“You know it to be necessary. No merchant guild would believe me to be nobility were I to introduce myself with grime upon my face and clothes smelling of refuse.”

“I really, really hope you’re right,” the faerie’s voice trembled. “I still need him to feed me and stuff. Dummies like him don’t come around often.”

“He’ll be safe,” Saphiria said despite intensifying pressure crushing her shoulders. Praying the strategy succeeded, her grip around Dimitry’s bag tightened. “I’ll make sure he’s safe.”

The desperate dash towards the port continued until a red sandstone building came into view. Sailors rushed in and out the front doors. From the second floor, a massive window watched over Coldust. Composed of stained glass and shaped like a circle, two lines crossed through its center, giving it the appearance of a compass. A design similar to the Blue Compass guildhall in Malten.

Although Saphiria arrived at her destination, she did not immediately enter to deliver her demands. Catching her breath, she combed still-wet hair with curled fingers, adjusted the ceremonial azure dress she bought from the market square, and straightened her spine. Every possible preparation was complete.

But Saphiria could not take a forward step. No matter how many deep breaths she inhaled, an unseen force tethered her boots to the ground.

Premonitions of failure flooded Saphiria’s mind. What if she botched the negotiations, dooming herself and Dimitry? Unlike him, who spoke to strangers with ease, she doubted her aptitude in civil discourse. Castle tutors had once instructed her in the art of negotiation, but the confidence and skill they instilled in her crumbled over the eight years she spent in servitude without the capacity to utter a word in defiance.

A small palm patted her nape.

“You’ll be fine,” Precious whispered. “I believe in you, murderous assassin lady. If anyone can threaten humans into helping us, it’s you!”

Despite the faerie’s unsavory choice of words, the constrictions around Saphiria’s legs loosened, giving her the courage to proceed. Like Father did whenever he visited Malten’s Blue Compass branch, Saphiria casually pushed the front door open and strutted into the guildhall with her head held high.

Contrary to the building’s outer beauty, time withered stone comprised the internal walls, their intricate designs no longer distinguishable. The scent of the sea emanated from the dozens of moist crates that cramped the ground floor. One sailor among many pried open a container with a crowbar and hurriedly emptied the gypsum statuettes within.

The rushing of crewmen and the unpacking of crates to prepare for another voyage even at this time of day lent credence to the rumors: Coldust’s merchant guilds were Remora’s forefront exporters. Only through trade could the people here support life in a desert. Saphiria’s best chance.

Among the commotion, only a mahogany desk stood still. Sat behind it was a woman no older than thirty. Her one hand shot beads across the rods of an abacus while the other scratched letters onto parchment with a quill.

Laying still chattering teeth, Saphiria strode forward.

Alerted by the sound of boots tapping a stone floor, the woman’s head shot up, revealing tired eyes. She centered the black hat she wore over her orange hair. “My apologies, but we don’t sell merchandise directly.”

“It is no matter,” Saphiria imitated the exalted tone she used to hear in Malten’s throne room. She curtsied while holding the azure ends of her skirt-like dress. “This one’s name is Sa—” The words cut off. A harrowing chill washed over Saphiria.

A mistake.

Already.

The merchant winced. “Sa?”

For Saphiria to introduce herself with her true name only invited peril. Merchants commanded vast knowledge, meaning this one likely knew Saphiria’s status as a servant. The Church’s involvement further complicated matters. After arresting Dimitry, a search for the escaped servant that accompanied him could have already begun.

Saphiria’s name held danger, but her identity was all she had! Without her family’s reputation, she had neither the funds nor the authority to commission a long voyage home. Her sole recourse was a risky gambit—the impersonation of an extended cousin residing in Feyt, the city southeast of Malten.

“Pardon my stutter. It has been a long day.” Saphiria’s legs trembled as if to collapse when she curtsied once more. “My name is Elise Pesce, daughter of Franziska Pesce of Farment. I come with a request.”

“I’m Maren.” The merchant hesitated before standing. “Although we are pleased to serve Lady Franziska and her heiress apparent, it would be an insult to her to trust anyone parading her name.” Her brows furrowed. “Especially someone without escorts. Are you here alone?”

Instinct compelled Saphiria to draw her dagger and place it at the merchant’s throat, but she suppressed the urge. Forced compliance through violence would only worsen matters. “Well spotted. I am alone. Most of my guard perished during the journey from the city of Celeste.”

“Do explain.”

“We were traveling across Remora, visiting every shrine in every city and town.”

“A holy pilgrimage, then?”

“Indeed,” Saphiria said. “However, the night before we arrived in Coldust, a wandering tribe assaulted our caravan, killing the men-at-arms and our horses. I only escaped with the guidance of my court surgeon and court wizard. Unfortunately, they sustained injuries. While the surgeon treats the wizard, I have come here to demand passage to Malten. I trust a concession so minor poses no problem?”

Hand pressed to her black hat, Maren bowed. “My sincerest condolences for your troubled journey. However, it is my regret that your tale provides little proof of your identity. Do you at least bear the crest of the baroness?”

“I have changed my apparel many times over these months of travel.”

“Then how can I trust your words?”

Saphiria’s grip around Dimitry’s bag tightened. She had little time for trivialities! While her eyes scoured the warehouse for a clue on how to convince the merchant, the temptation to threaten Maren with death intensified within. Saphiria reached for her dagger, but a glance at a dusty pyrite statuette—mimicking gold—quelled the murderous urge.

An idea emerged, and a route for peaceful negotiation remained.

Saphiria pulled up the cuff of her azure dress to reveal a golden bracelet with an engraved sapphire. She held out her arm to display the birthday present she received from Father on her tenth year. “You may look, but don’t touch.”

Maren grabbed a small lens from her desk and leaned in to examine the jewel. She gasped. “The clarity… and the color!”

“Dark violet as is common from the mountains east of Volmer.”

“Such few needle inclusions! A truly fantastic piece!”

Saphiria puffed out her chest. “It’s one of the best sapphires harvested in all the Gestalt Empire.”

“Have you ever commanded the gemstone’s power to cure poisons and miasmas?”

“I hadn’t the need.”

“If you’re willing to part with—”

“Perish the thought,” Saphiria hissed, pulling her arm back. “Well? Is that proof enough for you, or will you demand I bend over backward to please you once more?”

“My apologies.” Maren briefly knelt onto one knee, as was common when greeting imperial nobility. “However, there are several issues we must discuss before I can provide you passage to Malten.”

“Speak.”

“First, I must warn you that our merchant vessels can’t accommodate the lifestyle you may be used to.”

“A shame, but I am in a hurry. It’ll do.”

“In that case, please excuse us for any trouble that may arise on board. Another problem is that of payment.”

Saphiria reached into Dimitry’s bag, grabbed half the contents of his coin pouch, and rolled three gold marks across the merchant’s desk. “This is all that remains of our pilgrimage funds. Once we reach Malten, you will receive the rest.”

“Your destination is another issue. We won’t journey to Malten for another month.”

“And the vessel your crewmen are preparing now?”

“It is headed to Ontaria.”

A problem. Although Ontaria was part of the Gestalt Empire and no longer than half a week’s journey from Malten, Saphiria couldn’t land in a foreign city after lying about her identity. The act would poison her family’s reputation with merchants and foreign dignitaries alike.

“Change the ship’s course to Malten’s port,” Saphiria said. “I still need to visit Malten’s shrine to complete my pilgrimage.”

“Forgive me, my lady! If we reschedule the planned journey, our losses—”

“Fear not. My family will more than compensate you. You may berth in Ontaria on the return voyage if you wish.”

“But we cannot veer off course just to—”

“You must,” Saphiria roared, attracting the attention of sailors rushing around her. “Or do you prefer I deliver word to Coldust’s archbishop that you are unwilling to aid me in my pilgrimage? I have no doubt they will enjoy dismantling your guild’s empire, warehouse by warehouse, for crimes against the gospel.”

“I…” Maren’s voice trailed off. She glanced at the map on her table, jotted numbers, and nodded. “The vessel will leave before morning. Just be ready before then.”

“We will.”

“Psst!” Precious whispered. “Dumitry is leaving the cathedral, Old Guy is with him, and they’re heading north! There’s a lot of people around them!”

Saphiria froze. The cathedral stood on the north side of Coldust, and if Dimitry was being taken further north, was the Church transporting him to The Holy Kingdom? Did they intend to make him a servant, or did they seek to study his strange magics out of sight of foreign nations? No matter. If she didn’t release Dimitry now, he would be gone forever.

“Is all well?” Maren asked. “I trust our agreement is satisfactory?”

“It’ll do.” Saphiria stepped away. “I’ll return with my court’s wizard and surgeon soon. Do not depart without us.”

“Before you leave, there’s one more thing I must warn you about.”

“Be quick.”

“Although we can’t verify their accuracy, there are rumors of increased banditry and aquatic demon attacks around Malten. Should you fail to arrive home safely, we cannot be held responsible.”

A militaristic convoy traversed Coldust’s north main street. Steel boots clanked, wooden wheels croaked, and a bishop hummed hymns in the night, halting only to bark commands at the two dozen warriors under her command. The gold and green enchanted armors of knights and their horses illuminated nearby buildings as they maintained the perimeter of a dozen ox-drawn wagons, each driven by a priestess that constantly glanced back to eye their cargo. Today’s haul seemed to be especially indispensable.

Some wagons contained stacked barrels of food and water, others carried hogs slurping black glop from a trough, and one upheld sacks and pouches whose clanking contents hinted at plentiful vol and precious metals within, the combined value doubtlessly sufficient to live off of for centuries. However, despite the apparent value, the most guarded compartment trudged forward in the center of the convoy. That wagon comprised an iron cage and the two bound men sat inside.

Dimitry’s mobile prison cell.

An icy gale howled through the metal bars, and just like the shivering old man across from him, Dimitry struggled to wrap a woolen blanket around his body. Two wrists stuck together with handcuffs complicated the maneuver. Although he succeeded after multiple attempts, the scarce warmth did little to thaw his numbed fingers or stop the metal flooring from freezing his ass.

Blue lips trembling, Ignacius glanced at Dimitry and chuckled. “Wish they’d give us hot mead or a pipe for the road.”

“Silence!” hissed the priestess driving their wagon. “Be grateful that Zera provides sinners like you two anything.”

Dimitry sympathized with the old man. Advanced age rendered Ignacius vulnerable to hypothermia, but the gray-glowing iron gloves entombing his hands prevented him from so much as gripping his blanket. Freezing weather swiftly killed elders. A small drop in body temperature was the difference between a regular day and a heart attack.

Manipulating his own cuffs, which similarly carried the gray aura of dispelia yet allowed for hand movement, Dimitry lifted Ignacius’ blanket and threw it over the old man’s shoulders.

Ignacius nodded.

Reciprocating the sentiment, Dimitry flashed a smile before glancing past iron bars to watch a green moon roam a dark sky. He wondered if he could exsanguinate by biting off his tongue. Probably not. While a severed deep lingual artery resulted in profuse intraoral bleeding, a clot would soon form to plug the wound. A nonissue. He could lay down and aspirate on hemorrhaged blood. Death would be guaranteed. The only issue was the pain. Which was worse, an excruciating partial amputation of the tongue or life as the Church’s prisoner?

As Dimitry pondered the question, the wagon rumbled over uneven bricks, through the northern gatehouse, and onto a sandy field. A wide river flowed to the right of the convoy. Huddled around the green moonlit waters were countless tents of animal hide, straw, and rope. Thousands of makeshift homes comprised the sprawling shantytown, which sought to occupy the only arable land in view.

A man carrying water buckets knelt by a passing knight and held up his arm. “May Celeste guide you across the deserts.”

The swollen-bellied woman accompanying him followed suit. “Celeste guide you.”

One priestess alighted the front seat of her wagon, strode towards the pregnant woman, and placed a palm on her abdomen. She muttered soft prayers in the night.

“Zera smells like rotten fent!” a shrill voice pierced the tranquil ambiance.

The knights halted their horses, priestesses reached for vol, and the bishop’s head shot to the left. Peerless fury etched into her scowl.

Dimitry too glanced towards the dark and sandy dunes. He saw no one, but the voice rang familiar. Dread slithered down his spine.

“Imagine being d-dumb enough to praise someone who’s been d-dead for two thousand years?” Shaky laughter followed. “If Celeste can’t even g-guide herself out of the afterlife, how do you d-dummies expect her to guide you?!”

“Blasphemy!” yelled Reece at the front of the convoy.

“Our sister is a fool,” a priestess muttered.

“Does the ancient evil speak through the child?” said another.

“Reece, James, Elaine, and Riley!” the bishop shouted. “Bring the heretic to me. Alive. She needs guidance.”

A small team of knights and priestesses marched in formation towards the voice.

Heaviness weighing down in Dimitry’s gut, his eyes scoured the empty desert, hoping he didn’t find who he knew to be there. The blasphemer wasn’t a misguided child. It was a faerie. Why the fuck was Precious attempting a pointless and suicidal rescue? The Church would murder her without a second thought.

From the side opposite to the commotion, something small and heavy pummeled into Dimitry’s back.

A vol pouch.

The one Dimitry entrusted to Saphiria.

He turned around to see a figure in an azure dress disappear between riverside tents, raven black hair trailing behind her. So that was the plan. While his captors searched the horizon for a tiny distraction, Dimitry grabbed his pouch and slid across the cell’s metal floor towards Ignacius.

The old man’s glare left the crime scene and focused on the all-too-close surgeon. “What is—”

Dimitry pressed a finger to his mouth, displayed some vol beneath his blanket, and tugged on the dispelia gauntlets stifling Ignacius’s magic. They didn’t come off. The binds around his wrists were too tight!

Ignacius shook his head and glanced at his boot. He struggled to kick one off.

Unsure of the wizard’s intentions but trusting his expertise, Dimitry removed a shoe.

With a bare foot, Ignacius stepped onto a vol pellet. The green rock vanished into his sole, and the gray auras of dispelia around his and Dimitry’s handcuffs faded.

Was he casting magic through his leg?!

Then came the smell of burning wood and fiber.

Tent after tent burst into flames.

Alarmed tenants stumbled from their ablaze homes and rushed towards the river with buckets and ceramic jugs in hand. Among them was Saphiria, who pretended to help transport water while setting more fires. Discombobulated screams erupted from the shantytown.

The knights and priestesses squirmed as if begging to join the fray.

“The heretics have an arsonist amongst them!”

“Shall we help the townspeople, Reverend Mother?”

“Maintain your formations!” The bishop held out a palm towards the town. “Revealia!”

Green bursts, identical to those Dimitry saw aboard The Dirty Matilda and on the night of repentance, appeared in the riverside town. They faded in and out of existence like tiny stars. The lingering exhaust proved that Saphiria was igniting tents the same way she lit campfires—with ignia.

“There are mages among the heretics!” the bishop shouted. “The untempered will patrol the transport! The rest will follow me to subdue the sinners! Our priority is rescuing the citizens!”

“Yes, Reverend Mother!”

Priestesses jumped off of wagon seats, grabbed pouches of vol from the cart of valuables, and plowed through sand alongside knights. Only a third of the convoy’s guard remained behind.

“Boy,” Ignacius whispered amongst the clamoring of panicked residents and yelling Church soldiers.

Hoping Saphiria and Precious stayed safe, Dimitry dragged his attention away from the commotion to find the chains linking his cuffs have melted off. He could move his hands!

Nice!

The old man pointed to the nearly empty vol pouch beneath his blanket.

Fuck!

Only one pure pellet remained, and they still hadn’t escaped their cell. Dimitry pointed at a distant wagon—one that carried valuables. “That sack is full of vol. Can you pull one pouch closer with propelia?”

“That’s not how propelia works, my boy. Reach out of the cell and get ready to catch.”

Dimitry complied.

The last vol pellet drained into Ignacius’ foot, and he aimed his gauntleted hand at the luxurious cargo.

As if pulled by a powerful magnet, a fat pouch launched from a cart ahead of them, past a young priestess mesmerized by flames growing higher, and into Dimitry’s outstretched hands.

Wondering whether that spell was the attractia the performers in Ravenfall used, Dimitry squeezed his loot past metal bars and tossed it under Ignacius’ blanket. “We need to melt off the cell’s lock before my friend gets caught.”

“Hide us.”

Dimitry tossed his blanket over Ignacius, who plucked vol off the floor and thrust out his wrinkled foot towards the cell’s padlock. Its shackle liquidized drip by drip.

Eyes darting from civilians to priestesses to Church members searching for an arsonist while helping citizens douse fires, Dimitry shuddered. He might survive! Just a little longer and the padlock would fall off!

A knight glanced in their direction.

“Ignacius!” Dimitry warned the old man.

As the knight’s horse rushed closer, the padlock fell off, and Ignacius’ foot swerved sideways. Bubbling sand beneath the animal’s feet caused it to trip.

High-pitched neighs attracted attention from a priestess. She approached to investigate. Although she shoved a hand into her garbs and chanted spells, none seemed to have any effect.

“Boy!” Ignacius consumed pellet after pellet. “I’m about to cast silencia to mute our escape.”

Understanding the wizard’s plan, Dimitry grabbed vol. “Invisall!” Searing pain shot through his chest and limbs, but neither his whimpers, the ruffling of his shirt, nor the cell’s metal gate sliding open in front of him could be heard.

Two invisible men fled towards distant dunes.

Behind them, a downed knight pointed at an empty cell, but his lips moved in vain. The warnings didn’t manifest into sound. Neither did those of the nearby priestess. Although their panic eventually caught on, resulting in a wide search, by then, it was already too late.

43. Wizard's Apprentice

After the escape, Precious regrouped with Saphiria and used her faerie senses to locate Ignacius and Dimitry. Together, all four skulked under the cover of invisall to Coldust’s port and boarded a boat. The vessel set sail before sunrise. By midday, the desert city had vanished from the horizon.

Dimitry inhaled a deep and calming breath of salty air. Although ocean voyages aroused in him headaches and nausea, leaving him begging for respite, this time, the queasiness in his gut served as proof of his freedom.

Amalthean authorities couldn’t reach him.

Nor could the Church.

As far as they knew, he had disappeared from his cage and was whisked away with the wind. In truth, Dimitry had rushed towards a vessel called a hulk. What he imagined as a giant green boat turned out to be a ship resembling The Dirty Matilda except with a larger hull, a square-sailed mast, and thrice the crew. He stood on the edge of the spacious deck.

Saphiria leaned over the railings beside him. Her indigo eyes traced waves breaking against the hull and erupting into foam, which swiftly fizzled back into green, algae-infested waters.

How did she do it? How could a twenty-year-old girl procure resources, commission a perfectly timed voyage, and execute a complex escape plan within an evening? Saphiria astounded him. Her resourcefulness exceeded those of surgeons operating in impoverished countries without a single radiology machine to guide their incisions.

Dimitry wanted to hug her, to show his appreciation for rescuing him despite every odd against her, yet he didn’t. Not only was his role that of a noble’s subservient court surgeon, but unlike her, he never had the opportunity to bathe. She wore a tidy azure dress with a bottom that opened like a skirt, and his tunic smelled of concentrated sweat.

Instead of getting uncomfortably close, Dimitry nudged her shoulder.

Raven black hair blowing in an icy gale, Saphiria glanced up.

“Thanks for saving my ass.”

“You’ve already thanked me.”

“Maybe so, but after what you pulled, I figure one thanks isn’t enough.”

Her big indigo eyes, somehow innocent and carrying the world’s burden, probed his face. “You’re not sad?”

“Sad? Why the hell would I be sad?”

“I’ve incinerated many homes to distract the Church. Those nomads are poor. Winter is fast approaching, and they’ll have no shelter to shield them from the frost.”

Dimitry sighed. Although he too had considered the ramifications of his rescue, the thrill of freedom numbed him to its price.

But this crime wasn’t his. Nor was it Saphiria’s. Their only sin was fleeing Church-ordained slavery and doing whatever it took to reach safety.

“With all the gold coins on that convoy,” he said, “the Church’ll have no trouble rebuilding those tents. Whether it’s out of divine duty or to maintain their holy image and cover up for their blunder, I’m sure they’ll get it done.”

“I see.” Saphiria’s downcast gaze returned to the ocean.

“Look on the bright side. In a few weeks, we’ll be—”

Her hand shot to grab his forearm, irritating the circuits Ignacius treated with relaxia that morning.

He winced but said nothing.

A silent while passed.

“Dimitry.”

“Yeah?”

“What does it mean when there are many bandits near a city?”

His brow furrowed. “Why do you ask?”

Saphiria bit her lip, and her grip around his arm tightened. “The merchant warned me that there have been many bandit attacks around Malten. It’s just a coincidence. Right?”

Ah. So that was what troubled her. Back on Earth, violence increased post-crisis like after hurricanes and riots. Widespread muggings signaled the collapse of established order. Combined with what Ignacius said, that the Church had abandoned the Gestalt Empire, he too began to question the security of his destination.

But Dimitry didn’t voice his concerns. While Saphiria was headstrong, she also loved Malten. His pessimism could turn her three-week-long voyage into an anxiety-pumped nightmare. As for him, watching a girl fret about her family the entire time would crush his heart. Why worry when the truth remained uncertain? They couldn’t turn back even if they wanted to.

“Banditry is troublesome,” Dimitry said. “but I’m sure it’s just a temporary problem.”

“But if there are so many bandits,” she said, “then Malten’s knights and sorceresses must have suffered peril. Father’s army would never let such barbarism go unpunished.”

“If the situation with his army is really that bad, wouldn’t the merchant have known about it?” He recalled how the stock market turned on its head with the latest headline. “Traders stay current. That’s how they make money.”

“What if Maren didn’t wish to dishonor the Pesce name by speaking of our fall?”

“Doubt it. If your family fell from grace, she wouldn’t have agreed to take you to Malten. There’d be nothing in it for her aside from the three gold gadots you paid. Look at the size of this boat. Do you think she cares about some loose change? Your father is definitely wealthy enough to pay her.”

Saphiria’s mouth opened as if to argue, but after grappling for a counterpoint that never took form, she looked away instead. “… You’re right.”

“See? You’ll be home soon and everything will be fine.”

“You’re right.” She leaned against his shoulder. “Once we arrive, I’ll introduce you to the court. You’ll never fear for your life again.”

“Sounds wonderful, but what I’m really hoping for right now is a bath.”

“There are multiple baths with incendia-heated floors in the castle. I will arrange them for your use.”

He chuckled. “Looks like I struck it big by accompanying a duke’s daughter.”

“Seems that way.” Saphiria released her vice-like grip on his forearm, and they watched the ocean in silence.

Given the scarcity and importance of freshwater on a long voyage, Dimitry had to bathe in a tub of icy seawater. The saltiness clung to his skin even after scrubbing with soap and changing into a thick ceremonial dress similar to the one Saphiria wore. Although he preferred simple clothes without excess accessories or labels, the tassels and loose fabric that dangled off the sides didn’t bother him. The dress’s layered design captured and retained heat.

Dimitry hoped the fantastical apparel would suffice as apprentice robes. Seeing Ignacius cast assorted spells to secure their escape reaffirmed the importance of magic. Attractia, a spell that allowed for magnetism, allowed them to procure vol from a distance. Silencia muted the warnings of pursuers and the opening of a metal cell. Meltia not only liquidized a padlock’s shackle but set a molten quicksand trap beneath a knight’s horse.

Spells seemed simple at a glance, yet each one had as many uses as the wielder had cunning. And those uses weren’t limited to combat. Preservia’s ability to delay infection proved they had medical applications, too. Magic could revolutionize Dimitry’s surgical practice.

Excited jitters jolted through his nape at the prospect. With time aplenty, a lack of hostiles, and nothing better to do, Dimitry would take advantage of the wizard sat across the cabin.

His gaze traveled past a girl brushing long raven black hair atop a bed and towards a trail of minty smoke drifting from the corner. The source was an old man in a red robe. Pipe in hand, crafted from the horn of some alien beast and purchased from the ship’s captain for a silver, Ignacius leaned back against a layered plank wall.

“Ignacius,” Dimitry said.

“Hmm?”

“You mentioned instructing your granddaughters in magic, right?”

“That I did, my boy.” The old man flashed a hesitant smile. “I wager they’re marvelous sorceresses by now. Little Angelika always showed talent.”

“How about me? Think you can teach me too?”

Amidst an elegant, downward stroke of the brush, Saphiria’s hand froze. Her gaze trailed the inflamed circuits on Dimitry’s palms and wrists.

“Well… I can’t say for sure. You have high efficiency with your strange magics, yet you’re ignorant of the basics. Young girls learn fastest. A boy your age typically struggles for years.”

Dimitry thought he understood. Like in all skills, children grasped the fundamentals sooner than their elders. For example, Dimitry played the piano since childhood and had a massive advantage over late starters. Adult learners repeatedly struggled with posture and finger independence while he breezed through both as a five-year-old. Perhaps the neuroplasticity offered by youth hastened magic mastery as well. The boons of young age made sense.

But why did sex matter? Although women outperformed men across multiple physiological parameters, and the opposite was also true, few disparities were significant enough to thwart skill acquisition. “How does me being a man make a difference?”

Ignacius shrugged. “That’s just the way it is.”

His wishy-washy answer provided Dimitry little confidence. Hoping his proficiency with invisall and accelall gave him a much-needed boost, he held out a nearly empty vol pouch. “Let’s try anyway.”

Saphiria dropped her brush and rose from the bed. “You shouldn’t.”

The concerned look in her indigo eyes resembled the heartrending glance she shot Dimitry after he had cast the second invisall during their escape. The purple vessels that traversed his arms had begun to protrude through his skin, inflamed as if about to burst, and he had retched despite an empty stomach. A calculated risk. Ignacius was nearby to provide immediate treatment. Most of the damage had healed since.

“I’ll be fine,” Dimitry said. “Ignacius is with me.”

“Rushing will only harm you.”

“I feel great. There’s no need to worry.”

She stepped closer. “If you wait until we get home, I’ll enlist a court sorceress to guide your apprenticeship. You won’t find better instruction anywhere else.”

Just as Ignacius did beneath the cathedral’s dungeon and whenever the ship’s crew knelt before Saphiria, the old man glanced away at any mention of her noble heritage. Precious had already confirmed that he wasn’t scheming nefarious plots. The wizard felt only guilt. While the truth behind his crime was concerning, Ignacius had already proved himself an ally and an enemy of the Church. Bombarding him with nosy questions would strain their mutually beneficial alliance.

“We have to be ready for anything,” Dimitry said. “If Ignacius wasn’t with me, I would never have escaped. Now is the perfect opportunity for me to become useful to the both of us.”

Saphiria’s gaze traveled up his arms and to his eyes. After a prolonged stare, she reached into her dress to retrieve the hefty pouch of vol she purchased while making preparations for his rescue. Her fingers plucked several dark green pellets and dropped them into her pocket. She lowered the rest of the pouch onto his palm. “Don’t overdo it. I vowed to show you around Malten, and I intend to keep my promise.”

Her thinly veiled concern for Dimitry brought cozy warmth to his cold extremities. He smiled to ease Saphiria’s distress. “I can’t wait.”

The girl returned to her bed and resumed brushing her hair, this time with tenser strokes.

“Guess this is yours too.” Ignacius tossed forward the massive pouch they stole from the Church’s convoy. The contents were worth at least twenty gold gadots. “Should be enough vol to keep you occupied.”

“So you’ll teach me?”

“Might as well pay you kids back. Going over the fundamentals keeps geezers like me sharp. But there is something I want you to show me in return, you see.”

“And what’s that?”

Ignacius leaned in and whispered. “The truth-seeking magic you used to discern my intentions during the voyage from Estoria.”

The old man referred to Precious, but he didn’t know that. Even during last night’s events, the faerie hid beneath Saphiria’s dress, out of sight at all times. Feeling guilty for misleading Ignacius, Dimitry threw in a bonus—one that might help him uncover more about his magic while compensating a curious wizard. “Sure, I can show you the truth-seeking magic. And I have another spell even more powerful than that one and invisall.”

“More powerful?” Ignacius’ wrinkled fingers ran through the stiff hairs of his white beard. “What’s it called?”

“Accelall.”

“And what’s it do, my boy?”

“All I can say is you won’t be disappointed. What do you say?”

Ignacius gulped and leaned back to take a big pull from his pipe. Minty white smoke seeped from his nostrils. “You’ll begin by learning illumina.”

Dimitry frowned. From the dozen spells he had seen, light magic interested him the least. “Can we try propelia instead?”

“Too dangerous. Although your invisall is phenomenal, your ignorance of the basics is unsettling. Even simple spells can be deadly. Hasty apprentices kill their masters with poorly controlled magic more often than you think, my boy. That’s why the wise start with illumina. A bit of light never killed no one. Not directly, anyway.”

The old man made good points. Propelia applied forward forces to objects. If Dimitry launched a wayward spell at someone’s brain, he could cause intracranial hemorrhaging or worse. “Makes sense.”

“Good. Ready to begin, Arnest?”

“About that. The name’s Dimitry.”

Ignacius’ eyes shot open. He chuckled. “With the Church looking for you, I should have figured two clever kids wouldn’t just throw their names around. Maybe I should’ve done the same. Grab a pellet.”

Saphiria watched intently.

Dimitry placed one on his palm. “Now what?”

“Absorb it through the core, pull its power through your circuits, and into your other hand. Say ‘illumina’ and imagine the brightest light you can as you release the vol through your palm.”

“That’s it?”

“For now it’s all you should concern yourself with.”

The simplicity of the process stumped Dimitry. Or did it only appear simple? He had many questions. For example, why did he have to chant spells when Ignacius didn’t? “I couldn’t help but notice you didn’t speak when casting magic during our escape.”

“Mumcasting is a skill that comes with time, my boy.”

Dimitry glanced at the pellet in his hand. Neither thinking ‘invisall’ nor envisioning his body vanishing from sight activated the spell. Either he lacked proficiency or his magic wasn’t compatible with mumcasting. A disappointment. The ability to cast magic stealthily could prove handy. “Are chants really that important?”

“You mastered ‘invisall’ without knowing that much?"

The last time Dimitry described the miraculous magic tomes he read in the dark hall, Ignacius doubted every word. Amnesia provided an easier explanation. “It seems I’ve forgotten more than I’d like to admit. Can you explain?”

“You really are a strange one.” Ignacius pulled the pipe out of his mouth. “We best start from the beginning then. The most important thing you ought to know is that chants have tremendous power. A novice mage could never cast spells without their help. Before they were discovered, no one had a use for vol.”

“Chants were discovered?”

“That’s right, my boy. Every magic chant we use was inscribed on a tablet discovered in a ruin or dungeon somewhere on Remora. Zera created them to give humanity the strength to fight demons. It’s been three centuries since the Church decoded the first one, they say. Without them, heathens would’ve slaughtered us by now.”

The ‘God did it’ explanation didn’t sit right with Dimitry. There had to be a better reason. Perhaps he could learn more from the object itself. “Can you get your hands on a tablet?”

“I’d sooner become the matriarch herself before I’m even allowed to see one.” Ignacius waved his hand. “Anyway, enough dawdling. Give illumina a try.”

The mysterious origins of magic had to wait. Dimitry turned his attention back to the aquamarine pellet resting on his palm. At the thought of absorbing its power, it melted into protruding purple vessels, leaving behind a small mound of gray residue. He guided its energy through his arm and into his chest. However, unlike invisall, the burning sensation didn’t travel smoothly—it scattered throughout his body. When a small amount reached his other hand, he imagined creating light.

“Illumina.”

Faint slivers of scattered light shimmered throughout the cabin.

44. Breakthrough

The layered oak planks of a ship’s cabin creaked under the pressure of relentless ocean waves. They shoved one after another against the hull as if to challenge the vessel’s integrity. An illumina-enchanted scale atop a drawer seesawed to the maritime bobbing rhythm, its light shifting back and forth across the walls, brightening the figures of a raven-haired girl, a red-robed old man, and a man who appeared to be in his early twenties.

Scenery now familiar to Dimitry.

In his palm was yet another vol pellet. Like many before it, it would transform into an alien energy and travel through his body—a process no longer painful thanks to Ignacius’ therapy. He took a deep breath and focused on absorbing its power. The weighty dark green shard shriveled as Dimitry converted its mass into a warm surge that traveled into his palm. Once a quarter of the pellet vanished, he stopped the drain. It would be a waste to use too much in one attempt. Supplies were limited.

Dimitry guided the warmth from his hand, through his arm, and into his chest. That was the easy step. Diverting the flow into his left hand proved more troublesome. Any that trickled into his abdomen or head would be unusable; only the vol that reached his left palm’s core could convert into light.

As the warmth traveled across his chest, only sparks of heat snuck into the rest of his body. A massive improvement over his initial attempts. Five days ago, almost all the vol either leaked from his circuits as exhaust or burned into his abdomen with only a sliver reaching his left palm. This time he successfully transferred around a third.

Dimitry consolidated the energy in his left hand. When it formed a ball of concentrated heat in his palm, he released it, envisioning it morphing into a clustered explosion of luminous light.

“Illumina.”

Scattered specks of light momentarily glimmered throughout the cabin. Although brighter, longer-lived, and more numerous than when he started, the results fared no better than yesterday.

Witnessing a lack of progress yet again, Dimitry’s optimism bittered into disappointment. His control over magic was the worst of the four. Even the faerie squirming beneath his clothes—the one who transferred from Saphiria’s dress to his just to savor his pain from up close—could produce concentrated balls of light without vol.

“Not bad, my boy. Your control over your circuits is progressing well enough.”

“Perhaps,” Dimitry said, “but as for the spell itself, I don’t feel like I’m making any progress at all.”

Ignacius exhaled a cloud of minty smoke through his nose. “That’s normal. I warned you it’ll take many months to learn illumina. A particularly untalented apprentice might waste years and fortunes on trial and error before mastering their first spell. You’re doing quite well by comparison.”

Perhaps Dimitry’s aptitude with invisall and accelall gave him an advantage. Even if that was true, the boost didn’t help him much beyond the fundamentals. He glanced at Saphiria, who sipped ale while watching him struggle with magic. Perhaps she could offer some advice. “Did you ever learn illumina?”

She shook her head. “Neither my father nor my mentors thought illumina would prove useful to me. I mastered floatia first.”

“I’m guessing your father taught you?”

“No. My guardian sorceress and the sorceress guildmistress did. Sometimes minecarts loaded with ore would get stuck in a tunnel. It was my job to lighten them.”

Of course her drive for learning magic involved mining. “Was your apprenticeship just as bad for you as it is for me?”

“Perhaps a bit worse.” Saphiria flashed him a smile, brought a bronze cup to her lips, and lowered it elegantly. “I often became so frustrated that I’d run away in the middle of a lesson to play. I’d hide behind Dorothy, but Leandra would always catch up to scold me.”

No longer awkward at any mention of Saphiria’s nobility, Ignacius chuckled. “Little miss was quite the troublemaker.”

Sure sounded like the life of a carefree duke’s daughter. When Dimitry met Saphiria, he never could have pictured her as a mischievous child. She was stoic and cold. Now, however, he could entertain the thought. “If Leandra’s your mentor, I’m guessing Dorothy was your trusted confidant?”

“Yes. She was my horse.”

Dimitry paused, then laughed.

“What is so humorous?”

“Normally, if someone told me their confidant was a horse, I’d call them crazy, but after seeing how well you treated Julia, I’d be crazy to assume otherwise.”

Wearing a pouty frown, Saphiria’s head turned up and away. “At least Dorothy never mocked me.”

A pang of guilt struck Dimitry. “I was just joking. Mostly.”

“Think long on your transgressions.”

“For what it’s worth, I find that part of you endearing.”

Saphiria glanced back to watch him from the corner of her eye before turning away once more. As if savoring his words, her countenance reclaimed its dignified expression, and she took another graceful sip of ale. “Forgiven.”

His eyes narrowed. Did Dimitry truly offend the girl, or was she using his comment as an excuse to brush up on noble mannerisms? Sometimes Saphiria practiced dancing and lectured him on courtly etiquette. Everyone needed a method for maintaining their sanity. Aside from gambling copper coins over knucklebones with crewmen and sharing stories, this ship had few avenues for entertainment.

Ignacius sighed. “You kids always make me feel old.”

It seemed Dimitry allowed his youthful appearance to reflect in his demeanor. He reminded himself of his goal and picked up another vol pellet.

“You won’t need that for now, my boy. I think you’re ready.”

“For what?”

“Your next lesson.” Ignacius refilled his pipe with orange powder, stood up, and paced the cabin. “Listen well.”

Reinvigorated by the prospect of acquiring knowledge that could help him progress with sorcery, Dimitry sat at attention.

Ignacius exhaled minty mists. “When casting spells, there are five factors to consider: flow, efficiency, distance, precision, and effect. Flow is what you’ve been learning these past few days—the ability to convey vol throughout the body. Efficiency is how much vol leaks out as exhaust. Both of these deal exclusively with a mastery over circuits.

“The other three factors deal with cores. Effect is the spell itself. For example, illumina’s effect is to create light. Distance is how far away from a core you can trigger an effect. At first, your distance will be short, my boy, but will grow further with practice. Lastly, there’s precision. It’s how accurately you can trigger an effect over time and space. When you tried to cast illumina earlier, the light scattered throughout the room because your precision was poor. You’ll be able to concentrate the effects into one spot with practice.

“The hardest of the five to master is effect. Every spell has a different one, and the most complicated effects can take years to learn. That’s why all except the most talented wizards and sorceresses have to specialize. Now do you understand why you shouldn’t be so upset over your progress?”

Dimitry leaned back against the cabin’s wall. The ease with which he ‘learned’ invisall and accelall gave him the impression that magic would be a breeze. He was wrong. “Looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

“Don’t forget it,” Ignacius said. “No one gets to skip the basics.”

Despite all the supporting evidence and his struggles with learning magic so far, something told Dimitry that the old man’s words weren’t entirely accurate.

Whether that ‘something’ was instinct, intuition, or false hope was unclear.

Eleven wintry days passed since Dimitry set sail for Malten. The temperature seemed to drop further every moment, bringing about numbed extremities, misty breaths, and a yearning for Earth’s heating technology. How he missed having a cup of fragrant coffee ready after a hot shower. Hell, even his BMW’s heated seats would have been much appreciated.

But at least he had a splendid view.

The ship he rode cruised along the Sundock Confederacy’s coast—a frigid desert. What were initially endless sandy dunes transitioned into snowy fields filled with distant ice-capped mountains. Their pristine white peaks towered over calm waters.

To counteract the arctic chill, Dimitry wore layered blankets over his traditional Coldust dress. They concealed two things: a faerie snuggled warmly against his neck and a body whose circuits had healed substantially ever since he escaped Coldust. Ignacius’ relaxia treatments bore fruit. No longer inflamed, the purple vessels didn’t bulge from his skin.

In addition, Dimitry’s ability to control vol flow through his circuits had increased. Only half escaped as exhaust. Although his progress with efficiency and flow had impressed Ignacius, his control over effect, distance, and precision lacked improvement. Every illumina cast remained a depressing display of scattered glimmers.

That was why he stood on the ship’s deck, leaning over icy rails. With the crew hiding out of sight, probably passing around an incendia-heated stone downstairs, now was his best chance to consult an unlikely magician in private.

“More!” Precious whispered.

Dimitry broke off a pea-sized piece of limroot—a stiff, starchy tuber that resisted rot and frost on extended voyages—and snuck it under his hood. “You’re really liking this stuff, huh?”

“Ish preffy goof,” the faerie said while eating. The crunching came to a halt. “More!”

“Oh, I have plenty more, but first, you’ll tell me everything you know about mastering illumina.”

“I knew you’d ask eventually.” She giggled as a corrupt creature would. “But those who seek tutelage from the best must pay tribute. Don’t make me ask again.”

Dimitry snapped off another piece of limroot and shoved it into Precious’s outstretched hands.

Her golden fingernails clutched it greedily before retreating into their warm space.

He waited until the munching sounds by his ear went silent. “That enough?”

“More!”

“There’ll be no more until you answer me.”

“Fine. Then quit stalling and tell me what you want to know.”

“I’m the one that’s stalling?”

“Well, I’m certainly not.”

He sighed. “I heard from Saphiria that faeries don’t know magic by nature, which means you learned it at some point. I need pointers. Anything that could help me pick it up faster.”

“Wow. You’re pretty motivated, aren’t you?”

He was. Although Dimitry initially considered illumina a low-priority spell, after thinking it over, his opinion changed. Not only did bursts of light create great distractions in combat, but the thought of applying it to medicine excited him, sent shivers down his spine. In a world without endoscopes, the ability to create light inside a patient’s body held immeasurable value.

And illumina was just the beginning.

Preservia—a source of instant sterilization—could lower death rates substantially. Relaxia and snoozia contained the expertise of an anesthesiologist in a single pellet. And those were just the ones Dimitry considered. Who knew what other applications magic held in store?

“You could say I’ve developed a bit of an obsession,” he said.

“And you’ve come to seek my infinite wisdom?”

“Sure. Let’s go with that.”

Precious patted his temple. “You’ve made the right choice, Dumitry.”

“Get to the point.”

“Rushing won’t get you anywhere, my brash apprentice.” Her wings brushed against his neck as she curled into a ball atop his shoulder. “The way I learned was by trying over and over and over and over again until I produced lots of light.”

“That’s it?”

“Yep.”

Why did Dimitry expect anything useful from her? “There’s nothing else you can tell me? Not even a hint?”

“Nope. After watching a guy do it every day for decades, I guess I just kinda picked it up.”

Dimitry paused. “What guy?”

“Oops… I might have said too much.”

He stroked his chin. Everyone who saw the faerie mentioned her uncanny ability to speak—a skill she must have learned from a human. “An old friend?”

“More like an old idiot,” Precious said, her tone somber. A rarity for a haughty individual.

Although curious, he didn’t force information out of her—it seemed that even mystical creatures had histories they preferred not to remember. “If you want to talk about it, I’d be interested in listening.”

“There’s not much to say. A weird man caught a young faerie doing something disgusting…” Precious’s voice trailed off. “A-anyway, have you ever heard of aquatic demons?”

Dimitry laughed out loud. “You’re clumsy at changing topics, but I’ll bite. No, I haven’t. Are they like heathens?”

“Wrong!” She pinched his ear. “They’re monsters that live along the Gestalt Empire’s coast.”

“Sure sounds like heathens to me.”

“No, no. These are different. When I lived in Volmer, I saw them throw spears and cast strange magics.”

“Spears?” Dimitry’s smile vanished. For aquatic demons to wield spears and magic meant they held expertise in sorcery and craftsmanship—abilities one wouldn’t expect from mindless monsters like heathens. “Do they attack people?”

“Why? Are you scared?”

“No, I just prefer not to run for my life if I can avoid it.”

“But it’s so fun when you do,” Precious mused.

“You know that if I die, there’s a good chance you will too, right? And even if you survive, you won’t have anyone to buy you fruit anymore.”

“… that would be bad.” Precious paused. “I’ve overheard humans talking about aquatic demons drowning people that got too close to the beach. There are rumors they attack ships too, but I don’t know if that’s accurate. Dumb humans say all sorts of dumb things.”

Dimitry turned away from a snowy desert and towards the mounted crossbow with glowing limbs by his side—one of several mounted to the ship. The perfect weapon to fend off seaborne enemies. “Is that what these crossbows are for?”

“Crossbows?” Her hair tickling his earlobe, Precious squirmed out from under his clothes. “Huh, maybe.” She looked down over the ship’s railings. “Whoa! The water’s so blue!”

He scanned the ship for witnesses. Thankfully, no one had wandered up to the deck while they spoke. “Can you warn me before you decide to jump out and yell?”

“I just wanted to see the ocean.” Precious retreated to her favorite spot beside his neck. “It’s only my second time at sea. That hussy didn’t even let me look last time!”

“Want me to tell Saphiria you just called her a hussy?”

“Y-you… you wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“Don’t!” Budding tears in her golden eyes, Precious tugged his collar. “You know how vicious she gets!”

“I don’t want to hurt Saphiria’s feelings, but if I get the sense that you’re mocking her, my tongue might just sl—”

“I’ll never ever say anything ever again! Do you want me to swear to Zera?! I’ll swear to Zera!”

Dimitry laughed once more. Although he learned nothing about magic and knew that Precious would continue babbling into his ear despite her promise, at least he vented some frustration. He felt ready to continue his studies.

Dimitry lost count of how many damn days he spent in the cabin. At least twenty by now. Ocean waves constantly clamored against the ship’s hull, rocking the pellet in his palm. It rolled on his skin, mocking him, telling him his next attempt at illumina would falter just like the hundreds before it. He should have listened. Ignacius warned him that learning magic would be a long, frustrating process, but Dimitry was in too deep. When he started something, he damn well finished it.

He absorbed the vol into his arm, guided its power across his chest, and concentrated the energy in his other hand’s palm. Dimitry imagined the brightest light, surgery lights, Times Square at night, a fucking quasar.

He released the accumulated power. “Illumina.”

And yet, nothing. Nothing except for several fleeting specks of light that vanished as soon as they appeared. An attempt just as shitty as those preceding it.

Frustration accumulated within. Dimitry tightened his grip around the half-consumed pellet and tossed it across the cabin. The weighty petal pounded into the floor, bouncing several times before hitting a drawer with a hollow thud.

The faerie snuggled beneath his clothes shook with suppressed laughter.

A gentle hand landed on his shoulder. Saphiria looked on with compassionate indigo eyes. “Would you like something to drink?”

Dimitry must have concerned her with his sudden outburst. He needed to relax. A series of deep breaths, each slowly released through his mouth, left him with a precarious sense of calm. “I’d appreciate it.”

“It’s normal to get frustrated,” Ignacius said. “I’ve had quite a few pupils give up over the years. I’d understand if you did.”

“I’m not giving up. Just got a little agitated.” Dimitry accepted a cup filled with half-frozen ale from Saphiria. He gulped down the slightly sweet, earthy beverage. “Thank you.”

“How are you?”

“Better now. Sorry about that.”

Accepting his empty cup, Saphiria nodded.

“You should take a break, my boy.”

Dimitry couldn’t. They would arrive in Malten soon, and he still hadn’t learned a single spell. “Let’s continue.”

“Oho. Full of spirit yet.” Ignacius held a pipe with one hand and a half-full pouch of crude vol pellets in the other. It rocked back and forth along with a bobbing ship.

Dread crept down Dimitry’s spine. He tired of failure. However, he had committed to learning magic and wouldn’t stop until he mastered illumina. He sat back down beside Saphiria and retrieved another dark green pellet, whose lustrous surface reflected the light of a nearby lamp. “Are you sure that imagery is the right way to trigger a spell’s effect?”

“That’s how everyone does it.” Ignacius blew an enormous cloud of minty white smoke. “Try not to overthink it. You’re making decent progress.”

Progress? To refer to Dimitry’s results as progress was generous. He respected wizards and sorceresses for willingly undergoing this torturous process for every single spell they learned.

He took another deep breath and absorbed a fourth of the pellet into his right palm’s core like he had done hundreds of times before. The warmth traveled through his circuits until it reached his other hand. Dimitry accumulated the heat into a ball of energy, which he released while thinking of the brightest light he could.

“Illumina.”

The results were the same faint specks of white light he saw before.

An expected yet disappointing conclusion.

Dimitry sighed, looking at the pellet in his hand. It made little sense. Why could vol, a metal, produce light? He glanced up at Ignacius. “How does illumina work?”

“That’s a strange question, my boy.”

“Why does vol transform into light when I use illumina?”

“That’s simple.” Ignacius emptied the charcoaled powder in his pipe and replaced it with fresh feracide. “Whenever we cast a spell, Zera grants us the ability to transmute vol through the power of her words—the chant’s power. Even children know that.”

It was true: chants had power. If Dimitry tried to cast a spell without one, all he would do was waste vol without producing an effect. But he refused to accept the ‘God did it’ explanation. While he couldn’t discount the existence of divine entities, especially given his circumstances, gods too must have operated through rational principles.

Any high schooler knew that visible light came from photons with a frequency within a specific range, released by excited electrons falling from higher to lower energy states. To excite electrons, one needed energy in the form of powerful light or heat. But the former made little sense. For illumina to produce light through excited electrons would require even more powerful light as a catalyst. A circular and pointless endeavor.

The other option was to produce light with heat. Usually, heat required fuel, and there was only one fuel in magic.

Vol.

Whenever Dimitry absorbed the green metal, it would transform into a warmth that traversed his body. What if magic was merely the act of transferring energy? What if he transferred that energy to his surroundings? What if he targeted electrons in the air to produce light?

Anything was worth a try.

Dimitry looked at the shrunken pellet rolling within his palm. Once more, he absorbed the vol, guided it through his body, and into his other hand. After concentrating the warm sensation, he released it through his left palm’s core, thinking of transferring its energy to the electrons of gas in the air.

“Illumina.”

Throughout the cabin, scattered specks of light shone at once. This time, however, they were numerous, luminous, and persistent.

Finally!

Improvement!

“Well done, my boy,” Ignacius said. “I told you that all of your practice would pay off. All plateaus are overcome eventually. You did so sooner than most.”

Was it just a fluke?

Dimitry’s fingers trembled with anticipation as he reached for another crude pellet. What if he visualized something different this time? Something specific?

The pellet quivered on his unsteady palm before he absorbed half of it. While releasing its warmth through his other hand, Dimitry envisioned feeding its energy to electrons in molecules in the air, exciting them, making them rise in energy levels, and releasing the unstable burden via photons.

Another volley of light exploded throughout the cabin. Aside from being more impressive than before, there was another difference. Instead of the bright white he had seen countless times before, this light had a lavender tint.

Ignacius shot his head into Dimitry’s direction with wide-open eyes. The pipe fell out of his mouth and hit the floor with a wooden clack, spilling its burnt orange powder onto oak planks. “Boy! What was that?! How is it that color?!”

Saphiria blinked as if in complete disbelief of what she saw.

Why wasn’t the light white? Was the change because of the fluorescence spectrum of atmospheric gas? Did magic go beyond ‘imagine producing light’? Perhaps a deepened understanding of how light was produced allowed Dimitry to guide his visualization more specifically, leading to aberrant results.

But how far did his discovery go?

Back on Earth, nitrogen comprised the majority of atmospheric gas. Was this world any different? Consuming the rest of the pellet, Dimitry endeavored a specific vision. He thought of vol acting to excite electrons in nitrogen gas, complete with them expelling photons.

“Illumina."

Vibrant violet light erupted throughout the cabin.

Beautiful progress!

Ignacius jumped to his feet in a manner too sprightly for an old man. “How are you…”

Dimitry couldn’t suppress his smile. “That might be a little difficult to explain.”

After all, how long would it take to describe scientific concepts to people raised on religion, astrology, and superstition? Armed with a generous supply of vol, Dimitry prepared himself for extended experimentation.

Suddenly, a long boat ride felt like it would be too short.

45. Secrets Revealed

Despite winter’s arrival, Dimitry’s days aboard the boat grew warmer. The scenery on the shores became green, most vestiges of vast white plains gone except the peaks of snowy mountains that disappeared into a sea of clouds. Two days ago, the ship passed the heathen barrier belonging to Ontaria—a city in the Gestalt Empire.

The captain mentioned they were twenty tours away from Malten. Dimitry, unfamiliar with units of distance in this world, asked for further clarification.

One day.

That was how long he would wait before arriving where he set out to travel over a month ago, but he didn’t grow giddy with anticipation. Magical experimentation kept him entertained.

Although he was far from an accomplished wizard, Dimitry’s scientific knowledge bestowed a much-needed advantage. Effect, the most tedious aspect of mastering magic, the sole factor that differentiated spells, became easier with understanding. Something he had plenty of.

But scientific knowledge alone wasn’t a panacea. There were caveats.

For example, an illumina that targeted electrons in nitrogen and oxygen simultaneously wouldn’t produce light, yet specifying nitrogen or oxygen alone did. Visualizing the bouncing molecules of generalized atmospheric gas worked, too, but with less luminous results. Dimitry concluded that spells should have only one intended target, with increased specificity strengthening the effect.

The concept applied easily to illumina, but what about spells like snoozia and relaxia? Dimitry guessed to target neurons, but which ones? And how? Should he diminish action potentials or intensify them? What if he accidentally shut down the medulla oblongata, causing the patient to suffocate? Magic without extensive research was dangerous. Perhaps one day he could work out the kinks with animal testing.

Then there were the enigmas. Spells Dimitry couldn’t even begin to understand. Among them, dispelia. What were its guiding scientific principles? Did it have any?

His discovery left him with more questions than answers, but rigorous testing wasn’t possible. Not yet. Dimitry still lacked the other four vital factors required of a mage besides effect: flow, efficiency, distance, and precision.

Without them, his spells were unpredictable. He couldn’t control where the effects appeared, how concentrated or long-lasting they were, and his use of vol was wasteful. For that reason, Ignacius limited him to illumina—a spell with easily measurable results and of little relative danger.

Propelia, for example, produced forces that could puncture vital organs or the ship’s hull. Ignia could ignite the mast and deck. Preservia might harm essential microorganisms inside the human colon, and incendia’s concentrated heating could lead to brain hyperthermia, which caused cerebral edema, blood-brain barrier leakages, and even fatal alterations to neural cells in afflicted patients. A novice mage without safety guidance was a disaster waiting to happen.

Preferring to avoid catastrophes, Dimitry wouldn’t cast deadly spells until he could control illumina. The basics had to come first.

He frowned as he plucked another metallic green pellet from a rapidly depleting pouch. His supplies ran low. Fortunately, his control over his circuits improved, allowing his vol to last longer. Used wisely, he could continue to practice until he reached Malten.

He placed the pellet onto his palm and absorbed roughly a fifth through the core. After sloppily guiding the warmth through his body and into his other hand, he thought of double-bonded oxygen atoms buzzing through the air, their electrons accepting the vol’s power and growing in energy.

Dimitry raised his palm to the air. “Illumina.”

Faint blue shards of light barraged the storeroom. Although they continued to lack coalescence, their wondrous display was a marked improvement over his initial attempts. Gradually, very gradually, Dimitry’s wizardry skills improved.

Ignacius watched, forgetting to smoke in his astonishment. “My boy, were those the oxygons again?”

“Oxygen gas,” Saphiria corrected the old man.

Aside from improving his abilities and watching the ocean drift by, Dimitry spent his time teaching Saphiria and Ignacius basic science. His advancements inspired them to improve their own thaumaturgy, too. Unfortunately, their efforts so far had proved fruitless.

Dimitry conjured two potential reasons for the poor results: either the dark hall granted only him the ability to modify spells, or knowing the ‘why’ of science was more important than the ‘how’. For example, electrons absorbing energy and emitting it as photons was ‘how’ it worked, whereas the ‘why’ included knowledge regarding atomic structure, electromagnetic waves, and other related minutiae.

To determine which hypothesis was correct, or if neither were, Dimitry struggled to teach them physics and chemistry. Before his breakthrough, mages produced only white light with illumina. However, by targeting nitrogen or oxygen, he discovered the ability to create violet or faint blue light. He considered his lessons a success if his companions learned to do the same.

“Now try again,” Dimitry said. “Remember, each atom in diatomic oxygen gas has two lone pairs and participates in two double bonds. Try to target the electrons in those.”

Saphiria gave a hesitant nod. “Illumina.”

The storeroom remained as dimly lit as it was before.

She frowned. “Your violet magics elude me still.”

Dimitry wasn’t surprised. Not only was he unsure of the efficacy of his lessons, but there was no way for someone raised on fantastical beliefs to grasp their concepts in half a week. For now, the goal was to familiarize her with the novel terminology. “Don’t be hard on yourself. Your progress is phenomenal for someone who hasn’t even heard of natural gas before.”

All traces of disappointment vanished from her face. Her eyes opened wide, revealing big and gleaming indigo irises. “Natural gas? Is that like nitrogen gas?”

“There’s usually some nitrogen inside, but it’s mostly a mixture of hydrocarbons. Some people set it on fire instead of wood to heat their ovens.”

“Is your oven like that?”

“No, I had an electric range oven.”

Saphiria and the mass of woolen blankets she huddled inside slid closer, bumping into his shoulder. She studied his face. “Electric?”

Although her curiosity never failed to bring a smile to Dimitry’s face, he preferred not to speak too much about Earth when Ignacius sat nearby. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk about that when we reach Malten. Let’s focus on illumina for now.”

With an exaggerated frown, she turned away. The rest of her vol pellet vanished into her palm. “Illumina.”

Nothing happened.

“Perhaps I’m doing something wrong,” Saphiria said.

“Maybe.” Dimitry shrugged. “I’m still not sure how it works myself.”

Ignacius ran a hand through his thinning white hair. “If she can’t do it, I have no hope at all. I don’t even understand your… lessons most of the time.”

“That’s to be expected. Where I come from, science is taught over decades of study. You’d have to be an unprecedented genius to make sense of it in a few days.”

“Guess nothing’s ever easy.” Replacing the feracide in his pipe, Ignacius sighed. “While I’m no longer sure if it was because of my tutelage, but you seemed to have learned illumina well enough, my boy. I think it’s about time you showed me the truth-revealing magic and this ‘accelall’.”

Saphiria shot Dimitry a glance—one that communicated her concerns without a word. Would it be wise to reveal a faerie on a cramped ship with nowhere to run? What if the powerful wizard sitting across from them flipped out? Ignacius being at odds with the Church didn’t undo his lifetime of cultural indoctrination.

Dimitry scoured the small storeroom for any napping crewmen hiding behind crates. He knew there were none, which was why he practiced his deviant magic here, but he checked to make sure. “If you want to know, promise me. No matter what happens, you won’t freak out. That means no loud sounds, no anger, no violence.”

Ignacius sat up straight. “Is it really such a powerful spell?”

Precious pulled on Dimitry’s collar. She wanted out. Weeks spent stuffed under a bundle of clothes and blankets left her begging for air.

“You’ll find out if you agree to my terms,” Dimitry said. “Yes or no?”

“No need to be so dramatic, my boy. I’ve seen many strange things during my long life. I doubt another one would bother me. Now show me.”

Dimitry took a deep breath. “Come on out.”

Ignacius’ brows furrowed.

Precious’s wings tickled Dimitry’s shoulder as she squeezed past a layer of blankets. Her head poked out, complete with a golden ponytail. “It’s so fresh out here.” She looked at Ignacius. “Hello, geezer.”

The old man, eyes bewildered, could only stare. His mouth opened and closed without a word.

“Her name is Precious,” Dimitry said. “Forgive her if she does something rude. She’s harmless and, if you ignore everything she says, she is actually a decent person... sometimes.”

“No one’s ever called me a person before. Thanks, Dumitry.”

“A faerie?” Ignacius massaged his forehead. “And it talks?”

Saphiria made her way to the door to the cargo hold and pressed an ear against the door. “It’s safe for now.”

Dimitry nodded. “You can come out, but don’t go too far. You know the drill—hide when you sense someone coming.”

“Finally!” The faerie popped out from under his clothes and drifted onto a crate. “Cold! So cold.” She tip-toed closer to an incendia-enchanted rock. “Ah. That’s way better.”

“Have you—” Ignacius gulped. “Have you been hiding it all this time?”

“Even before we’ve met you,” Dimitry said. “In exchange for fruit and other vegetation, she tells us when someone’s lying.”

“I-I see.” The old man glanced at the faerie, who didn’t so much as respond to his presence. “It, I mean, she… she doesn’t eat the placentas of the unborn?”

“Silly geezer. Why would I eat something so nasty when there are delicious fruits out there?”

Dimitry stroked the growing beard on his chin. Was that one of the Church’s teachings? “She hasn’t eaten any placentas lately, but she does like to annoy people.”

“We all have our hobbies.” Precious sniffed the air and dug through the crate beneath her feet. She emerged with a bud of limroot.

Ignacius approached the faerie with an outstretched hand. He touched the edge of her wings.

She slapped his finger away. “Do you know how long it takes to wipe away the grime?”

The old man chuckled. “Quite a mouth on you.” Ignacius observed the faerie munch on crunchy tubers for a short while and shifted his gaze towards Dimitry. “I expected a powerful spell, but you’ve really outdone yourself this time, my boy. To think a corrupted creature could have so much personality.”

“Regarding spells, I never intended to let you go home empty-handed.” Dimitry reached into his leather bag to retrieve a pure vol pellet.

“Do you mean to say this ‘accelall’ really exists?”

“It does indeed.” When Dimitry used the spell in Estoria, the time acceleration effects lasted around five minutes from his perspective—ample opportunity for the ship’s crew to discover him. “Are we still clear?”

Saphiria nodded. “I don’t hear anyone coming.”

“I fon’t shensh anyone coming eifer.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Dimitry said.

Five golden fingernails reflecting an illumina lamp’s light, Precious waved him away.

Ignacius chuckled once more. “You kids really know how to keep things interesting.”

“Ready?”

“Whenever you are, my boy.”

Dimitry glanced at the pellet in his hand. “Accelall.”

The warmth that pure vol emitted during his illumina training didn’t compare to the fire that now raged through Dimitry’s circuits. Although uncomfortable, he felt no pain. The sensation soon vanished, leaving an unfamiliar world in its absence.

Precious’s crunchy munching and the crashing of waves against the hull grew heavy, slow, and deep. A cloud of smoke trudged out of Ignacius’s pipe, coiling out and into itself as it collided with the air. The boat no longer rocked—it glided. The old man spoke, but his utterance resembled an extended grunt that shifted up towards the end.

Was that a question? Dimitry nodded slowly, hoping to appear normal to someone operating on a delayed temporal spectrum. A while passed. He paced through the storeroom. He paced and paced and yet accelall’s effects never seemed to end. At first, watching everyone move at a snail’s crawl amused him, but the experience soon grew bothersome.

Then banging. Something thrust against the ship’s hull. Initially quiet, the banging grew incessant, loud, and tumultuous before long.

Was it heathens?

Many slow footsteps stomped above.

Saphiria held up her hand—the warning signal: someone would burst into the storeroom soon. Both Ignacius and Precious’ heads shifted towards the door that led to the cargo hold.

A loud, panicked knock.

Dimitry’s cue to hide himself and his sacrilegious companion.

He took several sweeping strides towards Precious but hesitated before grabbing her. Accelerated time meant stronger applied forces. To avoid crushing the faerie’s petite figure, he lifted her by pinching her ragged white dress.

Placing one palm under her legs to support her weight, he scampered to a wall, picking up a handkerchief along the way. He gently lowered Precious to the floor and placed the fabric next to her. She crawled under it like a frightened hermit crab might retreat into their shell.

To give the impression of being asleep, Dimitry laid down. Not that it would convince anyone, let alone the crewman that just burst into the room. The banging against the ship grew louder and louder. Although he wasn’t sure, he thought he heard a voice coming from across the ship’s hull.

From the ocean.

46. Ominous Greeting

Ignoring the sluggish commotion coming from the deck above, Dimitry pressed an ear to the hull.

Layered wooden planks remained under relentless assault, the banging against them low-pitched, resounding, and prolonged. There was also yelling. Although accelall’s time dilation reduced every word to muffled groans, the message came across. Someone wanted to sink the boat and wouldn’t stop until every passenger drowned.

The crewman who came to warn the unplanned passengers dashed back towards the deck, his gait accelerating with each step. Every shout, stomp, and thud increased in pitch. A faerie’s shoving became forceful. Signs that accelall’s effects were wearing off.

Dimitry thought he heard voices coming from the ocean. Was he going insane? No, there were definitely voices.

“Strike until you breach the hull!” A vicious woman commanded.

A dozen war cries followed.

How could someone speak underwater? Was it the work of magic? Medieval diving gear? Dimitry shook his head. How the voices got there wasn’t important; their owners trying to sink the ship was.

Another volley slammed into the boat.

The impact’s echo surged through the walls and into Dimitry’s ears. Deafening ringing rattled his brain. He pulled back. “What the hell’s going on?”

“Aquatic demons are attacking the ship!” Precious shrieked.

“Aquatic demons? They can speak?”

“Speak?! Do you hear yourself?”

Ignacius mumbled, fingering through the vol pellets in his palm as he marched towards the deck.

Was Dimitry the only one who could understand the voices?

Saphiria stomped closer. “The boat might sink. Can you swim?”

“Swimming won’t help us.”

“We’re close to the shore.”

“The ocean will sap all the heat from our bodies by the time we get there,” Dimitry said. “We won’t make it alive. Even if we somehow do, the cold air will finish us before we can reach a village.”

“Perhaps.” Saphiria shed two layers of blankets, revealing an azure Coldust dress beneath. “But we might not have a choice.”

She wasn’t wrong. If Ignacius and the crew failed to fend off the aquatic demons, everyone on board would drown. But was fighting their only option?

“We should negotiate,” Dimitry said.

“Negotiate?!” Precious drifted closer with as much limroot in her folded arms as she could carry. “How are we supposed to negotiate with those… those things?”

“I think I can.”

“If you want to gurgle at them until they stop, be my guest!”

So it was true. Only Dimitry understood the aquatic demons. Did his ability to decode speech extend beyond human languages? He pointed at the storeroom’s wall. “I hear them yelling about sinking the ship right now.”

“You what?” Precious asked.

“I’ll talk them out of it.”

Indigo eyes conflicted, Saphiria bit her lip. She loosened her grip on Dimitry’s leather bag and tossed it aside. “Let’s try it.”

Precious dropped her limroot haul. “You’re honestly going to believe that?”

“I’ll ask you questions as they come up,” Dimitry said, “and you’ll give me information as necessary.”

Saphiria nodded.

“W-wait, you guys aren’t kidding?”

Dimitry cupped his hands around his mouth and pressed them against the storeroom’s wall. “We wish to negotiate!”

“Hold!” the vicious female shouted. “There is a brother among them!”

The assault against the ship halted.

“Brother, have the mudgills taken you prisoner? Are there others with you? Where have those brutes injured you?”

Precious landed on Dimitry’s shoulder. “I can’t believe it. They stopped. And how are you making those… gurgling sounds?”

Stunned by his success, Dimitry turned to face the girl behind him. “What’s a mudgill?”

Saphiria shook her head.

Precious looked on with shock. “Mud… gills?”

Damn. Was this humanity’s first verbal exchange with aquatic creatures? If so, his companions’ confusion made sense. They couldn’t help. Dimitry had to do this alone. Hoping he didn’t end up in an underwater grave, he ran a trembling hand through his hair.

Since they rode a boat, a vessel that carried people, the term ‘mudgill’ referred to humans. The aquatic demon called Dimitry her ‘brother’, meaning she believed he was one of them. A fact Dimitry would use to his advantage.

He pressed his hands against the wall once more. “It’s a misunderstanding! The mudgills have treated me well.”

“Well?” The vicious female hesitated before speaking again. “How can that be? They murder us without a second thought! I worry it is not only your body that is unwell, brother.”

“It’s true!” Blood pounded in Dimitry’s ears. “They showed me only the utmost hospitality so far.”

“It matters not. We must release you before the mudgills change their minds and the rock giants take notice. Continue the assault!”

Rock giants? Did she refer to heathens?

Before Dimitry could organize his thoughts, the relentless thumping against the hull resumed. Water poured into the storeroom from cracks between oak planks.

Something plopped into the water.

The vicious female and her band of aquatic demons released agonizing cries. Their attacks, however, didn’t stop.

Dimitry looked back. “What the hell was that?”

“W-what?” Precious asked. “What the hell was what?”

“Whatever made the aquatic demons scream.”

“Enchanted bolts,” Saphiria said. “Most seafaring merchant vessels carry them.”

That explained the ship’s mounted crossbows. But they weren’t enough. At this rate, both sides would perish.

Ignoring clothes drenched by the saline water pooling in the storeroom, Dimitry spoke into the wall once more. “Brothers and sisters, please end the assault at once! If you continue, we will all die.”

“It is a glorious death, brother. Embrace it!”

“It’s not just about us!” Dimitry said. “I’m trying to negotiate with the mudgills, but you’re ruining any chance for peace!”

“You speak foolishness,” the vicious female said, her words competing with an endless barrage of slams against the hull. “If we don’t kill them first, they will kill us. You know this well.”

“That’s…” Dimitry used his hand to cover a blood pressure monitor-sized hole in the hull. Scouring his limited knowledge for any bargaining pieces he could muster, he found only one. “If we wish to survive, we must unite with the mudgills against our common enemy—the rock giants!”

“Our common enemy?”

The assault halted once more. Hopefully for good this time.

Her voice grew in volume as she approached. “Isn’t it the mudgills that command the rock giants? They invite the beasts beneath their walls.”

The cooling sensation of hope and mild relief flooded Dimitry’s body, but he couldn’t relax. This was his last chance to avoid surfing to shore on ship debris. “No, the mudgills rebel against them, even putting the lives of their young at stake. I’ve seen it myself.”

“Their young?” The vicious female paused. “… how barbaric.”

It was a sad state of affairs when even ‘demons’ were morally superior to humans. “Indeed it is, but they have no choice. The giants clamor at their walls, and, after they are razed, the giants will target us. That is why I endeavored to negotiate with the mudgills.”

“And you can communicate with these mudgills, brother?”

“Hey, hey!” Precious pulled on Dimitry’s ear. “What’s it saying?”

Dimitry brushed the faerie off of his shoulder. “Yes, there is one among them who understands me.”

“Do they go by a name?” The vicious female asked.

Footsteps rushed through the adjacent cargo hold.

Precious dove into Dimitry’s clothes, her wings brushing against his neck until she reached her favorite hiding spot inside his hood.

The door to the storeroom burst open to reveal a breathless crewman whose grizzled appearance resembled that of a bear in a thick and bright Coldust dress. “We’ve fought them off, my lady! Please rest in the cabin while we fix the damage to the hull!”

“Well done,” Saphiria said. “Give me a moment to gather my belongings. They’re private.”

“But the storeroom is floodi—”

“Give. Me. A. Moment.”

“R-right.” The crewman dashed away.

Dimitry gave Saphiria a thumbs up for buying him precious time. She tilted her head at the gesture. He pressed his hands against the wall. “They do. The diplomat’s name is Dimitry.”

“Dimitry? What strange monikers.”

Storming footsteps approached from the cargo hold.

Dimitry attempted to calm his ragged breathing. “The leader of the mudgills calls. He seeks to exchange words of gratitude for our benevolence in stopping the assault. I must go to make amends.”

The captain rushed into the storeroom, his boots plopping into seawater puddles. “You have my humblest fucking apologies, my lady, but we have to clean this mess now!”

“I will inform the hierarch of your efforts,” the vicious female said. “May the waves bring you to sea once more, brother.”

It was the night following the assault by aquatic demons. A luminous full moon hung high in the obsidian skies, painting the river a dark green color. Wisps of light, like tiny stars, danced above the water’s surface, in the air, and even aboard the ship’s deck. They brightened and faded on a whim. Dimitry tried to enjoy the show but could only watch, mortified.

His second night of repentance brought wonders as well as horrors.

Green woodlands flanked the river from both sides, and dotting the landscape were stone beasts whose gargantuan statures toppled trees, abandoned cottages, and anything else that crossed their paths. Many were crawling devils, complete with giant, razor-sharp legs. Others torpedoed through the river or flew overhead. One heathen resembled a tortoise almost as large as a nearby hillock.

Every monster ignored the ship. They seemed to have another goal in mind—a walled city in the distance that grew closer.

Malten.

Knowing that vol consumption attracted heathens, the captain ordered the crew to throw every enchanted object overboard. It wasn’t much of a loss. The bolts, lamps, and heaters lost the bulk of their glows during the extended voyage. One by one, they plopped into the water. The captain threatened to dispose of anyone caught using magic in the same way.

Hands red from gripping the ship’s railing with excessive force, Saphiria stood beside Dimitry. Her expression wavered as if deciding between vaulting off the ship to save her city from the invaders, praying for divine intervention, and losing all hope.

“Can you negotiate with them, too?” she whispered weakly. “Tell them to stop?”

Dimitry watched the girl sink further into desperation ever since they passed the collapsing heathen barrier by the shore. Although Saphiria often expressed concern for her home during the voyage, sometimes shivering with anxiety or excitement, her arms never tremored as they did now. To ease her worry, he had already tried to understand the heathens without results, but he ventured another attempt. It was the least he could do for her.

Cupping a hand to his ear, Dimitry listened for signs of intelligible speech. There was none. Only the stomping of heathens was audible. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can.”

She bit her lip.

“I still can’t believe you pulled that off, Dumitry.” Precious’s whisper came from inside his hood. “Where did you learn to speak to aquatic demons? I didn’t even know they could talk!”

She raised a good question. Although the ability to speak every language—including that of corrupted creatures—was an advantage, the implications troubled Dimitry. Not only did the man in the dark hall modify his body by adding circuits and cores, but he also altered his mind. How far did it go? What else about him changed?

He sighed. “It’s a long story.”

“You’re the most interesting human I’ve met. I made the right choice tagging along with you.”

“If you say so.”

Ignacius approached from behind. “You kids still awake?”

Saphiria didn’t respond. She stared at a distant city besieged by stone monsters.

“Yeah,” Dimitry said. “Falling asleep’s a bit tough given our circumstances.”

“Little miss, if it soothes your worries at all, the fact that this many heathens are attacking Malten means the city is doing reasonably well. You should try to get some rest.”

Saphiria’s eyes were somehow exhausted and alert. Legs unsteady, she could fall into the river at any moment.

“Ignacius is right.” Dimitry placed a hand on her shoulder, gently guiding her away from the ship railings. “Come on.”

“I… I can’t.”

“I know you’re worried, but aimless panic never helps. You’ll know for sure when we arrive in the morning. Wouldn’t you prefer to greet your family well-rested?”

With a weak nod, Saphiria trudged past him.

Dimitry glanced at the emblem on his wrist. The pale blue knight tugged towards two opposite directions at once. Did multiple shrines lay nearby?

He shrugged.

No point in thinking about that now. Tomorrow, he would meet Saphiria’s father. He needed to do everything he could to leave a good impression.

47. Arrival

By afternoon, one could clearly see the city walls from the ship. And what a city it was. Was, but no more.

Majestic outer walls brandished the scars of battle. Sections stood shattered, crumbling, or missing altogether, revealing stone buildings clustered beyond. The adjoining gatehouse fared no better. Its narrow entrance collapsed onto a carapaced devil, whose size rivaled that of the ship Dimitry rode. Blue blood dribbled from the tortoise-like heathen’s neck and onto the head lying at its feet. The beast seemed to have been decapitated during last night’s battle.

Outside the city, a makeshift barricade comprising dead heathens ran along the river, the surrounding ground blue and barren. Nearby workers disassembled fresh and bleeding stone corpses limb by limb and tossed them atop the lengthy pile. Ox-driven carts dragged unbutchered heathens across grassy fields to replenish ‘construction materials’.

The hairs of Dimitry’s arms stood on end. Frozen, his eyes could not detach from the horrific sight. Was this life without the Church? Were the weapons that Malten produced, the ones that Saphiria held in such high esteem, not enough to fend off the invaders? He hoped last night’s chaos would prove an exception rather than the rule.

Dimitry glanced at the burly, tan-skinned captain beside him. “Is it always like this here?”

“Naw.” Gold-trimmed hat in hand, he too watched the city in silence. “Last time I been to Malten was three months ago. Shit wasn’t this bad. Not at all.”

“What changed?”

“See that?” The captain pointed to the side of the river opposite Malten. “Last time, there weren’t no corrupted creatures coming from there. Now, they’re coming from the western waters and the northern lands. This place don’t have long.”

Although Dimitry couldn’t recall every detail of the map he saw in Estoria, he remembered seeing other cities north of Malten. “Does that mean that the heathens changed their target?”

“Corrupted creatures ain’t that smart. My money’s on Einheart and Volmer loosening their patrols. Resources ain't infinite, ya know? Eight years is a long time to live without the Church.”

Dimitry’s brows furrowed. Eight years? The timing of the Church’s retreat and Saphiria’s enslavement coincided.

“By the way.”

“Yeah?”

With a meaty hand, the captain pointed at the ship’s forecastle—the raised front of the deck beneath which the crew slept. His gaze fixated on a girl with raven black hair, whose boots squirmed more restlessly by the second. “Can ya tell the lady to send the payment to Malten’s Blue Compass branch within two days? Normally I’d tell her myself, but…”

Dimitry sympathized with the captain. A mere glance at Saphiria pierced his heart. “I’ll handle it.”

“Thanks. Also, a bit of advice. I suggest you three finish your pilgrimage and get home as soon as possible. It ain’t safe here.” The captain nodded, tightened his hat around his head, and stomped away to bark orders at his crew.

Get home? Dimitry was home. He had nowhere else to go. Although the Gestalt Empire underwent its share of tribulations, it remained the only country free from the Church’s influence. Religious zealots frightened Dimitry more than stone giants. One could even consider monstrous invaders a positive indicator of a city’s health.

Ignacius told him that abundant magic use attracted heathens. To cast spells, one required vol—an expensive commodity. The many stone corpses surrounding Malten’s walls suggested the city prospered more than any besieged city should. How many pure pellets did the inhabitants burn through to defend themselves last night? A thousand? Two? Any settlement that could afford the expense without help from the Church fared well enough.

Or so Dimitry told himself.

“Boy.”

He turned around.

Although Ignacius rested a hand on Dimitry’s shoulder, he watched Saphiria with a worried frown. “I owe you kids a lot. Especially her. Even if it’s just to chat, come visit me at Vogel’s Enchantments.”

Dimitry immediately recognized the name. It belonged to the store Ignacius’ family ran. “Appreciate the invite. I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Hey, geezer!” a sharp whisper escaped Dimitry’s dress. “How about me? Can I come too?”

“Well… I prefer if you didn’t. My daughter always got squeamish around faeries.”

“Your daughter sucks.”

Ignacius huffed a fatigued chuckle. “Maybe if you stay hidden.”

Precious’ wings flapped excitedly against Dimitry’s cheek.

The boat berthed at a ramshackle harbor. Planks lying uneven and layered as if to plug massive gaps, the dock’s construction didn’t have the quality expected from a city of craftsmen. Hasty repairs undid what was once a prosperous port.

Saphiria didn’t wait for the crew to moor the ship before she vaulted over the railings and marched towards the city.

If Dimitry dreaded learning about the city’s conditions, how did she feel? The collapsing gray walls defended her family’s home. Her home.

“My boy, I don’t suggest letting little miss go off alone.” Ignacius sighed. “I fear she might learn an unpleasant truth.”

———————————————————————————————————

Dimitry followed Saphiria through a city of stone buildings with rusted metal frames. Every wall even, every iron pillar uniform, they flanked a paved road from both sides. Enchanted lamps hung from posts, illuminating streets with intricate designs painstakingly engraved by some accomplished stone carver. Malten was indeed a city of craftsmen.

Craftsmen and beggars.

Clothes crumpled and torn, masses lay alongside buildings or huddled around bonfires in alleys. A man with dirt-smeared cheeks watched Dimitry's leather bag with hungry eyes. Street urchins prowled in groups, rushing between homes to beg for meal scraps or chasing wild dogs with sticks and stones like cavemen hunting buffalo across a stone prairie.

Like many others, blisters covered the side of a sleeping woman’s face. The unmuddied patches of her skin ghost white, she lay motionless despite raucous neighbors. A thin neck and arms despite a swollen abdomen suggested she was pregnant.

Eager to offer the woman loose change to support her child, Dimitry leaned in to make his presence known.

The irises of her wide-open eyes remained dilated and fixed regardless of the shadow creeping across her face.

She wasn't sleeping.

She was dead.

Grief flushed through Dimitry, and he coughed as if to dislodge the globus sensation growing thicker and tighter inside his throat. What a cruel way to die. He didn't show his sorrow. If not for himself, then to appear confident for the girl at his side.

Hand pressed to her mouth, Saphiria's head twisted side to side, every tainted sight sapping vigor from her already unsteady gait. Her pace grew sluggish until she stopped altogether. Saphiria looked down.

At her feet curled a dismembered dog with a fleshless ribcage. Shattered bones remained where the legs once connected, and on the head, pink flesh interspersed patches of black fur. Skull fragments, entrails, and chunks of boiled brain filled the extruded sections of an excellently sculpted brick road.

"Why..." Saphiria said with a shaky voice. "W-who would?"

Incapable of watching a girl’s world crumble around her, Dimitry averted his eyes. Everyone knew who the culprits were. Although the sight was one he preferred to do without, Dimitry couldn't fault a starving populace for acts of desperation. Hardship was an equalizer that forced even him to sink to depravity. Who was he to scorn people just trying to eat?

But Dimitry didn't vocalize his thoughts. Instead, he wrapped an arm around Saphiria's shoulders. "Come on. You're almost home."

A while passed before Saphiria tore herself away from the motionless dog, her gaze downcast as they walked. Although she watched her staggering feet, her eyes doubtless saw only a slaughtered animal as they navigated the city.

Gently nudging the girl forward with one arm, Dimitry used his free hand to pinch his nostrils shut. Like traversing a gag-inducing minefield, he had to step around mounds of feces every ten strides. Large piles that belonged to horses, medium-sized foothills like those of pigs, and small ones attributable to humans. The fecal stench, along with that of urine and decay, tainted the air.

Normally, putrid smells alone couldn't shake Dimitry, but the source did. Civilians brandishing massive blisters, peeling purple skin, cyanotic fingertips, limbs black like charcoal, pus-filled wounds, inflamed eyes secreting excessive discharge. Some symptoms held familiarity, others were novel. Overcrowding and unsanitary living conditions turned Malten into the perfect breeding ground for pathogens. The rampant disease made sense. However, based on what Dimitry saw, this was no simple ailment.

The appearance of a new plague was more than a possibility.

Desperate to identify the bacteria or virus responsible, Dimitry studied the bleeding purple blisters on a man's arm, but he averted his gaze upon meeting his gaze.

The man’s eyes pleaded for help, and his palm hovered midair.

Dimitry considered giving him a few bronze coins, but swiftly abandoned the haphazard thought. That man did not beg alone. Dozens of open palms stretched closer, expecting more alms than he could accommodate. A starving mob would swarm Dimitry if he gave money to a single homeless person. He turned his attention to rapidly enclosing walls instead.

They cocooned a segregated district from which a castle's elaborate towers rose to pierce gloomy skies. Two guards flanked an iron-reinforced gatehouse, each wielding a long halberd.

One guard kicked away a beggar who tried to peak at the castle inside. His gaze flicked towards Dimitry. "Coldust nationals?"

Saphiria tried to speak, but her words emerged as feeble whimpers.

The second guard heaved an impatient breath.

While Saphiria mourned the city she once knew, displaying a demeanor lacking the grace of nobility, Dimitry had to make something up. Anything that could get him and his friend closer to the castle and away from desperate thieves. He examined the many luxurious stores around a spotless pavilion and flashed the three gold gadots remaining from his journey. "We're travelers from Coldust. Just got off the ship. We're looking to do some shopping."

The guards shared a glance.

"Was a ship supposed to come today?" one asked the other.

"Well, they aren't refugees. Speak properly, too."

"Could use the business."

Their halberds uncrossed, granting passage.

Dimitry nudged Saphiria forward, and they stepped onto a wide road.

Surrounding them were massive homes with stained glass windows, stores with elaborate trinkets on display, and wealthy patrons in colorful uniforms and long dresses. At the end of the masterfully carved stone walkway stood a knight and a yellow-robed figure. They guarded the giant, gold-glowing gate leading into the castle.

Unsure if he could bluff his way past them, Dimitry had to rely on the daughter of a duke. He brushed away raven black strands from her face. "Hey. You doing alright?"

"S-sorry." Saphiria wiped her eyes with her sleeve, combed her hair, and straightened her back.

"Better now?"

She nodded.

Dimitry forced a smile and glanced ahead. "Who's that in the yellow robe?"

"A court sorceress. Don't take her lightly."

"Is she that strong?"

"Very," Saphiria said, voice trembling. "Try not to lie unless you must. Court sorceresses are not only strong but cunning as well. I prefer if you left this matter to me."

Dimitry hesitated. Gone for eight years, Saphiria would face difficulty convincing her family and subjects to take her back in. "And you'll be fine?"

"This is not just about me." She inhaled several deep breaths, slowly releasing them through her nose—a technique Dimitry taught her during the voyage to ease her nervous jitters. She strode forward with a confidence befitting her status. "I'll handle this. For the both of us."

Unlike the careless frolicking past the boulevard in her youth, every step closer to those familiar birch gates shook Saphiria, intensifying the quaking of her legs. Although she often comforted Dimitry with promises of a secure position within the castle, now that she approached her home, she wasn’t sure if she could secure one for herself.

The Church had kidnapped her eight years ago, whisking her away in the night. Would her parents and elder brothers disown Saphiria for being too weak to return on her own strength and in a timely manner? What if the Pesce family had been deposed in her absence, marking her as a target for elimination? Could she protect Dimitry if they had to flee?

Pointless musings.

Saphiria shook her head and pulled back her shoulders. Once she conversed with Father, once she reunited with him and relayed her tale, all would be well once more. Like in the tranquil times of her childhood. She shoved every meaningless concern into the recesses of her mind as she arrived at the castle gates.

With red eyes glaring from under a yellow hood, the court sorceress spoke coldly. “You must be lost.”

Although court sorceresses were time-honored war heroes, renowned and few enough in Malten to be counted on the digits of a single hand, Saphiria did not recognize this one. Was she a new appointee? "You will know me as Saphiria, daughter of Ferdinand and Amelie Pesce! I demand an audience with His Grace at his earliest convenience!"

The heavy infantry halberdier lifted the visor of his bascinet to reveal a bewildered scowl. He glanced at the court sorceress to his side.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Those who impersonate the royal family face a death sentence. You don’t want trouble, woman, do you?”

"Royal family?" Saphiria said. "Speak sense! Now!"

"So a desert-dwelling washrag traversed the peninsula just to mock Her Royal Majesty?" the court sorceress bellowed, grabbing the attention of nearby nobles and merchants. "Ethelbert! Knife!"

The halberdier withdrew a dagger.

With a wrinkled palm, the court sorceress grabbed the hilt. "Display your offensive tongue once more, nomad, so that I may sever it."

Burning rage and impatience within, Saphiria would end this charade immediately. She wiped a clammy hand against her dress and pulled back her sleeve to reveal her most prized possession: the sapphire bracelet father gifted her. Although not a powerful artifact excavated from an ancient dungeon, the accessory’s poison-curing powers held a special interest to mages. All within the Sorceresses Guild knew of it. "I will not repeat myself! Lead me to my father! Immediately!"

The court sorceress's eyes shot open. She dropped onto one knee. "Open the gates at once!"

The halberdier knelt too. "Her Royal Highness has returned at last!"

Ecstatic murmurs erupted from across the boulevard, and metal hinges wailed as the castle gates opened.

The court sorceress lowered her head. "Pardon me, Your Royal Highness. We knew not it was you. If I should sever my own tongue to rectify my disgrace, please give me the word."

"There is no need," Saphiria said. "Instead, tell me your name. Your face is unfamiliar."

"Anelace Rowen, Your Royal Highness."

"Why do you refer to me as Your Royal Highness?"

"I beg your patience. Much has happened in your absence. Allow me to return with someone qualified to speak on Her Royal Majesty's behalf!"

Saphiria frowned. Did Mother crown herself a Queen during the Gestalt Wars? Would that make Father the king? "Be swift. I have little patience.”

The court sorceress marched into the castle and, halfway through the hall, started sprinting.

Dimitry smiled as if to praise Saphiria.

Hairs on end and jitters throughout her body, she suppressed the urge to smile back. Saphiria had to maintain her image. Soon, she would meet with Father. Their struggle would end at last. They would be home.

“I wanna see, I wanna see!”

Although Precious' whispers were quiet, disaster would ensue if her voice leaked past Dimitry's dress. The castle's entrance hall was the worst place to be discovered housing a corrupted creature. Such a mistake could forever tarnish Saphiria's reputation as a noble. Or rather, as royalty. Not once did she tell him she was 'Her Royal Highness', and somehow, she didn't know for herself. What the hell happened while she was gone?

"I’ve never seen the inside of a castle before! I wanna seeee."

Dimitry jabbed his hood with an outstretched pinky.

"Owie."

Keeping them company while they waited for the Queen's representative was the sweet smell of berries wafting from incense sticks and two guards. Their yellow-painted steel armor rattled like empty beer cans with the slightest movement. A blue carpet rolled out from beneath, stretching past a three-way intersection and disappearing into a distant, pitch-black corridor.

A woman emerged. With one hand pulling up the skirt of her dress and the other cradling a book, she approached in a manner befitting a fashionable businesswoman. The string strapped to her glasses—the first pair Dimitry saw in this world—disappeared into her sky blue hair, styled into a formal updo. The woman appeared to be in her late twenties.

She was beautiful.

Were Dimitry still on Earth, her gentle features and sophisticated elegance would have inspired him to ask her out on a date. But now that he was stranded in a crumbling city, romance bore no interest. He wanted information. Would heathens destroy Malten? How did the royal family plan to deal with rampant homelessness and starvation? What would happen to him and Saphiria?

Dimitry verbalized neither question. Not only was he oblivious to his position in society, but overspeaking could inconvenience Saphiria. Silence was his strongest weapon until he learned to navigate his situation.

Stopping a meter away from him, the woman pressed her book to her chest and knelt onto a single knee. "Good afternoon."

Saphiria wore an authoritative expression. "Bertisma? You look young."

"I-I apologize, Your Royal Highness. Bertisma is my mother. This one is Klaire Hofmann. Just as she once did, I now serve as her majesty’s stewardess."

Dimitry considered introducing himself with 'this one', but he figured nobles reserved the phrase for themselves. Saphiria seemed to have left out many details during her 'courtly lessons'. To avoid offending anyone, he offered a standard greeting. “I'm Dimitry Stukov. I’m a surgeon.”

Klaire didn't so much as look at him. Her gaze fixated on Saphiria. "Please allow this one to confirm your identity. How old are you?"

"Twenty as of this summer."

"What did you receive for your ninth birthday?"

"A horse. Her name is Dorothy."

"Could you show me the bracelet you displayed to Madam Anelace earlier?"

Saphiria pulled up her sleeve, revealing a golden band wrapped around her wrist with a sizable sapphire engraved in the middle.

As if absolved of all tension, Klaire exhaled a deep breath, and her shoulders relaxed. "It’s really you, Your Royal Highness! We are saved!"

The two armored guards, or perhaps they were knights, fell to their knees. The gesture conveyed their excitement without a word.

Dimitry's confusion only grew. Although Saphiria had saved his life before, could her skills save an entire city? Or was it a kingdom now?

"Your Royal Highness," Klaire said, her voice crackling with anticipation, "would you please accompany me? Your mother has awaited this day for nearly a decade, as have the rest of your subjects. Now is the perfect time to make your appearance!"

"Where is Mother?"

"She awaits in the royal court! The gentry have assembled to discuss repairs following the Night of Repentance, and your presence will bring much-needed levity to such serious affairs. Yes, the kingdom will sing with your arrival!"

"Let's end this matter swiftly." Saphiria glanced at Dimitry. "There is someone I wish to visit."

It seemed the girl, no, the princess, didn't look forward to a reunion with her mother. Was that why she never mentioned her before?

When Dimitry trailed after them, Klaire glanced back. She wore an uninterested expression. “You will wait here.”

"No," Saphiria said. "He comes with me."

Klaire bowed. "My humblest apologies, Your Royal Highness!"

Despite her newfound status, Saphiria didn't toss aside Dimitry. He silently thanked the girl as he followed her down a long hallway.

Muffling every step was a carpet, its superior make apparent at a glance. Interwoven fractal designs, silver-trimmed edges, and vibrant blue dyes doubtlessly valuable in a world without industrial plants. On all sides, marble pillars held up a domed ceiling bearing elaborate paintings of war and love and religious imagery—an opulent display suitable for any nobleman's home.

And yet, something was missing.

The corridor felt empty.

Further investigation revealed why. Deep furniture dents in the carpet presented at regular intervals along the wall, hinting at decorations once present but no longer. While most dents were small, the size of a plinth base, larger ones must have resulted from cabinets and display stands that had rested there for decades before they vanished.

Dimitry stroked his chin. He thought of only two reasons for the absent furnishings: either Saphiria's home underwent renovations, or her family was desperate for cash. Did her father sell lavish furniture to raise military funds?

The barren castle hinted that Dimitry’s dream of becoming a court surgeon with limitless capital for medical advancement was hopeless. Employment itself, however, wouldn’t be a problem. Illness had spread throughout Malten. Although it pained him to see patients suffer, they offered an opportunity to make an honest living. To give life instead of taking it. To redeem himself.

The future Dimitry yearned for since he escaped Ravenfall.

Like an exuberant middle manager expecting a raise, Klaire’s feet seemed to want to skip forward, performing tiny hops instead. She stopped in front of massive oak double doors and turned around. "Your Royal Highness, are your preparations in order?"

Saphiria waved her hand as if to perish the thought. Although the gesture boasted a regal flair, trembling fingers betrayed her false confidence.

"And you, sir..."

"The name's Dimitry."

"Don't forget your manners when addressing Her Royal Majesty." A grin spreading across her face, Klaire rubbed her hands. "Ready?!"

Legs unsteady like before a medical presentation, Dimitry nodded.

Klaire struggled to open a massive door.

It creaked around the hinge, revealing a clamorous hall full of men in elaborate uniforms, adorning medals and trinkets, alongside women in flowing dresses. Engaged in furious discussion, or perhaps fighting, most shouted or pointed at one another. Atop a raised platform stood a throne. A woman with gray-black hair sat upon its soft cushion, her calculating eyes shifting from argument to argument until her gaze landed upon a girl in a saltwater-stained azure dress.

"Your Royal Majesty!" Klaire strode up the blue carpet. "This is—"

The Queen jumped from her throne. "Saphiria!"

A single name resounded across marble walls and throughout the throne room. Although the Queen's tone wasn't loud or deep, its authority shocked nobles from their conversations, bringing the venue to a standstill.

Silence.

Saphiria knelt onto one knee. "This one has returned."

Dimitry imitated her posture.

A handsome man whose uniform bore golden epaulets flashed him a scornful smile.

Although alarmed, Dimitry ignored the provocation. He arrived in Malten an hour ago; what could he have done to earn anyone’s ire?

"Men kneel with both knees,” Saphiria whispered.

Anxiety prickled Dimitry’s face. What a splendid factoid for Saphiria to leave out of her lessons! A squirming faerie, probably suppressing the urge to laugh at his expense, tickled Dimitry's shoulder as he shuffled to correct his blunder.

“My daughter,” the Queen said, “eight years have come and gone since I have last seen you. You have grown into a beautiful woman.”

“Your words humble me, Mother.”

"But I must ask. Your apparel—why do you dress like a common desert dweller?”

Dimitry furrowed his brow. What kind of mother questioned her daughter—who she had last seen before her teenage years—about her clothing rather than about her health?

"We have traveled through Coldust on our journey," Saphiria said. "There was little opportunity for us to change into formal attire."

"Us? So the one accompanying you is a knight?"

No one spoke.

Was it Dimitry’s turn? He looked up to meet Her Royal Majesty's unflinching crimson eyes. “N-no. My name is Dimitry Stukov. I am a surgeon by trade... Your Royal Majesty.”

“I see.” She looked away, disinterested. "Saphiria, where is your real escort? I expected at the minimum a dozen Zeran knights and priestesses. Surely, they await outside, honored to be in service to an archbishop as outstanding as you.”

Dimitry blinked, processing what he had just heard. Zeran knights? Priestesses? Saphiria—an archbishop?

What the fuck?

Saphiria glanced at him.

He didn't know how to respond.

"A boat had just berthed in the port!" Klaire said. "Diplomats from the Church should be on their way now!"

Cheers sounded from all around.

“The Church has returned to bless our lands at last!” a woman in a flowing gold dress squealed.

“We are saved!” said another.

Her Royal Majesty glanced around the throne room. "Will they arrive soon?"

Saphiria rose from her kneeling posture. Her gaze shifted from the Queen’s throne to the empty one beside it. “Mother, would you humble this one with an answer to a question?”

“Ask as you wish, my blessed daughter.”

"Will Father be joining us? I wish to meet with him."

The room went silent once more.

“Is he out surveying the mines? Overseeing a shipment? And what of my siblings? Are they elsewhere, fulfilling their duties to the kingdom?”

Gloom consumed the jolly atmosphere. Some nobles glanced away to examine the carved marble walls. Others stared at their feet. If everyone had something in common, it was that they avoided looking at Saphiria.

“We must speak in private,” the Queen said. “Come.”

48. Once upon a time...

Two court sorceresses, one on each side of Dimitry, watched him with alert eyes from under yellow hoods as he trailed behind Saphiria and her mother. They passed through a long hallway on the castle’s third floor. Enchanted stones embedded in the walls, blue like lapis lazuli, emanated a faint light that illuminated every step forward.

Head held high, Queen Amelie Pesce strutted ahead. Not a single maid dared meet her gaze. Instead, they looked down at the glossy marble floor, muttering apologetic words as they fled her path. The queen didn’t acknowledge their presence. Her dignified march continued until she reached the door at the end of the hallway. She glanced at the court sorceresses. "No one gets near—be they an Ontarian Duke or otherwise."

Anelace opened the door and bowed. "As you command, Your Royal Majesty."

Saphiria walked in. The Queen followed, glancing back at Dimitry with an inconvenienced frown that seemed to lament having to accommodate an outsider. "You too."

Although her tone irked Dimitry, now was a bad time to show his displeasure. He joined the mother and daughter sitting around a circular table.

The door slammed shut.

“Now that no one’s pestering us, we may speak freely.” The Queen threw off her gold-embroidered mantle and hung it over the back of her chair. "Tea?"

Dimitry pulled back at the sight of a powerful woman instantly transforming into a hospitable host. Was her royal elegance and arrogance merely a performance to maintain appearances?

"Where is Father?" Saphiria asked.

"Did you forget your manners?" The queen poured crimson liquid into a decorated granite cup. "When your host offers accommodations, you graciously accept. Negotiations proceed smoother once common ground is established."

"I did not come home after all these years just for another lecture!"

The Queen glanced at Dimitry. "How about you? It’s cold now, but I promise the taste is divine.”

Although he had many questions, more than he could ask before tonight, rushing into a confrontation wasn't in his or Saphiria's best interest. "Sure."

"At least one of you speaks with grace."

Saphiria slammed her fist into the table. "That's enough! I'll go look for him myself!"

"Stay," the Queen said, "and I'll tell you everything you want to know. But first, how many are in your escort? What gifts shall I greet them with? Maybe a few passages from the gospel—"

"Escort?"

"After eight bygone years, you must be an archbishop by now. Esteemed clergy never travel alone."

"Mother," Saphiria said, her words carrying the low and murderous undertone Dimitry preferred never to hear from her again. "I do not know what demon has gotten into your head, but all I remember was being kidnapped in the night and awakening in The Holy Empire."

The Queen sipped tea from her cup. "As was part of the plan."

An urge to strangle Her Royal Majesty welled up within Dimitry. What kind of shitty parent would kidnap their daughter and give her away to a bunch of slavers? Now he understood why Saphiria never mentioned her mother.

"P-plan?"

"Early in the Gestalt Wars, I came to an agreement with the Church. You were to be educated in Olsten, and when you returned, you would bless these lands and bring back the Church's protection. Surely you know this much by now."

"You did this to me?" Giving her mother a glare that contained years of pent-up fury, Saphiria's voice cracked. "You fiend!"

"Me? A fiend?!" The Queen scowled. "I did what was best for you! I gave you the means to revitalize this kingdom, to save its people, to banish the corruption, and yet you bare your fangs at me?! Did your holy studies at the Grand Cathedral make you forget not only manners, but gratitude as well?”

“I never so much as saw the Grand Cathedral’s interior!”

“Speak without twisting your words, girl."

"The Church..."

Watching Saphiria relive her enslavement, how she murdered the innocent and trafficked corpses, pained Dimitry. The psychological trauma she suffered would have disabled most children for life.

“When I arrived in Purin Stronghold, they performed a Sinner’s ceremony.”

“They did what?”

"Perhaps this will help you understand." Saphiria glanced at Dimitry's bag.

He opened it.

She rummaged inside for the two halves of her collar and tossed them across the floor.

The steel shards scraped polished marble as they slid to the Queen's side. She glanced down. Her eyes shot open.

“They turned me into a servant!” Saphiria said.

“What?!” The Queen’s foot slammed into a table leg, silverware rattling and clinking with the impact. "Those fucking bastards! To my only daughter, they would, they would—" Her eyes burned with fury.

A long silence passed.

Dimitry said nothing. What could he say about an organization that tricked a mother into selling her child into slavery? The Queen sought to save the lives of her people, and the Church preyed on that weakness. Both parties involved were scum—one infinitely more despicable than the other.

Although her hasty breaths stabilized, the Queen continued to clench her jaw. "What happened next?"

Saphiria stared at her hands, which trembled around a cup. “The Church auctioned me to a man in Estoria who collected slaves. Although he abused the others, he was always kind to me.”

The Queen leaned forward.

“One night, I awoke to discover my friend Alice had left the room. I thought she went to the larder for a drink.” Saphiria took a deep breath. “Then I heard the master call for me. He said that he wanted me to demonstrate my magic, so he escorted me to his room. Alice was tied up on his bed. He grabbed my collar and smiled. I couldn’t run away.” Saphiria looked away. “I killed Alice.”

Dimitry pulled away his collar, which suddenly felt too tight around his throat. He watched Saphiria toss and turn every night. Now he thought he knew why. Poor girl.

“Continue.”

“My master said I was ‘suitable’. He taught me how to kill. Every night, I performed deeds that cannot be taken back.”

“What sort of deeds?”

“Assassination, mostly.”

“I see.” The Queen lifted her teacup with unsteady hands. The granite rattled against the saucer beneath.

“Four years later, on my sixteenth birthday, I was sold off to a woman who ran a brothel.”

“A brothel? You were forced to share a bed with men?!”

“N-no.”

The Queen heaved a relieved sigh and slumped back in her chair. “Zera preserve—No. Fuck Zera.”

“About a month ago, we were in the middle of a binding ceremony. A bishop was reenchanting my collar,” Saphiria said, glancing at Dimitry, “but he assaulted the Church, and we ran away together. Dimitry saved my life.”

The Queen said nothing. Eyes no longer privy to the ongoings of this world, she sipped tea.

“Let me in!” a woman yelled outside.

“Stand back," Anelace said. "Her Royal Majesty demands privacy.”

The Queen recovered from her thoughtful daze. “Let Klaire in.”

“Yes, Your Royal Majesty.”

A woman with disheveled blue hair burst into the room. She pressed a book to her chest. “Your Royal Majesty. I-I visited the merchant’s vessel, and there wasn't a single knight or priestess aboard, s-so I asked the captain, and he said—”

"I know. The Church didn't return. Take a seat, Klaire."

"B-but what should we do about the rumors spreading—"

"Take a seat.” The Queen poured a fresh cup. “Tea?”

Klaire slugged her beverage down, and the queen refilled it once more. “There’s no need for formalities in the planning room. Need I tell you that every time?”

“No, Your Royal Maje—”

The Queen sighed.

"My apologies."

Unlike Klaire, who guzzled her tea like a camel after crossing the Sahara, Saphiria didn’t touch hers. She stared into the milky red mixture instead. “Now, Mother. Answer my question: where is Father? I will meet him without delay.”

"Ah." Klaire's weary countenance became one of regret. She glanced away as if to dodge the conversation, but her gaze found only the two halves of a former slave's collar. Her mouth fell open.

"Before I tell you," the Queen spoke in a somber tone, "would you listen to a story? One about a foolish duchess and her brave husband?"

Saphiria jumped from her chair. "I'm tired of being told to wait!"

"Please."

As if that word shocked her into passivity, all tension left Saphiria's shoulders. She sat down. "Be swift."

“I expect everyone in this room to keep silent about the contents of this conversation. That includes you, surgeon. My daughter trusts you, and rightfully so. I wish to do the same.”

Dimitry nodded. Although the Queen mismanaged her familial affairs, she was hardly a person to upset.

The aging woman stood up and walked over to a window. Wrinkled hands crossed behind her back, her gaze fixed on something distant yet uncertain. Her tale began.

“There was once a duchy. Although the duchy wasn't the largest or the most powerful, it had what many other territories lacked: advanced craftsmanship, raw resources, and access to vital trade routes. Allying with them vastly increased the odds of victory in war. To be their enemy would prove detrimental.

“The neighboring territories allied with the duchy, uniting into a powerful empire. One that could stand alone against heathens and famine. Disease and civil unrest. With full stomachs and bright futures, what used to be a pious people grew less religious by the day. Morning masses had half as many participants. Fewer citizens volunteered to become Zera’s chosen, and fewer still bequeathed their toddlers to the Church. Zeran knights dwindled in number, their combined efforts inadequate to support sprawling monasteries. The Grand Cathedral sent foreign priestesses and bishops to attract new followers, yet they found no success.

“The Church lost its influence over that empire.”

Saphiria and Klaire listened to the Queen’s tale, unfazed.

The story must have been familiar to them, but Dimitry listened intently. Knowledge always paid dividends.

“Then, the Church cut off all support to the empire. They withdrew the knights, bishops, and priestesses that manned the heathen barriers. The united territories, however, did not falter. Their military might allowed them to overcome the beasts unaided. What was a plan to remind the empire and its people that the Church’s assistance was necessary, backfired. Religious institutions closed down. Their presence inside cities, towns, and even villages dwindled. Out of desperation, they concocted another plan—one that worked.

“The empire’s capital lay to the north. There lived the emperor, a man with as many victories as gray hairs in his beard. It was dawn when he and his men retreated from a heathen barrier following a night of repentance. To relay word of their success, he sent forth a messenger carrying orders to prepare a feast. Yet the meal went cold and uneaten. Neither the emperor nor his detachment returned.

“Witnesses, of which there were very few, claimed that a herd of skulking heathens attacked. However, there was no evidence of such a battle. All that remained were several dead crawling devils and over a thousand warrior’s corpses. Can anyone guess what really happened?”

Klaire cleared her throat. “It was the—”

“Not you, Klaire. You already know this story.”

“My apologies, Your Royal Majesty.”

“Was the emperor killed by the Church?” Saphiria asked. “A weary enemy makes for an easy target.” The confidence behind her words was like that of a seasoned assassin.

The Queen exhaled an amused ‘humph’. “Our thoughts exactly. Days later, the empress died of old age and a broken heart. She left behind a single child—a boy too young to grow a beard. Unable to act on his own, he relied on the late emperor’s advisers to rule in his stead. Some were members of the Church. Those that weren’t soon vanished.

“The young emperor took their advice to wage war against the other territories. After months of skirmishes, the prosperous empire was reduced to scattered kingdoms.

“Among them was the duchy. Its duke was a man wise beyond his years. Before anyone else, he realized everything was the doing of the Church. He told his foolish wife, the duchess, that the only way to restore order to the empire was to ally with rebels in the capital and oust the traitors."

"You speak of Father!" Saphiria said. "I recall overhearing your arguments while wandering the castle halls in those last few months."

"It seems we were not as stealthy as we thought."

Dimitry wondered if overhearing sovereign parents quarrel over politics was worse than the ‘arguments’ he often overheard in his parents’ home at night.

The queen continued. “The day the duke and his army would deploy north soon arrived. Before he left, holy emissaries from Olsten arrived in the duchy. They claimed that the growing strife resulted from unblessed land—a disease with a cure only the Church could provide. One they were willing to give for free. Their proposition was simple: bequeath onto them the heiress to the duchy. She would study to become an archbishop and, one day, return to bless the lands and save the people. The duke advised his wife to ignore them. With that warning, he, his army, and their four sons marched north to restore order to the empire.

“Her husband and sons gone, the duchess grew fearful and anxious. Every week the Church returned with the same offer. Remembering her husband’s advice, she ignored their honeyed words. Until one day she didn’t. The bereft and desperate duchess handed over her only daughter, hoping to see the duke once more.

“Eight years came and went,” the Queen said, her words filled with regret. “Although she lived as a slave, the duchess’s daughter eventually returned. Her husband and sons, however, never did.” She turned away from the window. “Do you understand, Saphiria?”

"My brothers...." Saphiria uttered. "And Father?"

The Queen didn't reply.

Saphiria jumped out of her chair. Her cup collapsed with the sudden movement, spilling milky tea across the table. “You’re lying.” She moped her moist, indigo eyes with the cuff of her azure dress. “Please, please tell me you’re lying!”

Klaire looked down at her book, which lay on the table.

Dimitry turned away, too. The sight of a girl who lost everything was too much to bear.

“I’m afraid it’s the truth. Not a day goes by that this foolish duchess doesn’t regret her decision.”

"I… I don’t believe you. I must check.” Saphiria pushed aside her chair and barged out of the room.

When Dimitry stood up to run after her, the Queen held out her arm. “Let the girl process her grief. I’ll rely on you to comfort her afterward. Although that should be my duty, I fear that she’ll despise me for the rest of my life and rightfully so.”

The disgraced mother sat down. “In any case, a reward is in order for returning my heiress.” She looked at Dimitry with tired eyes. “My hands are tied right now, so I can’t offer you too much, but surely there’s something that I can do for you.”

49. Feisty Girl

Leaned back against the inner walls of a marble bathtub, Dimitry stared vacantly at an opulent ceiling. Gold rectangular-shaped bands covered its surface. They arranged themselves into cascading patterns atop red-dyed stone, which, like the bath’s heated floor, served as a display of power and wealth to visiting guests.

Wealth that no longer existed.

His negotiations with the queen and Klaire unveiled the current state of the kingdom. Beggars in the streets were refugees that escaped the growing heathen threat to the north. With what little belongings they could carry, they marched through frigid forests for days on end only to starve in a foreign city. Many were injured, diseased or dying by the time they reached Malten. To be poor in this world was damnation.

Important immigrants, those wielding power and influence, lodged in the castle’s guest rooms or with other nobles living in the royal district. Although they weren’t beggars, life didn’t treat them well either. The dukes, duchesses, counts, and everyone else of import sat idle with the state of their territories uncertain. Their only hobby was to pester the queen to send scouts or an army north.

Trade shriveling, her majesty struggled to accommodate the poor and rich alike. Her kingdom’s fields were under constant raids by bandits and heathens. The southern territories sent aid in the form of wheat and dried meat to keep the refugees in Malten, but it wasn’t enough. Her hands were tied.

That was the queen’s rationale when she said that she could afford Dimitry only three humble concessions: a job as a barber-surgeon, fifty gold marks, and modest lodging in the castle. To give him peace of mind while he worked in a tumultuous city, she assigned him a private guard. And, as a bonus, she promised additional pay and advancement if he cured the plague.

Although her majesty claimed that the reward was to thank Dimitry for his virtuous deeds, the truth was obvious; she used him as an anchor to keep Saphiria tied to Malten. The princess was more likely to stay around if Dimitry, the only person she trusted, did.

Self-serving displays of kindness and gratitude weren’t impressive. Even if the queen took action intending to keep the kingdom together, anyone who sold off their daughter to the Church for empty promises couldn’t be trusted.

“Is it my turn yet?” A faerie’s voice leaked out from under a towel.

“No.” Dimitry took a deep breath. The fragrance of mixed berries and olive-scented soap rushed into his nose.

“Hurry up! I want to see if it’s actually enchanted!”

Dimitry moved towards the bathtub’s center and dunked his head underwater to cleanse the accumulated stench of brine and sweat lodged in his hair. Eyes held open despite discomfort, he saw a glowing red floor. He smirked. It was just as Saphiria said— the bath had an enchanted incendia base. Having enjoyed his fill of luxury, Dimitry wafted through pleasantly warm water that embraced his limbs as if begging him to stay, and stepped out into cold air.

“Can I go now?”

“Let me get dressed first.” Dimitry reached for a towel.

As long as Malten treated him and Saphiria well, he would stay. They had shelter and protection now. Amalthean guards and Church bootlickers hounded them no longer, and the Barber Surgeons Guild collapsed long ago, eliminating most of his competitors. Dimitry could demonstrate his skills at last.

Sure, there were problems: heathens assaulting the city, widespread civil unrest, food shortages, disease, potential aquatic demon attacks, and whatever else this shitty world held in store. Those, however, were issues for another time.

Dimitry’s most pressing concern was Saphiria. He wanted to know if she was all right. Learning that her father and siblings were dead for eight years couldn’t have been easy.

Dressed like an under-decorated colonial war veteran, Dimitry’s red and gold clothes squeezed his body as he walked down a corridor. Blocks of enchanted lapis lazuli embedded in the floor and walls illuminated his every step. It was the castle’s third floor—home to Malten’s royalty and their most faithful servants.

Excited whispers buzzed from every direction. They grew louder as Dimitry approached a room besieged by curious maids. Wearing white dresses, the women took turns pressing their ears to the door hoping to eavesdrop on the girl within.

“Has Zera finally blessed us?”

“She’s really back!”

“What is she like?”

“I saw her! She’s grown to be so beautiful. We need to get her out of those filthy clothes.”

A maid knocked. “Princess, would you grace us with the pleasure of cleaning your room and dress?”

There was no response.

Dimitry shook his head. How was Saphiria supposed to grieve when women pestered her like gossip-crazed paparazzi? Unfazed by their presence, he approached.

One by one, the maids turned to greet him with dirty stares and curious faces. However, with neither a complaint or grumble, they parted to make way.

All except for one.

A homely woman with wrinkles stacked on her forehead held her ground in front of the door. “Who are you, sir? The guest lodging isn’t here.”

“Is this Saphiria’s room? I wish to speak with her.”

Hands clasped to their mouths, the maids gasped. They murmured amongst themselves.

“What business do you have with the princess?” The hag’s tone was one of scorn. “She is tired and busy. Not something a loafer like you would understand.”

“So it is her room, then?” He pushed past the hag to knock on the door. “Saphiria, it’s Dimitry. May I come in, or do you need time?”

A muffled voice came from inside. “One moment.”

The hag watched Dimitry with wide-open eyes. Obviously, no one taught her it was rude to stare. Her gaze darted away at the sound of Saphiria’s footsteps.

The maids clustered to peek inside. When the door opened, their excited and curious faces turned to disappointment. The room was empty. Only a giant four-poster bed with red drapes and gilded edges among other similarly designed furniture lay in sight.

When Dimitry stepped inside, the door slammed shut behind him.

Stood nearby in an ocean-stained azure dress, Saphiria looked up at him with devastated eyes. Grief reddened the tip of her nose. Tears streaked down her briny cheeks.

Saphiria teetered closer and rested her face against Dimitry’s arm, moistening his red and gold sleeves.

He wrapped an arm around her slender shoulder, pulled her in, and slid his hand past glossy raven hair to support the back of her head. Scant at first, Saphiria’s gentle sobs stabbed his heart.

Dimitry yearned to be her rock. To remain silent. To stay composed like he did when delivering a bleak prognosis to a patient’s family. It was difficult.

“I’m so sorry.” She sniffled. “I b-brought you here—”

“No, no.” He hugged her tighter, rocking back and forth. “You did the best you could. I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me. Truly.”

Saphiria tried to speak, but gasps for air interrupted her words.

“Don’t talk if you can’t. It’s fine. Even if it’s all night, I’ll be here for as long as you need me to.”

Her face buried into his chest.

The sobs grew louder.

A silent night passed.

Dimitry woke up to the unfamiliar ceiling of a guest room on the castle’s second floor. His new home. The queen allowed him to live here as part of his reward for guiding Saphiria to Malten. Although the living quarters weren’t spacious or luxurious, they were a damn sight better than staying at an inn. Here, he wouldn’t have to skulk around to avoid discovery as a wanted fugitive.

However, like on Earth, lodging was never free; Dimitry worked for the crown. The queen ordered him to accomplish the impossible task of removing disease and plague from the entire kingdom. While her ambitions were respectable and just, without clean water, sterilized tools, or even ample food, her plans were nothing more than a foolhardy dream.

Someone experienced in politics and sociology should have known that. Her majesty probably did. Was her sole intention to appear benevolent to keep the people from rising against her?

Even if it was, like any person in good conscience, Dimitry aimed to meet her goal. The bonus she promised only sweetened the deal.

As expected of a person preparing for their first day at work, Dimitry dressed as well as he could. Professional attire was important for physicians; it made patients more likely to comply with treatment. Not that he thought apparel would be a big problem. His workplace was a hospital in a city overrun by refugees, immigrants, displaced farmers, and anyone else unfortunate enough to have their life ruined by heathens. He could wear pajamas complete with bunny slippers and still look impressive to the destitute.

Dimitry threw a fur-trimmed cloak over his red and gold uniform.

Precious’s head popped out of a cabinet drawer lined with towels. Her golden ponytail swung back and forth as she scanned the room with equally golden irises. They locked onto Dimitry. “Food?”

“Not right now.” Dimitry straightened his cuffs. His priority was to scout out the hospital for traps. Although he didn’t think the queen would try to kill him, it paid to be vigilant in this world. “Maybe when we get back.”

“How about some royal treats? The fruit served in a castle has got to be good.”

“We’ll get some later. Hop in.”

Precious drifted out of the cabinet and into his hood. “It’s so warm.”

“Glad you like it.” Dimitry grabbed his leather bag and walked out into a frigid corridor. Enchanted stones illuminated his steps across a marble floor.

“Hey you,” a rash female voice said.

Dimitry didn’t look back. Why would anyone want to talk to him this early in the morning?

“Surgeon!”

Maybe someone did want to talk to him this early in the morning. Dimitry turned around to see a girl, perhaps slightly older than a high school senior, leaned against the wall with her arms crossed over her chest. Long and curly red-brown hair drooped out of her crimson robe’s hood.

Precious tugged on Dimitry’s collar. “She’s been waiting outside for the longest time. I didn’t mention her since she wasn’t plotting anything sinister, but watching her impatience bubble up was entertaining.”

“You are the surgeon, right?” the girl asked.

Dimitry stroked his freshly shaven chin. “I might be. Why do you ask?”

“I’m…” She exhaled deeply. “I’m your guard.” Her tone was one of reluctance.

“In that case, you’ve found the right person.” Dimitry examined the girl. She must have been the protection that the queen promised. However, her height couldn’t have been much over five feet. How was she supposed to defend him? Was it with that pipe strapped to her back?

“What are you looking at? Am I not good enough for you?”

“What’s that thing you’re carrying around?”

“This?” She reached for the metal tube. “The voltech rifle?” The girl shot him a sidelong glance. “I’m guessing a refugee like you never saw one before, huh?” She smirked. “Want to see how it works?”

Although the obscure weapon intrigued Dimitry, he didn’t have time to mess around. The best course of action was to hurry past introductions so he could leave the castle. “Not right now. Do you have a name?”

“It’s Angelika.”

The name sounded familiar. “Angelika?”

“Yes?”

“It’s good to meet you.” Dimitry turned away from her. “Come on, let’s go.” He took long strides until he reached a stairwell that led down a tower.

“Wait!” Angelika scampered after him. “Where are we going?”

“Hospital.”

“Hospital?”

Dimitry’s boots thumped down polished granite stairs. “Where else did you expect a surgeon to go?”

“Whatever.” She took a deep breath. “Anything is better than this shitty castle; nothing ever happens here.”

“I disagree,” Precious whispered. “Let’s get something to eat. Think the kitchen is open in the morning?”

Ignoring the faerie, Dimitry glanced back at the girl following him—the one who claimed to be his guard despite being one and a half heads shorter than him. “If someone attacked me, would you be able to deal with them?”

“Deal with them?” Angelika grinned maliciously. “I’ll stomp their fucking brains out.”

A month ago, her words would have troubled Dimitry. However, after every desperate struggle he’s been through, every near-death situation, they reassured him. “Good enough. Just try to keep them alive if possible.”

“No promises, surgeon.”

“You can call me Dimitry.”

“What kind of name is that?”

“My name.”

“Sounds like some weird refugee name.” Angelika’s boots tapped against the floor as she ran to catch up. “Which hospital are we going to?”

Dimitry glanced down at the girl’s crimson hood. “Why does it matter?”

She looked up, her orange eyes oozing with excitement. “If it’s the one on west main street, I could shoot heathens from the city walls while you’re doing surgeon things.”

“You don’t sound like a very reliable guard.” Dimitry pulled a strip of parchment he received from Klaire out from his pocket. “It reads ‘Market Square Hospital’.”

“The church?” Angelika clicked her teeth. “I won’t be able to hit anything from there.”

Dimitry walked through the castle gates. “Church? It says hospital here.”

“They’re the same thing. When those Zeran ass—” She glanced at the surrounding nobles and rich folk before lowering her voice to a whisper. “When those Zeran assholes left, we had all these empty buildings. Recently, sick people and refugees started to stay in them. One of them was an abandoned church which her majesty turned into a hospital.”

“Is that so?” Although the queen was dubious, Dimitry applauded her efforts to keep people housed and alive in a time of strife. Maybe she wasn’t too bad.

They passed through the castle district and into Malten’s crowded streets. After a depressing stroll through hordes of beggars, they arrived at a tall, gray building. A statue depicting a woman holding a cane to the sky stood above the entrance—typical Church paraphernalia.

Screams, cries, and pleas for death leaked from the church-turned-hospital’s open stone doors.

At long last, it was time to get to work.

50. Renovations

Dimitry thought he was ready to work. He thought a job at a hospital would be a welcome relief, that it would be an adequate atonement for his murderous streak.

But what the hell was he supposed to do about this?

Rags soaked in pus, blood, and urine shared the church’s floor with bedpans full of vomit and liquefied feces. Their aerosolized components melded into a gag-inducing stench that filled the entire room. And somehow, that wasn’t the worst part.

Twin size beds supported at least three patients each. Rolling around and moaning in pain, the people laying on them wore clothes caked in regurgitated food and other bodily fluids. Black blisters dotted their purple skin. The epidermis of some patients peeled off, revealing charcoal-colored necrotic flesh underneath.

This wasn’t a hospital.

It was a morgue.

Precious fell into a fit of barely suppressed laughter. “I can’t… control it.”

Angelika trailed behind Dimitry with a hand pressed to her mouth and fingers squeezing her nose shut. The girl’s head twitched forward as if attempting to hold in breakfast.

Dimitry didn’t want her here. The girl was too young to contract a lethal disease that he couldn’t treat. “Angelika, instead of suffocating yourself, go back to the castle and tell anyone with authority that Dimitry asked for two maids to wash bedclothes and towels. When you come back with their answer, don’t enter the hospital. Wait for me outside and stay away from anyone with black blisters and purple skin. Understand?”

The girl nodded and dashed out of the hospital.

With one problem taken care of, Dimitry turned his attention back to the church’s abhorrent conditions and emulated composure. The best physicians always appeared in control. He squeezed between two tightly packed beds and leaned in to examine a nearby male patient.

The man didn’t fare well. A great deal of skin went missing from his leg, leaving behind streaks of necrotic tissue that consumed his feet and reached up to his knee. The sleeping patient took shallow, rapid breaths—he wasn’t dead yet.

Typically, Dimitry would remove petrified flesh with debridement, but there were multiple problems: he lacked tools and supplies, there was too much necrotic tissue to deal with by hand, and even if Dimitry removed it surgically, the underlying plague would create more. He could hack away at patients’ bodies all day and get nothing done.

Surgery wasn’t the solution; curing the disease was.

The first step was to identify the root cause, but even that would prove difficult. A world where people expressed unique phenotypes indicated that life evolved differently than it did on Earth. New biological additions like circuits foreshadowed the existence of novel microorganisms that preyed on them.

Dimitry reached to rub his eyelids but stopped halfway. Who knew what germs covered his hands? If this world was anything like Earth, he had to be wary of bacterial, viral, fungal, algal, parasitic, and prionic contagions.

But what if it wasn’t like Earth?

There could be classes of microbes Dimitry had never encountered before—ones that would be impossible to treat without in-depth knowledge. He shook his head. Before postulating the existence of something novel, he should work with what he knew.

Dimitry glanced at the dying man beside him.

Judging by the black blisters on his purple skin, whatever infected him presented with systemic symptoms. That eliminated prion diseases, which typically manifested as neurodegenerative illnesses. Pathogenic algae affecting skin were rare and therefore an unlikely culprit. Fungi usually caused mild rashes—not darkened blisters the size of grapes.

Viruses, bacteria, and parasites were the most likely culprits. Although the first two would be difficult to differentiate, Dimitry could rule out macroscopic parasites with a series of autopsies. And for that, he needed corpses.

He looked around.

Women patrolled the hospital, tending to groaning patients. They spoke comforting words while mopping up everything from blood to bile. Little did they know, the sullied towels and contaminated water they used for wound care only spread the infection further.

Dimitry turned away from the horrifying sight only to encounter another.

In the corner of the church, a lanky man sawed an unsuspecting victim. He would occasionally reference scattered papers and talk to the woman beside him. She studied his movements with utmost care.

A barber-surgeon and his assistant.

If anyone knew where to find corpses, it was him.

Careful to avoid disturbing sleeping (or dying) patients, Dimitry walked sideways to fit through the narrow paths between beds. He approached the barber in the friendliest manner he could muster. “Excuse me. I’m looking for—”

The barber shoved two fingers into one of many pouches strapped to his waist to retrieve something. A pinch of assorted spices. Then, tugging on the loose skin of a patient’s collapsed blister, he stuffed the colorful mixture into a pocket of exposed flesh. He finished the grotesque procedure by wrapping the wound in bloodied bandages.

The woman beside him looked on with worried eyes. “Will he be okay now?”

“Lili, work as a barber as long as I have, and you learn one important fact: only the celestial bodies decide who lives or dies.” He shook his head. “Not us.”

“It’s—” The patient rolled over, his hands trembling. “It’s burning.” The words dribbled out through clenched teeth.

“Endure the pain and try to rest.” The barber wiped his hands with a pink-blotted washcloth. “Pray to Zera if you must.”

Wearing a dumbfounded expression, Dimitry stood still, processing the shock of seeing someone season a patient like a steak. The horror went beyond excessive leeches or anything else he saw in Ravenfall.

Lili turned around. The pink ribbon of her orange ponytail drooped over her shoulder, half of it disappearing into the collar of her brown gown. She jumped at the sight of Dimitry. “Josef, I think another patient needs your help!”

The barber glanced away from a stack of astrology charts. “No, my dear. His skin is pale, you see?”

“I understand now!”

Dimitry didn’t verbalize his shock. If his interactions with the barber in Ravenfall were anything to go by, trying to change the practices here would earn him scorn. Only once Dimitry proved the efficacy of his methods could he convince his coworkers. For now, making a good impression and keeping the peace was best.

“Hello, I’m Dimitry. It’s a pleasure—”

“If you’re looking to get a haircut or a tooth pulled, find someone else.” Josef buried his face in astronomy charts. “I’ve got my hands full.”

Although Dimitry understood the barber was likely doing his best, rushing to save lives, he wasn’t a fan of the callous tone. “No, that’s not it. I’m here to ask about where you kept deceased patients.”

“Ah, you’re the new body collector. Look around. The ones marked with red X’s died earlier this morning. Get rid of them.”

“Thanks,” Dimitry said, suppressing the urge to correct the ass-backward procedures. He turned his attention to a nearby bed.

Two patients with giant red crosses on their foreheads flanked a third, who struggled to sleep between them. Spices filled both of the dead women’s cut-open blisters.

Dimitry winced. Why would anyone leave deceased patients in the same bed as survivors? Who in their right mind shoved ground herbs and salt into an open wound? This hospital made the barbershop in Ravenfall seem like a presidential hospital suite.

This shithole desperately needed to change.

While exploring the church, Dimitry wandered up a set of spiral stairs. They led to a hatch separating the bed-riddled bottom floor of the hospital from a smaller platform housing a giant, brass-colored bell. There were no windows. Frigid air blew in through a stone arc, chilling him as it brushed by his cheeks.

It was perfect.

Before getting to work, Dimitry aimed to prepare several things: water, tools, and a source of sterilization. Any attempt to stem the flow of disease without them would be moot.

Although purifying water wasn’t possible, boiling it was. Dimitry assumed that the microorganisms in this world were as vulnerable to heat as they were on Earth. With that hope, he ventured to start his own operation inside this very hospital. An open-air space like this one made it easy. And, more importantly, it was desolate. No one would bother him.

Dimitry rummaged through scattered crates. He dug through jugs, bowls, and buckets, but found nothing helpful. Surgical tools would be hard to get. Scalpels, clamps, clippers, retractors, forceps, scissors, needles, and more. Multiple variations of each—in terms of size, shape, and function, were necessary. For now, Dimitry would invest in the essential ones.

However, the biggest problem to tackle was sterilization. This world had neither latex gloves nor anti-bacterial soap.

But it did have alcohol and magic.

Ale, the preferred drink of almost everyone, was abundant. Although it was typically mild, some variants coaxed fire from Dimitry’s nose as it burned down his esophagus—a sign of high alcohol content. Finding a grocer in Malten selling such a product was a priority.

Dimitry leaned against a stone arch and watched a crowded cityscape slightly smaller than Ravenfall’s. There had to be an ale supplier somewhere down there. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be too expensive during a famine, because he would need his fifty gold marks for other things as well. For example, a distillation apparatus to purify ethanol.

The existence of aqua vitae showed that the people of this world knew about distillation and had the technology to carry it out. Malten, a city of artisans, was his best bet for finding such a device. There had to be someone who could help.

A distant man’s uproar echoed from between metal-framed buildings, its rage contrasting the gentle breathing of the faerie snoozing within Dimitry’s hood. He turned away from the view to sit on a crate.

Although ethanol sterilized tools, it couldn’t do much more than disinfect people’s skin. To deal with infections, his best chance lay with preservia. Anything that kept food and body parts fresh had to stifle microorganism growth. If Dimitry modified the spell using his knowledge of science, could he target the plague with it?

He took a deep breath of cold air, then headed for the hatch leading downstairs.

There was much work to do.

Two children played in the middle of Malten’s rowdy streets. A girl with a dirt-smeared face hurled knucklebones across the floor and counted her fingers. She grinned at the boy accompanying her, who slapped his hips in defeat.

“Excuse me.” Dimitry stepped past them to reach a shop. A board depicting a glass bauble stood under the store’s outward-facing countertop.

“Sorry, mister,” the boy said. His thin bones protruded past faintly purple skin—a symptom visible throughout the city. One that indicated early onset plague.

Dimitry pitied the child who contracted a lethal disease before they could reach adulthood. He forced a smile. “It’s my fault for getting in the way.”

A buck-toothed man waved them away from behind the shop’s counter. “Move, kids. You’re stiflin’ business.”

“Sorry, mister.”

“It’s not their fault,” Dimitry said. “There’s nowhere else to go.”

“Yeah, times are tough for erryone.” The man shrugged. “Anyway, you here to preach, or is there something I can do you for?”

Although it was cold, Dimitry wiped sweat from his forehead. He spent most of the morning running through city streets, sampling ale for alcohol content while searching for anyone selling distillation apparatuses. “I’m looking to buy some glassware.”

The buck-toothed man smiled as if out of relief. “You’ve come to the right place, then. Anythin’ specific?”

“Do you know what distillation is?”

“Wha?”

Dimitry frowned. It was the answer he expected, but not the one he wanted. “Do you know how aqua vitae is made?”

“You mean the medicine?”

“That’s right.” Dimitry recalled the taste—it was like that of brandy and wine. “I need the tool that boils wine into aqua vitae.”

“Them rounded glass bottles with long and slender downward tubes?” The man pressed his elbow onto the counter to support his head as he leaned forward. “Yeah, I made those before.”

The last time Dimitry distilled anything was during his undergraduate chemistry classes over a decade ago. His memories from those days were fuzzy; he didn’t remember what modern distillation columns looked like precisely, but the principles behind them were simple enough. The ‘glass bottle’ the merchant described could pass for a primitive version of such a device. “How much?”

“Two gold marks each.”

Dimitry’s eyebrows shot up. It was an amount that could buy at least five casks filled with ale during a famine. “That much?”

“Yep. Specialist tools are expensive, and the tube is narrow and hard to shape.”

“Can you go any lower?”

“No can do. Firin’ up the furnace for a single job ain’t cheap.”

“How about this?” Dimitry slid three gold coins across the counter. “You make me two of those ‘glass bottles’, and I’ll pay you one and a half golds each. I could use a spare and you can fill two orders at once.”

“Sounds good to me.” The buck-toothed man grinned, slipping the clinking coins into his palm. “If you want, you can wait inside while I light the charcoals. It’ll be warm in here. You like tea?”

“Sure do.”

After handing Dimitry a porcelain cup filled with clear teal liquid, the glassblower sat in front of a small brick oven to fiddle with ash and sand. What he molded would be a big step towards stable alcohol production, but not the last.

Dimitry had additional plans—ones that involved magic. As he sat there, sipping bitter tea and planning a visit to Vogel’s Enchantments, a sharp glare caught his eye.

A man with a filthy goatee peeked out from behind the iron supports of a stone building. He stared, and after flashing a vicious scowl, vanished down the street.

51. Family of Sorcerers

The light of a sun falling into its tilted axis struggled to warm Dimitry’s face as he hustled through Malten’s impoverished streets with two green-glassed distillation devices nestled in his arms. What were once beautiful roads now housed refugees and the watchmen yelling to keep them from rioting.

Everyone sought to survive a rapidly chilling winter, including the man that scowled at Dimitry near the glassblower’s shop. He attributed their anger to desperation. Which starvation victim wouldn’t get furious after seeing gold coins get tossed around for seemingly useless trinkets?

Eager to avoid getting mobbed by the poor, who watched him with hungry eyes, Dimitry’s pace hastened.

Just ahead, a girl whose curly red-brown hair fell from the hood of her crimson robe leaned beside the hospital entrance. She held a small wooden tub topped with towels. “Look who’s finally back. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting?”

“Judging by your tone,” Dimitry said, “quite a while. Did you stay away from people with purple skin like I asked?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Angelika nudged her chin toward the two glass devices balanced in Dimitry’s hands. “What’re those?”

“Distillation apparatuses. Curious?”

“Not really.” She lowered the tub she held to the floor. It emitted a wooden thud when Angelika tapped it with her boot.

“What’s that?” Dimitry asked.

“A sign that you’re not very popular around the castle.”

“What do you mean?”

“I couldn’t get what you asked for no matter who I spoke to.” Angelika shrugged. “When I said ‘Dimitry the surgeon needed maids’, I got this collection of trash from Klaire.” She reached into the tub to pick up a black soap ingot that smelled like rotting animal fat.

Dimitry frowned. Were the people in the castle so busy that they couldn’t spare any manpower at all, or was his reputation that poor? Probably a combination of the two. As a stranger, Dimitry never expected to get much assistance, but did the queen expect him to cure the plague armed with this? “It’s not what I hoped for, but it’ll have to do. Come on, let’s haul it upstairs.”

“Upstairs? Like to the roof?” Angelika raised an eyebrow. “Why not just use the cellar?”

“There’s a cellar?”

“Of course, a refugee like you wouldn’t know that.” She stepped into a cramped alleyway beside the church and beckoned him forward.

Although Angelika’s words weren’t polite, they weren’t wrong either. Dimitry was a refugee. The only reason he didn’t lay freezing and destitute on the streets was because of his connections with Saphiria.

“This way.” The girl jumped over a mound of insect-covered bones. “Watch your step; there are usually loads of rats here.” When she reached the end of the alleyway, she tugged on the handle of a hatch embedded in a stone floor. It didn’t budge. However, being as stubborn as they came, Angelika didn’t give up. “This fucking—” Her face red, she pulled harder. “Won’t… open!”

Sensing the girl’s frustration, Precious snickered.

Pity flooded Dimitry as he watched her engage in a battle of wills with a locked door. “Maybe brute force isn’t the solution. Perhaps keys are?”

Angelika wiped her against her crimson robe. “And where would we find those?”

Dimitry pointed at the church’s stone walls. “Think the surgeon has them?”

“Wait. I thought you were the surgeon.”

“There’s two: me and a guy named Josef. Heard of him?”

Angelika’s curly hair bounced side to side as she shook her head. “Probably just another refugee.”

Dimitry placed the two distillation apparatuses on the floor and stepped out of the dark alleyway. “Keep an eye on the goods. I’ll go talk to him.”

After passing through the hospital’s domed entrance, Dimitry approached a bald and lanky man who operated on a nearby patient. “Josef, I have a question.”

His face soured upon seeing Dimitry. “Looks like the body collector finally decided to show up. It’s been all morning, and you still haven’t moved any of these corpses. I can’t do your job, too.”

Apparently, killing patients by gorging their raw wounds with spices was a job that required concentration. “That’s because I’m not the body collector. I’m a surgeon hired by the queen to cure the plague.”

“A youngster like you? A surgeon? And you will cure the plague?” Glancing up and down Dimitry, Josef chuckled. “Too bad you don’t have any tools.” The bald man slapped his palm on a stack of papers, causing the saws and knives resting beside them to jump. “Keep your hands off my patients. There’s a lot I have to teach you before you go digging in.”

Dimitry suppressed the urge to ram his knee into the man’s gut. “Maybe later. For now, I need the—”

“I remember when I was a kid like you. Didn’t know the difference between black bile, blue bile, or yellow bile. With my tutelage, you won’t have to be the same.”

“The keys to the cellar; do you have them or not?”

“What do you need the cellar for? All the patients are right here.”

“I need a place to store equipment.”

“Your equipment?” Josef turned away. “Don’t have ‘em.”

“The guy’s lying,” Precious whispered. “He sees you as a threat.”

It seemed greedy and self-obssessed surgeons, desperately holding onto status, existed in every world.

“I was informed that you had the keys.” Dimitry held out his hand. “Waste any more of my time, and I’ll report you to the queen.”

Josef frowned and stomped to the corner of the room to dig through a pile of his belongings. “If you’re not going to help, you could lock yourself in the cellar for all I care.” Josef threw a key across the room, which bounced off of a patient’s stomach and clanged onto the floor. “Take them and get out of my sight.”

Dimitry had many unpleasant words he wished to shout at the prick but shared none of them. Angering a coworker more than necessary was unwise—especially in a hospital. How would the nurses and patients feel to see their superiors bicker?

“Thanks.” Dimitry left the hospital and reconvened with Angelika, who waited for him beside two green-glassed apparatuses.

She pushed off of the wall. “You know, if someone talked to me that way, I would have crushed their head.”

“Good thing I’m not you.” Dimitry placed the keys in her hand. “I don’t want to get locked up for attacking that moron.”

“You’d be doing everyone a favor.” Angelika walked ahead of him. “That guy was an asshole to you even though you were trying to be polite.”

“Unfortunately, the world doesn’t work that way.” Dimitry curled his arms around each of the distillation devices, careful not to crush the fragile glass. He followed her to the cellar. “What if a watchman walked in while you were stomping his brains out?”

“I’d clobber the watchman after the surgeon.”

“Strange to see a girl like you try to sound threatening.”

“Sound threatening?” Angelika looked back, a scowl on her face. “You only say that because you’ve never seen me murder a crawling devil.” She turned away to unlock the cellar and pulled open the oak hatch, revealing a set of stairs. “After you, Mr. Surgeon.”

The echoes of footsteps tapping against stone accompanied Dimitry as he descended a narrow and darkening stairway. The smell of iron grew stronger with every stride.

Scant light leaking from the surface illuminated dust and the ominous features of the room. A fireplace with a big mouth built into the wall had a stone chute protruding upwards from its base. An alarmed squeak rang as something dashed across the floor. Holy statuettes, chains, and rusted iron cuffs covered in droplets of blood lay strewn across the floor, giving the cellar the appearance of a long-abandoned torture chamber.

So this was a church cellar. After seeing the cathedral dungeon in Coldust, its appearance didn’t surprise Dimitry.

“Smells terrible.” Angelika trailed behind him. “Wasn’t like this when I was a kid.”

“Leave the soap against the wall.”

Angelika kicked away iron chains and dropped the tub full of hygienic paraphernalia where they used to lay. “If I’m your guard, why do I find myself carrying stuff all day?”

“Because you’re good at it.” Dimitry handed her a distillation device.

“Whatever.”

“Don’t shake it.” Dimitry reached for a towel laying on top of the tub Klaire provided. “If it shatters, I’ll be down two gold marks.”

“Not my money. Why should I care?”

“Break it and find out. There are so many errands I could ask you to do for me to make up for it.”

Angelika clicked her teeth. “What the hell is it for, anyway?”

“I’ll be using it to distill alcohol from ale.”

“What’s that? Like a potion or something?”

Dimitry furrowed his brow. While the idea of potions gave him pause, if magic existed in this world, why wouldn’t they? “No, nothing like that. Alcohol is different. It’s a powerful disinfecting agent good for sterilizing tools and—”

“Never mind I asked.” Angelika’s gaze drifted from the glass device in her hand to the towel Dimitry held. “Will you use that for disinfectioning too?”

“This is for a related project I had in mind. You’ll see when we arrive at Vogel’s Enchantments.”

Her eyes shot open, revealing orange irises. “Wait! Can’t I just wait for you here?”

With Angelika’s reluctant assistance, Dimitry found the place he was looking for: Vogel’s Enchantments. Compared to the other structures in Malten’s castle district, the shop was narrow and stood only two stories tall. Aside from a glass window on the second floor, its sole luxury, the building gave an impression too homely to be a store.

Angelika cradled a distillation apparatus the size of a basketball in her arms. “I know you need my help carrying these things, but why do we have to go here of all places? We could’ve just gone to the Sorceresses Guild.”

“A friend recommended it to me,” Dimitry said. “I thought you were tough. Surely you can handle whatever horrors await inside.”

She leaned against the store’s cobblestone wall. “Can’t I just wait out here?”

“Why don’t you want to go in?”

“Please. I’ll hand you the distillator when you need it.”

“Sweetie, is that you?” a voice called from inside the shop.

Angelika clicked her teeth. She gave Dimitry an inconvenienced glare and passed through the store’s entrance with slumped shoulders. “Hi, mom.”

Mom? Ignacius mentioned that his family ran Vogel’s Enchantments. Was he related to Angelika? Thinking back, the old man mentioned a similar name once or twice.

Dimitry followed the red-robed girl to a sales floor smaller than a fast-food restroom. Shelves upholding canisters and other magical devices lined the stone walls, tapering an already clustered room further. The claustrophobic space led to a counter behind which two women stood.

“Angelika, are you here to visit?” a bubbly, round-faced woman asked. The life-weathered look in her eye gave her the impression of someone in their thirties despite a delighted smile and smooth skin. Skin a faint shade of purple. “Aren’t you supposed to be working in the castle?”

The girl beside the woman, perhaps slightly older than Angelika, brushed her wavy scarlet hair back to reveal the pointed chin of a beautiful face. “Slacking off, or are you here to borrow more of my clothes just to never return them?”

“Shut up, Leona.” Angelika lowered the distillation apparatus onto the counter.

Leona slowly rotated the object made of green glass, examining it from every side. “What’s this?”

Angelika pointed back at Dimitry with her thumb. “Ask the guy behind—” Her words cut short when she leaped to grab the older woman’s purple hand. “Mom, your skin.” Her head shot up. “When did this happen?”

“It’s nothing, sweetheart.” Still smiling, her mother turned her gaze to Dimitry. “Who’s your friend?”

“Dimitry!” Angelika glanced back. Terror filled the girl’s eyes. “You’re a surgeon, right? You can help my mom? Right?”

He wanted to say ‘yes’ to comfort her. No one deserved to see a parent snatched away from them at such a young age by the plague. Unfortunately, all he could do was shake his head. “Not yet, but I’m working on it.”

Leona’s orange eyes remained steady. “Can you calm down a bit? Panicking won’t help.”

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” the mother said. “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your relationship with my daughter?”

“My name is Dimitry.” He nodded in greeting. “I am a surgeon working for Her Royal Majesty to find a cure for the plague. Angelika was assigned to be my guard. She has been a great help to me so far, and I will rely on her continued help in the future.”

“I’m glad to hear it!” The woman displayed a radiant smile that held a hint of pride. “My name is Raina, and this is my eldest daughter Leona. I hope we can be of assistance, too.”

The scarlet-haired girl beside her performed a deep bow. “If Angelika offended you in any way, please accept my apologies. Although my sister’s mouth is rotten, she’s an excellent combat sorceress.”

“Now do you know why I didn’t want to come here?”

Dimitry smiled at a blushing Angelika as he walked forward. “If it’s not too much of a bother, I have a towel here that needs to be enchanted with preservia.” He laid the cloth over the counter, then used his newly vacated hand to point at the tube-like condenser portion of the distillation apparatus he held clutched in his other arm. “And I need to enchant these with something that keeps them cold.”

“You handle the preservia, sweetie.”

Leona laid the towel out on the table, then her confident, orange eyes met Dimitry’s gaze. “How strong would you like the enchantment to be?”

That was new. When Dimitry bought a dispelia enchantment in Ravenfall, the rotund man never offered him the option. “What’s the difference?”

“The effects last longer, are stronger, and reach further. It’s also more expensive.”

Although the queen’s reward was fifty gold marks, a small fortune, Dimitry decided to save as much money as he could. “Just make it normal.”

“As you wish.” Leona gathered a pile of vol pellets before hovering her arm over the towel. A scroll suspended with a gold chain hung from her wrist. “Preservia.” She began to cover the cloth in a vibrant, pink glow.

Raina reached to take the second distillation device from Dimitry. Deep scars, perhaps a remnant from past overload, lay buried in her left hand’s palm. “And for both of these… things, only the long slender bits should be infused with freezia, correct?”

Was freezia the cold equivalent of incendia? “If it would cool the device, then yes. Do I have the option of strength on it as well?”

The mother beamed him a bubbly smile. “You do!”

Dimitry stroked his chin, recalling the chemistry experiments from over a decade ago. He used room temperature tap water to cool condensing columns back then. Was that to prevent heated glass from cracking? If so, the freezia enchantment shouldn’t be too powerful. “Make them weak.”

“Righto. It’ll be just a few moments.”

Angelika leaned over the counter to put the back of her hand against her mother’s forehead. “Mom. You forgot to ask him to pay.”

The woman’s face shot up, revealing wide-open orange eyes. “Ah! That should be…” The tip of her finger traveled between vol pellets, perhaps counting how many Leona used and the ones she prepared to consume herself. “Seven golds and three silvers.”

“Isn’t that a bit expensive?” Dimitry reached into his fur-trimmed cloak for a leather pouch.

“It’s not our fault,” Angelika said. “The queen increased vol prices. Apparently, she’s trading away what little the forges produce these days to buy food from Ontaria and Feyt to keep refugees like that deadbeat alive. Is he even home?”

Not intending to get involved in their personal affairs, Dimitry placed ten gold marks onto the counter. “Get me as much mixed vol as the change could buy, please.”

Finished with her enchanting task, Leona slid the coins into her hand. “I heard he went to poke around dead heathens. Old habits die hard, it seems.” She began to stack crude and pure vol pellets.

Raina sighed. “Stop it, both of you. It’s rude to talk about your grandfather like that. Especially in front of customers.”

Dimitry furrowed his brow. Were they talking about Ignacius?

“He’s not my grandfather anymore,” Angelika said, her voice grim. “He abandoned us to be the Church’s lapdog, and now he comes home as if nothing happened? I hope a crawler stabs him in the ass.”

Leona’s hand covered her mouth to hide a giggle.

“Look.” Raina shot a stern but non-threatening glance at both of her daughters. “Ignacius’ wife is an important woman in the Church, so he had many difficult decisions to make. In the end, he realized he was wrong and came back to us. Isn’t that all that matters?”

Both girls shared a glance. “No,” they said in unison.

52. Ratcatchers

A waning full moon hung in the blackened sky over Malten, its light overpowering a road full of streetlights that desperately held onto the remnants of their fading enchanted glows. Painted dark green, refugees slept in alleyways and against building walls to stay warm on a frigid evening. They shivered under blankets, torn dresses, and beside small bonfires.

One man, whose lips bore the ravines of dehydration, ogled the glass contraptions in Angelika and Dimitry’s hands.

The distillation apparatuses.

Their downward pipe-like tubes that would function as condensing columns glowed a chilling blue: the color of freezia. Although the enchantment wasn’t ice-cold, it remained cool despite prolonged handling. The ideal temperature for purifying ethanol from ale. With the spell’s power, Dimitry could simplify and hasten alcohol production to revolutionize medicine in this world.

That was if the plague didn’t kill everyone first.

The red-robed girl walking alongside Dimitry remained silent, her gaze fixed on the green-glassed contraption she cradled in her hands. Angelika looked up with orange eyes that no longer held a competitive glare. “Are you sure this’ll help my mom?” Her quiet voice struggled to sound out amongst the collective whispers of nearby refugees.

Dimitry forced a smile—the kind he would display to a family member of a patient with a terminal prognosis. A steady supply of ethanol would do little to cure the plague; its purpose was to prevent spreading it through contaminated tools. To deal with the disease, he had more promising plans.

“See this?” He lifted a small pouch filled with mixed vol pellets. “If everything goes according to plan, your mom will be fine.”

“Vol?” She turned away to look forward. “Please, I’m not in the mood for jokes.”

“I’m not joking. It’s difficult to explain what I have in mind, but if it works, it won’t cure just your mom but this entire city.”

“Really?”

“Really. Do your best to guard me, and I vow to do my best as a surgeon.”

An indecisiveness clouded Angelika’s eyes as if choosing between hope and despair. She tugged on Dimitry’s cloak and smirked. “Although I am supposed to be your guard, I’ll run any errands you want. Just say the word.”

With the girl in a better mood, now was the perfect opportunity to bring up a question that festered within Dimitry. “There’s something I wanted to ask you.”

“What is it?”

“Is Ignacius really your grandfather?”

Caught unaware, Angelika hesitated before she spoke. “Y-yeah, but if he dies from the plague, I don’t care. A turncoat asshole like him doesn’t deserve to live.”

Her jagged words cut more than Dimitry expected. “So, it’s true that he worked for the Church?”

“Worked for them?” Her footsteps grew heavy. “That bastard and his wife ditched us for them eight years ago, leaving me, my mom, and my sisters to fend for ourselves while dad was dying in a goddamn war. Seriously, fuck that guy.”

That explained why the bishop in Coldust called Ignacius a deserter. “Sorry if I riled you up. The conversation you had with your family back at the store left me curious.”

“It’s fine.” Angelika exhaled a deep breath. “We’re the ones who started blabbering in front of you. Do you know him or something?”

“We just shared a boat, is all.”

After passing the nostalgic sight of three homeless men holding their palms to a fire, they walked into the alleyway beside the hospital that led to the cellar. Dimitry’s intention was to store the distillation apparatuses to keep them safe overnight; it was too late to put them to use.

However, something pitiful stood in the way.

A man, no older than twenty, dug a hole as if attempting to tunnel under the former church’s walls. When a squeak echoed across the narrow alleyway, his hands clawed with additional vigor. Sat behind him with a face pressed into her hands was a woman.

The moon’s light revealed the pair’s darkening complexions. Were they more of the plague’s victims?

“Don’t worry sweetheart, I’ll catch another one soon.”

The man’s words did nothing to encourage the woman. She remained motionless, face buried in her palms.

Then, the sound of shattering ceramic resounded through the alleyway, causing them to shoot alarmed glances at Dimitry.

“Whoops,” Angelika said. “Didn’t see that there.”

The woman jumped up. A combination of fear, shame, and surprise warped her face. Clearly, she didn’t expect to be disturbed.

They reminded Dimitry of the time he spent plodding through Ravenfall’s streets as a rag-entombed beggar. A disgraceful existence. “We didn’t mean to intrude.” He held a hand up to display his neutrality. “We’re just passing by.”

“N-no, it’s no problem.” The man stood up. Green light leaking between rooftops revealed a dirt-smeared face and a deep burn wound on his neck. “Please, don’t mind us.”

Dimitry passed them with Angelika trailing behind. He placed the distillation apparatus beside the cellar’s hatch and poked around his pocket for the keys. “Are you two patients here?”

“Patients?” the man asked. “You mean at this hospital? This deathtrap?”

Although Dimitry worked here, he couldn’t deny the man’s words. An operation from Josef was a death sentence. “Yeah, sorry about that. We’re in the middle of renovations while we search for a way to cure the plague.”

“Don’t bother.” The men knelt down to continue plodding away at dirt with a branch. “Do you know how many healers looked for a cure only to die in the process?”

“What do you mean?” Angelika shot the man a glare, her tone hasty and desperate.

“I was one of them. Almost every single one of my patients died.” The man began to stab the dirt with audible earthy plunking as if to forget unpleasant memories. “And then I got cursed myself. The Church did this to us because we strayed from the teachings. There is no hope.”

Angelika lunged forward. “Don’t say that!”

Dimitry pulled her back. He didn’t want her to attack the man: his services might prove useful. “You said you had clients seeking a cure. If you don’t mind me asking, what did you do for a living?”

“One moment.” The man dropped his stick and shoved his hand into the excavated tunnel to grab something. He stood up. In his hand, a rat with purple skin held by the tail squirmed for freedom. “Honey, if you would.”

The woman uncovered the crate she sat on to reveal a second rat scratching at its inner walls.

The man dropped the critter into the container. “I was a herbalist in Volmer.”

“A herbalist, you say?” Dimitry stroked his chin, wondering what the occupation entailed. “Did you ever work with glassware?”

“Sometimes.” The gray-haired man sighed. “But that doesn’t matter anymore. Those damn heathens took everything from us.”

The woman turned away, her eyes on the verge of tears. She ran a hand through her flattened dark-blue hair.

“Now my wife and I are trapped in purgatory, eating whatever we can find until the plague finishes the job it started. Like I said, give up and leave while you have your health.”

Angelika clicked her tongue and darted into the cellar.

Dimitry approached the crate that housed two purple-skinned rats. They provided an idea. Out of desperation, he intended to use a modified preservia on patients, but rats seemed to carry the plague too. A stable supply of the critters would allow him to conduct animal testing.

Two, however, wasn’t enough. He needed more. A lot more.

Dimitry turned his attention to the man—the one who claimed himself a herbalist. He thrust the distillation apparatus in his hands forward. “Do you know what this is?”

The man scratched his head with dirt-packed fingernails. “Some kind of vial? For boiling?”

Dimitry’s heart skipped a beat. People familiar with glassware in a world where flasks cost fortunes were rare. They were the type that could accept Dimitry’s instruction. The type that could produce and store ethanol and boiled water. The type that could become valuable employees.

And, as a bonus, they were the type that could catch rats.

“It’s too early to give up hope. If you two are tired of eating diseased vermin, would you consider working for me?”

The couple shared a glance.

Dimitry kicked away an iron chain. It clanged across the dark cellar’s paved stone floor only to land beside many other similarly ‘organized’ objects. Although he didn’t have time to clean the premises, Dimitry’s goal was to make it look as presentable as possible before inviting the couple to live and work there.

If they declined his offer, Dimitry would have to perform surgery and prepare materials himself. An impossibility. He wanted, no, he needed their help.

Angelika raised the distillation device she cradled in her arms. “What should I do with this?”

“Put it down near the fireplace next to the other one.” After kneeing a rotting crate into a corner, Dimitry glanced up the stairs. “You can come in now.”

Eyes scanning their surroundings without rest and wife’s hand in his, the man descended the steps. He pulled something unseen off of his face. “Spider webs?” His gaze shifted to a blood-stained statuette that lay sideways in a crease between the wall and the floor. “Honey, be ready to run.”

“Don’t be so scared.” Angelika leaned back against the fireplace. “You’d be dead already if we wanted you to be.”

Dimitry nudged the girl’s shoulder to shut her up. The last thing he wanted was for his potential employees to run away in fear. “Sorry about the place. It was like this when we found it this morning.”

The man gulped. “And what exactly do you want us to do here?”

“Assuming you take the job, the first thing I’ll ask for you two to do is to clean this cellar.” Dimitry pointed at blood splatters and chunks of dust. “You can throw out anything you don’t need, except the tub of towels and soap, those glass devices, and containers like wooden crates. You’ll be needing them.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want you to catch as many rats as you can while you’re cleaning. Keep them locked away in separate containers. I need them alive.”

The wife looked at her husband with worried eyes. She tugged on his arm as if to signal their retreat.

“I understand your concerns. That’s why I’m ready to pay you upfront.” Dimitry placed two silver marks into the man’s palm. “That should be more than enough to feed you two until morning.”

“T-thanks.”

Precious yawned and tugged on Dimitry’s collar. “He’s not convinced.”

“I know two silvers aren’t enough to pay for an inn, especially with the overcrowding issue, so you’re welcome to stay here as long as you’re working for me.” Dimitry flashed a gold mark. “And this’ll be yours if you complete your tasks by morning.”

The wife glanced up at her husband with an expression that hinted at hope despite a life of suffering.

“I-I don’t know.” The man crossed his arms over his chest but stared at the golden coin like a dog watched their owner eat bacon.

Dimitry smiled as pleasantly as he could. “In addition, everything you work on from tomorrow onward will be part of my efforts to cure the plague. If we succeed, you’ll be among the first to receive treatment.”

“It’s impossible.”

“Is that what you think?”

The man looked on with disbelief. “Do you know how many people tried the same? Do you know how much I’ve tried? You’re not the first.”

Dimitry grinned. “That’s because no one knows the kind of magic that I do.”

“Magic?”

“Is that what you were talking about earlier?” Angelika asked.

Although he didn’t want to waste overpriced vol, Dimitry would convince his potential employees to stay by any means necessary. He retrieved a pure pellet from a pouch. “You know how illumina creates white light?”

The man stepped forward. “I’ve seen it done.”

“Mine is different.” Dimitry absorbed the dark green metal through his palm and, after guiding what felt like boiling blood across his body, imagined adding the energy to electrons in nitrogen gas. “Illumina.”

Incandescent violet light filled the cellar. Its scattered blots reached to brighten every corner.

The couple covered their eyes until the room darkened once more.

“How did you—” Angelika didn’t finish her sentence, but her mouth remained open.

“I’d show you more,” Dimitry said, “but vol is expensive. I’ll need as much as I can get to cure the plague, and I can’t do it alone. There are thousands of people in this city relying on us. What do you say?”

The man glanced at his wife, who nodded back at him. “I don’t know much about magic or why you need rats, but as you can see, we’ve only got a week to live at most.” He pinched his purpling skin. “It’s just that your offer seemed too good to be true. We were ready to die in this Zera-forsaken city.”

“If all goes according to plan, no one will have to die. That includes you two.”

“I’m not sure if I believe you,” the man said, “but it’s better than waiting for death. We’ll do our best to find rats and clean this place by morning. Since we’ll be working together, my name is Clewin.”

“And I’m Claricia.” The woman with flattened dark-blue hair performed a small bow. “I am in your care.”

“I’m Dimitry. It’s a pleasure to make your—“

The violent thrashing of oak beams echoed from the upstairs cellar hatch.

Clewin wrapped an arm around Claricia, and the couple slunk back against the wall.

Angelika’s shocked expression vanished, her eyes narrowing as she reached for the rifle on her back. “Surgeon. Expecting someone?”

“Was hoping they were your friends.”

She slammed an iron pellet into her rifle. “I’ll handle it.”

Dimitry felt uneasy sending a nineteen-year-old girl to confront a mysterious adversary alone. He grabbed a dented candle holder from the floor. “Let’s go.”

“Can’t have you dying on me. Wait here.” Angelika darted up the stairs and slammed her foot into the cellar hatch. The powerful thrust flung open the door. She aimed her rifle down the alley, but even after a minute of hawk-like vigilance, she fired not a single round. Her gaze fell to a crate at her feet, which leaked congealing blood from between uneven planks.

Dimitry ran up to meet her. “What is it?”

“Wait!” Angelika hovered her palm over the crate. “Dispelia.” She kicked off the lid and furrowed her brow.

He edged closer.

Inside lay a severed fyrhound’s head with a note pinned through its eye and double tongues. It read: ‘The fate of those who interfere.’

53. Controlled Clinical Trials

Frantic scratching against fabric and a faerie’s grinding teeth formed the ambiance of a still guest room on the second floor of Malten’s castle. Green light from bleak skies poured through a window and onto Dimitry’s nightstand. However, moonlight alone wasn’t bright enough to sketch with precision. An enchanted lamp stood nearby to illuminate the surface of a linen-based sheet atop a v-shaped board.

“No! Too much ink!”

Dimitry smacked the edge of his pen—the sharpened feather of some overgrown bird—against the side of a small pot. Black liquid oozed from the quill into a murky pool below until only a smidgen remained on the nib.

“Keep it flat! The ink’s dripping out!”

Huffing a deep, frustrated breath, Dimitry tossed aside the quill. He couldn’t summon the will to continue drawing. The severed head delivered to him earlier that day weighed heavily on his mind.

“You were begging me to teach you writing etiquette,” Precious said, “and now you’re just gonna give up? If I was a human, people would pay mounds and mounds of gold for my genius tutelage!”

“Doubt it.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “You don’t know how good you’ve got it. Now stop brooding and get to work! How are we supposed to get rich if you keep slacking off?”

“Kind of hard to work knowing that whoever delivered the head did so to threaten me,” Dimitry said. “You confirmed it yourself. Someone is trying to get rid of me.”

“It’s probably just Baldy.”

“You mean Josef?”

“That’s what I said: Baldy.”

Precious had a point. Josef had shown only contempt for Dimitry since he revealed himself to be a surgeon, and just like the barbers of Ravenfall, ‘Baldy’ had every reason to eliminate his competition and hog every client to himself.

But Dimitry feared the situation held more complexity than that. “Remember when we arrived in Malten?”

“No. I somehow forgot what happened just two days ago.”

“In the throne room, the moment the nobles learned Saphiria was the crown princess, some of them started seething. Whether they think I’m a political threat or because I thwarted someone’s power grab, what if they’re trying to get rid of me?”

“Then…” Precious trailed off.

“Then?”

“Good luck.”

“Lots of help you are.”

With a hand covered in grape guts, Precious patted his head. “It’s okay, Dumitry. I’m sure everything will turn out fine. You will always have me by your side unless things get really dangerous, in which case I’ll fly away and never look back.”

“Now I feel worse and have your dinner in my hair. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Dimitry leaned back in his chair and massaged his tired eyelids with two outstretched fingers. Whoever his mysterious enemy was, he had three routes to combating them: getting more protection, interrogating Josef with Precious’ help, and winning the queen’s support by proving that only he could cure the plague. She would have no choice but to stop ignoring his requests for funding and manpower.

While all three solutions held merit, he resumed work on the most promising one: curing the plague. Dimitry snatched the quill once more, held it horizontally like Precious suggested, and resumed drawing outlines of the surgical tools he used to have limitless access to. Back when he worked in a modern hospital. Now he struggled to get basic supplies while trying to cure a damn plague—an outbreak that spread too swiftly.

Even the scribe that lent Dimitry these writing tools developed purple skin. How long until the disease spread to the rest of the castle? To the cooks that prepared this evening’s banquet? To the queen? To Saphiria? Hell, perhaps it would infect Dimitry. Or maybe it already had. Hanging around diseased patients all day had its downsides. Either the plague would kill him, or a lack of political support from not curing it in time.

Precious crushed a violet grape between her flat teeth. “Thash way beffer techniqth.”

“Movies made it look so simple,” Dimitry mumbled.

“Whaf’s that?”

“Just a thing we had back home.”

The quill’s sharpened edge traced a scalpel’s rounded blade—the eighth variation of the same tool Dimitry sketched that night. Each had a different purpose, and therefore a different shape. His patients’ excessive necrotic tissue meant that debridement would become a frequent procedure. Scalpels alone wouldn’t suffice. Dimitry began drawing a surgical spoon for scooping out petrified flesh husks. As soon as possible, he would find a craftsman skilled enough to turn his blueprints into tools.

Precious snuggled closer to Dimitry’s neck as she lay on his shoulder, her golden ponytail tickling his cheek. “Do you really need all of those?”

Dimitry dipped the quill pen into the ink bowl. “Each one serves a different function.”

Half-eaten grape cradled in her arm, the corrupted creature continued to munch in his ear. She pulled his uniform over herself to use as a makeshift cover to stay cozy in a cold room. “Thish shurjery shtuff ish preffy compflicated, huh?”

“Don’t get my shirt dirty, too.”

She giggled maliciously. “Say, what you told those people in that cellar. I know you weren’t lying, but do you actually think you can cure the plague?”

“If there’s anyone who can, it’s me.”

“Not too long ago, I would’ve just laughed at you.” Precious pulled back. “But weird guys like you are unpredictable.”

“Seriously. Stop touching my shirt with your sticky hands.”

A quiet knock against wood came from the guest room’s door.

The faerie dropped her partially eaten grape, which splattered against the plank floor, and dove into her blanket-padded cabinet drawer.

Dimitry shut Precious’ makeshift home. “Who is it?”

“Me,” a familiar voice said.

Wasn’t it too late at night for a princess to wander a castle on her own? Perhaps something happened. Setting aside his own troubles, Dimitry dropped his quill, approached the door, and opened it.

A raven-haired girl wearing a flowery yellow dress stood in an empty hallway lit only by enchanted illumina stones. Her bereaved and desperate indigo eyes met Dimitry’s gaze. Saphiria didn’t speak, instead running a gloved hand down her slender arm.

“Something on your mind?” Dimitry asked.

“Yes.”

He moved out of the way to let her in.

She flashed a smile—the most depressing one he ever saw—when she trudged into the room. Saphiria glanced at his bed. “May I take a seat?”

“Be my guest.”

Saphiria lifted her dress and sat down.

After Dimitry shut the door, he occupied the chair by his desk.

The girl fiddled with her hair, pinching long, silken strands between her fingers and running them through her hand. She lifted her gaze from the floor. “I have come for your opinion.”

“I’m listening.”

“It may sound foolish.”

“That’s fine.” Dimitry smiled. “According to Precious, I sound foolish all the time.”

“I want to visit the mines.”

“The mines?”

“I think Father is there.”

“Is that where the royal mausoleum is?”

“He’s not dead!” She glanced down at her slippers. “He’s still out there, tabulating the ingot exports. All by himself.”

Pity weighed heavily inside Dimitry’s gut. Although the grieving process for close relatives often entailed denial, he couldn’t encourage Saphiria to bumble around mineshafts in search of her dead father. It was a disaster waiting to happen. “I know you’re going through a hard time, and since you asked for my opinion instead of rushing out on your own, you know you’re acting rashly. I think you should stay home and rest.”

“But what if he’s waiting for me to find him and escort him home?”

“Give it some time. Calmer thoughts will prevail.”

“I can’t—” Her voice cracked. “I can’t lose him.”

Loss made people illogical—a fact that cemented itself deeper within Dimitry’s mind every day he worked at the trauma center. Family members cursed and cried and denied the deaths of their loved ones, even when given a chance to see a familiar and stiffening corpse. That went double for kindhearted people like Saphiria.

She grabbed his wrist. “If you had the chance to rescue someone you loved, even if the chance was minuscule, wouldn’t you take it?”

“It’s a pointless risk.”

“I won’t know until I try.”

Realizing the futility of logic, Dimitry sighed. “I trust I don’t have to tell you of all people to be careful. Come find me if you need me for anything at all, and I mean anything. Okay?”

“I shall.” Saphiria stood up and bowed. “Thank you.”

A fire whimpered within a furnace, painting the church cellar with light-infused shadows. Crouching by the flames was Clewin—the gray-haired man who was now Dimitry’s employee.

He tended to a pit of burning crate debris, whose fire gently heated the bottom of a bowl filled with sand. The hot and grainy particles supported the rounded base of a distillation apparatus filled with abnormally high-alcohol ale. A steady stream of vapor expelled by the boiling beverage clamored up the instrument’s neck and into a downward-slanted condensing column. There, the freezia-enchanted glass tube cooled the pale wisps into ethanol, which dripped into a jug.

Dimitry grabbed the ceramic bottle and wafted its vapors below his nose. The smell was that of low-quality, earthy vodka. Satisfied, he placed the ceramic bottle back where it was. “Looks good. Keep it up.”

“It’s easier than I thought.” Clewin turned away from the fireplace to smirk at Dimitry. “Catching those damn rats was way harder.”

“Six, right?”

“Yeah, it was pretty dark in here last night. Neither the missus nor I could catch them all. Is it enough?”

“It should be enough for today.” Dimitry glanced around the room.

Six squeaking containers lined up against the wall. Each housed a single diseased rodent under a rock-covered lid. Yesterday, the floor beneath them played host to splattered blood, rusted chains, ceramic scraps, and dirt. Now, only a bed made of bedclothes, among other necessities, rested on the ground.

“You and your wife did a good job cleaning up the place.” Dimitry placed a gold mark on a casket containing ale—the couple’s promised advance. “If you have the time tonight, I’ll need you to catch more rats. Every single one will make it easier to cure the plague.”

“How’s that?”

“I’ll show you in a bit.”

Clewin turned around. “To be honest, I still don’t know what to believe. So many of us tried to cure this damn curse only to die from it ourselves.” He pinched his skin, which was a darker shade of purple than yesterday. “But if you can save one of us, please help Claricia. She’s been through a lot.”

“There’s still lots of work to be done in this city,” Dimitry said. “It’ll be impossible for me to do it alone, so I can’t let you or your wife die.”

“I’ll try not to get my hopes up.” The gray-haired man sighed. “They’ve only let me down so far.”

Although pessimistic, Clewin’s negativity was well-warranted. Dimitry himself was unsure of preservia’s efficacy at curing the plague, but it was his only promising lead in fulfilling the queen’s orders and his role as a surgeon.

The spell prevented decay, a process attributed to microorganisms. Could Dimitry target a specific disease with it? A specific symptom? Pathogen? Unfortunately, he couldn’t test preservia with as much depth as he preferred. Time ticked on. Every wasted moment lined Malten’s streets with additional corpses, and if he didn’t hurry, Dimitry might join them.

He pulled the preservia towel off of a shelf upholding Zeran statuettes and crouched beside the vermin-filled containers. Dimitry lifted the lid of a small wooden box to find a rat squirming inside.

The creature’s movements were slow. It didn’t even try to escape.

According to Clewin, a former Volmer herbalist, human plague patients experienced delayed response times and muscle weakness in addition to purple skin. Five out of six captured vermin displayed identical symptoms. The outlier had darkened blisters protruding from gray fur in addition to skin discoloration. With shallow and rapid breaths, it lay on its back as if ready to meet its maker.

Dimitry set aside the container holding the near-dead rat: it wouldn’t be useful in a controlled clinical trial. That meant he only had five critters to work with. A shame.

He pulled a jug housing the first subject across the floor—the control. The vermin inside wouldn’t receive preservia treatment. Serving as a standard to gauge the typical progression of the plague, the unfortunate animal’s condition would only worsen.

Something thumped down the stairs. “Where should I put the ale you asked for?” It was Angelika’s voice. She burst into the room, holding a knee-high wooden cask.

“Just drop it anywhere and come here,” Dimitry said. “I need your help.”

“To cure the plague?”

“Yes.”

She dropped the cask with a loud thunk and dashed to Dimitry’s side. Her breaths heavy, Angelika’s curly red-brown hair dangled from beneath her crimson hood as she knelt beside him. “Just tell me what to do.”

Dimitry’s gaze fixed on the dark bags under her eyes. The poor girl must have spent all day worrying about her sick mother. “Find something to sit on and catch your breath. This might take a while.”

“R-right.” Angelika sat down on an empty wooden crate and focused intently.

“First, did you ask for backup like we planned?”

“I told the sorceress guildmistress about the severed head, but Mira said she can’t assign yet another ‘precious darling’ to guard a no-name surgeon.” Her gaze fell to the floor. “Sorry.”

Damn. Guess they were on their own. “It’s fine,” Dimitry said as he slid a crate across the floor. “Now I need you to cast preservia on this.”

“W-what? I’m trained for combat, not for keeping food fresh.”

Dimitry frowned. Angelika couldn’t cast preservia, and his modified spells worked differently from other mages. But perhaps another route existed. “If I cover this with the enchanted towel, will it be the same as casting preservia?”

Angelika brushed her hair back behind her ear, revealing winter reddened cheeks. “Depends on how long you leave the enchanted thing there.”

To keep results consistent, Dimitry had to ensure that the same amount of magic affected each subject. An impossible task given the number of variables. His magic was imprecise, inefficient, and full of mysteries. “I want to cast preservia with crude pellets on four rats and use the towel on the fifth. How long would I have to leave the towel there to use an equivalent amount of magic?”

“I can’t say for sure, but probably until morning. Wait...” Angelika’s facial expression became one of betrayal. “Your plan to cure the plague was preservia all this time?”

Clewin, tending to the distillation apparatus, exhaled a loud sigh.

“It’s not that simple.” Dimitry leaned forward. “Remember how I showed you illumina last night? How its color differed from usual?”

Angelika nodded.

“It’s likely that I can modify preservia in the same way.” Dimitry wrapped the glowing pink towel around a rat-filled box. “I know you don’t like complicated explanations, so I’ll spare you excessive details. All you have to know is, if any one of these vermin is cured by tomorrow, people can be too.”

Her tired eyes opened wide. “How?”

“Both rats and humans carry the same disease. If my magic cures them, it’ll cure us too.”

“But they’re… rats.” Angelika tapped a vase, which squeaked in response to her provocation. “Are you sure this’ll work?”

No. He wasn’t sure. Far from it. Instead of responding to her question, he gave the girl a forced, reassuring smile. There were significant flaws in Dimitry’s approach: a lack of understanding and his poor control over magic.

When Ignacius chanted preservia aboard the Dirty Matilda, the spell didn’t produce any immediately visible effects. Although a harmless nuisance for an accomplished wizard who could manipulate magic at a whim, for Dimitry, it was catastrophic. How would he know if he hit his target? If his previous attempts at illumina were anything to go by, preservia’s effects would scatter throughout the room instead.

Or was there another way?

On the ship to Malten, Ignacius warned Dimitry to always aim magic at least a few paces away while he learned the art. Safety advice for novices. The issue was that increased distance led to decreased precision. What if Dimitry targeted the area just in front of his hand? Could he accurately control magic if he kept the distance to a minimum?

He pulled a crude pellet from out of his pouch and rested it between the creases of his palm. After absorbing the vol, he guided its power through his body and concentrated the warm sensation in his other hand, aiming at the area directly in front of its core. He targeted electrons in nitrogen gas. “Illumina.”

A ball of violet light, the size of a beach ball with a center more radiant than its edges, engulfed his lower arm.

It wasn’t perfect, but it’d do.

Angelika furrowed her eyebrows. “Is that part of your plan too?”

“Just a warm-up.” Dimitry reached for a ceramic pitcher housing the third rat. One hand grabbed a crude pellet while the palm of his other pressed against the container’s base. He absorbed the vol and thought of transferring the energy coursing through his circuits into the viruses contaminating the animal’s body, heating genetic material so violently and at such high temperatures that it would degrade and never retake its original shape, causing the infection to wane.

“Preservia.”

When Dimitry glanced inside the pitcher, it was just as he feared. A purple-skinned rat continued to bumble around without any indication of the spell’s success. Perhaps once the animal’s immune response died down, its symptoms would improve.

Dimitry repeated the process for the two remaining vermin. He targeted the DNA of microscopic parasites in one, and the circular DNA of bacteria in the other.

Half-assed attempts, the lot of them.

Without knowing the physical properties of the plague-causing culprits, whether they were multicellular, gram-positive, gram-negative, RNA or DNA-based, Dimitry couldn’t give his spells specific targets or pathways to achieve their intended effects. If what he learned aboard the ship to Malten was accurate, both factors were necessary for modified magic to function well.

He hoped he was wrong.

54. Employee Training

The yellow cotton-textured papers in Dimitry’s hand flapped as a robust gale blew in from beyond the market square, carrying the scent of burnt iron. A fitting smell for a district of Malten referred to as Smithen street—a section of the city housing blacksmiths and their shops.

As Dimitry advanced along the busy road, the overpowering stench of molten metal grew thicker and suffocating. It couldn’t have been healthy. If cigarette smoke was cancerous, how dangerous would exhaust leaking from the mouth of a burning forge be?

There was no choice but to trudge through it.

Dimitry was desperate to find a craftsman who could turn the schematics in his hands into reality. Surgical tools that would change the world. From hemostat clamps to scissors to debridement spoons, his meticulously drawn designs could push medicine several centuries into the future. Hopefully, the era of surgeons using table knives to hack away at patients would end once they discovered the superiority of a proper number ten scalpel blade.

Not that Dimitry expected to have modern tools made. There was no way for medieval blacksmiths to produce stainless steel, let alone precision surgical instruments. However, for now, he needed something. Anything.

Every wasted moment saw another patient’s final breaths.

Not all of them were plague victims. Some were knights, squires, and militiamen who fought against small but endless waves of heathens. Although the beast’s numbers were fewer than on nights of repentance, their assaults were daily. Hourly. A constant nuisance.

As the number of able-bodied soldiers dwindled, so did security in Malten—Dimitry’s last remaining safe haven. The former Gestalt Empire’s southern territories would eventually fall to plague-ridden refugees, and the Church had a strong presence in other countries. There was nowhere else to go.

He couldn’t afford to lose his new home. Especially one that provided him a castle guest room complete with varied meals, maintained baths, and warm beds.

Dimitry stopped a few meters away from an open-air forge whose fiery breath brought sensation to his cold-numbed fingers and face. A giant man stood in front, hammer in hand. His instrument clanged against the edge of a box-shaped object.

The blacksmith’s head shot to the right. “Boy! More water and charcoal!”

“Yessir!” A lanky boy carrying an empty bowl shuffled through an alleyway towards some unknown destination.

Despite spending over a month in this medievalesque world, the foreign culture continued to shock and amaze. The sight of a genuine blacksmith smashing their hammer against a red-hot object, his clanging joining that of a dozen other nearby craftsmen like an immaculate chorus, brought a sense of wonder to Dimitry’s life-or-death predicament.

“Hello,” Dimitry said, approaching the blacksmith. “I’m looking to get some specialist hardware made.”

The man rubbed a sweaty arm against their sooty brown apron before looking up. His eyes were red. Was it the result of staring at a near-molten object without eye protection? “What kind of hardware?”

“Surgical tools.” Dimitry flattened the woven fabric papers in his hand against the blacksmith’s counter.

The man glanced at the sketches but quickly turned away. “Sorry, pal. I’ve got my hands full.”

“I’m willing to pay a high price for each one you make, and I’ll continue to purchase them in the future.”

The blacksmith continued to hammer away at the cube-shaped block on his anvil, shaping what appeared to be a sharp edge. “I wouldn’t mind a change of pace, but these damn rock hammers her majesty ordered are eating up all my time,” he shouted over his own clanging.

A barrel stood beside the craftsman’s counter, holding several long and cylindrical wooden sticks. One of them had a metal head attached, similar to what the blacksmith forged. The assembled tool could pass for the overgrown lovechild of a mailbox and a pickaxe.

As a hobby geologist, every rock hammer Dimitry used fit in his hand. These, however, were taller than basketball players. Were they designed for something other than splitting stone? Perhaps combating heathens? A sharpened and weighty mass at the end of a long shaft made it the perfect weapon to puncture the spherical cores of towering crawling devils from a safe distance.

Although killing heathens was urgent, so was tending to injured guards.

Dimitry leaned forward. “If I don’t get these tools made, I won’t be able to operate on soldiers. They’ll die, and no one will be around to purchase your hammers.”

The blacksmith stopped his work and rolled his shoulders. “Look, I really want to help, but if I don’t get these made and delivered to the barracks before tonight, I’ll be screwed.” He pointed a meaty finger down Smithen street. “Look for a stall owned by a guy named Elias Shmitz. You’ll know you’ve found it when you see an assortment of random shit on display.”

“Would he be able to help?”

The man smirked. “He may be strange, but if you give him a good enough challenge, that crazy bastard might even do it for free. Being guildmaster sure must be comfy…” his voice trailed off as he continued hammering away.

“Thanks.” Following the blacksmith’s guidance, Dimitry advanced further down the road. Despite the vast number of operating furnaces, something was missing: open shops. Most counters were empty, devoid of goods.

But the one the blacksmith mentioned wasn’t. An assortment including knives, iron pipes, and blunt arrow tips lay arranged on its surface. All had carefully polished blades and edges—signs of a perfectionist craftsman. Also, there was something else: a tool identical to the voltech rifle Angelika carried strapped to her back.

It was a long and straight metal barrel with a handle resembling Dimitry’s snoozia canister at one end. Two wooden blocks engraved with blue lines embedded themselves into the grip’s side. Did the rifle operate on vol?

“Yo!” a voice called out from inside the shop. A man who hadn’t discovered the benefits of wearing a shirt stumbled out shortly after. With only a blue apron and a pair of shorts and boots, his muscular physique braved the winter’s chill. “Appreciating my art?”

“It sure is impressive,” Dimitry said. “Are you Elias Shmitz?”

“You’ve found me!” The bald and musclebound man leaned over his counter. “Looking for something interesting?”

The acrid stench of wine radiating from Elias’s mouth with every word forced Dimitry to pull back. “I need some things made. Unusual, specialty equipment.”

“Oho? Tell me more.”

Dimitry dropped his stack of blueprints onto the table. “Take a look. If they’re confusing, I can answer any questions you have.”

Elias lifted a yellow page and held it in front of his face. While massaging his bald head with a giant hand, his gaze whizzed up and down and side to side. His eyebrows furrowed. “What are these?” He slammed the paper back onto the counter and jabbed his sooty finger at one of the four tools depicted on the page. “Why do you need silly flat-mouthed scissors?”

“That’s a needle holder. It’s a surgical tool used for sewing lacerated skin.”

“A surgeon, huh?” Elias’s finger slid across the page to another sketch. “Then what are those? They look exactly the same.”

“Those are hemostatic forceps.” Dimitry pointed at the tool’s uneven serrated jaws. “See those uneven edges?”

“Hmm.” Elias nodded emphatically.

“They’re meant to clamp down on arteries to prevent blood from leaking out.”

“Arteries? I’m not a surgeon like you. Keep it simple.”

“They stop people from bleeding to death when I cut them open.”

Elias leaned against a metal pillar, his eyes traveling up and down the yellow sheet. His concentration gradually waned. Then, he started to get distracted by passersby.

Was he disinterested? Dimitry needed to bring the musclebound man’s short attention span back. If what the other blacksmith said was true, framing the request as a challenge would work best. “You don’t have to make them if you think it’d be too difficult.”

“Too difficult?”

“There are just so many small and complicated components like locking mechanisms.” Dimitry shrugged. “I’d understand if you just gave up halfway and—”

Elias’s expression stiffened. “Gave up?”

“Yeah. The other blacksmith down the street said it would be impossible to—”

“Impossible!?” Elias’s breathing became audible as he flipped through the blueprints.

Dimitry nodded. “That’s what I was told.”

“Get inside.” The giant man pointed into his shop’s open door. “You said you’ll answer my questions, and it turns out I have a whole lot.” Elias dashed ahead, then stopped to look back. “Do you surgeons like to waste time or something? Come on!”

“I am a surgeon, but I’d prefer if you called me Dimitry.”

After an afternoon spent describing the functionalities and intricacies of surgical tools to an overzealous blacksmith, Dimitry stopped by the hospital cellar to check if the rats fared any better since their preservia treatments.

The results were inconclusive.

One specimen was healthier in terms of energy, but experienced severe bowel problems. The others sat still or trudged along in depressive circles. Hopefully, their fatigue came from fighting off the remnants of an infection following successful treatment and not from worsening plague symptoms. Dimitry would check again tomorrow morning before confirming the efficacy of modified magic.

For now, there were better ways to spend his dwindling time. Like tending to hospital patients like a proper physician—something Dimitry could now do in good conscience with the hospital’s rapidly improving sanitary conditions. Before, he worried that diseased corpses and buckets of filth would contaminate wounds, spreading illnesses further. An issue no longer.

With the hired help of several refugees, Dimitry cleared the hospital of excess bodily fluids and the deceased. Among many other improvements, he also erected curtains to segregate plagued patients from those with treatable injuries, had two mobile instrument stands assembled with planks and scrap metal, and converted a storage trunk into a warming cabinet via incendia enchantments.

His best decision by far, however, was hiring Claricia and Clewin. The mopey woman provided boiled bedclothes and towels while her husband stacked bottles of distilled ethanol in the cellar. Although the alcohol wasn’t pure, it was sufficient for sterilization.

The combination of those factors allowed Dimitry to feel comfortable treating a squire wounded in a recent battle against a crawling devil. He used it as an opportunity to teach the hospital staff about hygiene. Without their edification, his ambitions of curing the plague would never come to fruition.

Yet there were few eager ears. Of the dozen nurses, only three lent Dimitry their time. Expressions dubious, as if answering calls from overseas tech support scammers, they watched Dimitry treat a giant gash traveling down the warrior’s left quadriceps.

The injury looked like a mixture between a cut and a burn. Dimitry guessed that heathen’s blood liquefied the man’s flesh but was flushed out before he arrived at the hospital.

“The first thing we do,” Dimitry said, soaking the tip of a fresh cloth into a small pot of distilled ethanol, “is disinfect the area around the wound with alcohol. But since it can hurt exposed flesh, never apply it directly.”

Hands curled to her chest, the tallest of the three nurses sucked in air through gritted teeth. “It smells of ale. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“My methods may appear odd, but they work.”

“Where are your charts?” a skittish nurse asked.

“Ethanol does its job even without astronomy. We use it to kill germs—the things that cause plague and most other diseases.”

Lili—the youngest of the nurses—nodded, her orange ponytail bouncing with every movement. Then, as if realizing a profound truth, her eyes widened. “So we cure diseases by killing the germs?”

“Exactly.” Grateful to have a co-worker quick on her feet, Dimitry smiled. “Not all diseases are caused by germs, but many are. You have to strike at the heart of the problem before people get infected. Prevention is the best cure.”

“How do we find germs?” Lili leaned in. “What are we looking for?”

“They’re impossible to see with your naked eye, but as long as you follow procedures, you’ll kill almost all of them.”

The two other nurses shared disbelieving glances.

An amused chortle came from across the hospital. It belonged to Josef. Without looking up from his doomed patient, the lanky man sliced blisters and packed the resulting gashes with spices. For a medieval surgeon to resist antiseptic theory made sense, but Josef’s demeanor befitted a spiteful competitor more than a disagreeable professional.

Dimitry’s suspicions grew. He yearned to question Josef about the severed head—a threat a surgeon might have delivered to his foe—but now was a bad time. Launching accusations in front of the nurses and patients would further divide an already fractured hospital. Internal discord would thwart any chance of curing the plague, sentencing thousands to their deaths.

Opting for a better opportunity, Dimitry exhaled a calming breath and reached for a ceramic bottle. “To clean the inside of wounds, always use freshly boiled water instead of alcohol.”

Lili pressed a finger to her lower lip. “Boiled like for tea?”

“Boiling water isn’t just for tea.” Dimitry generously poured the contents into the squire’s gash. “The high heat kills all the germs, which makes it safe for wound irrigation.”

After a silent moment, the skittish nurse spoke. “Surgeon?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t wanna sound rude, but I have to ask.”

“You’re not being rude,” Dimitry said. “Questions are good. I prefer if you speak up whenever you’re unsure of anything at all.”

“… is it true you’re here to rob patients and escape to The Holy Kingdom after the plague kills everyone?”

“What?”

“Some people say you started the plague just so you can come to Malten and fix it,” the tall nurse said. “The girls have been talking about it.”

Lili looked away. “I heard the same.”

Dimitry clenched his fist. So that was why the nurses have been avoiding him. Some prick was spreading vindictive rumors, and he had a good idea of who that prick was.

Josef glanced over with a hollowed expression. After staring for what felt like an eternity, savoring Dimitry’s response, he tossed his bloody, rusted saw onto a tray and rushed out of the hospital.

55. Plagued Plague Doctor

Dimitry tossed and turned all night. Every fragmented dream saw him choking Josef, squeezing tighter until the light faded from the eyes of the homicidal maniac that packed wounds with condiments and strove to turn every employee and patient in the hospital against Dimitry. Josef probably ordered the delivery of the severed head as well! What was that asshole plotting to do next?

Visions of murder had plagued Dimitry since that evening, but even if he had chased Josef down when he had fled the hospital, what could he have done? Fought him in the middle of the street? Knocked the geezer’s brains out in plain sight, earning the ire of Malten’s guards and providing further credence to those spiteful rumors? No. Physical revenge was a foolish ambition.

Dimitry instead stayed behind to suture the squire’s gash. Being the only surgeon that cared for his patients would mend his reputation faster than vengeance ever could. But that didn’t mean Dimitry let Josef off the hook. He would doubtless return to create more issues.

All he needed was a good plan.

So Dimitry schemed. Scheming was all he could do as he lay atop his bed, forcing his eyes shut and hoping for rest that never came. The struggle continued until something thrashed against the oak planks of his castle guest room door.

He jumped up from his feather-stuffed pillow, only to aggravate the pounding headache he finished his shift with last night. Must have been a mixed tension migraine from all the stress.

Or so he thought, until another symptom gave him pause. A thick layer of crust sealed his eyes shut, thwarting Dimitry’s attempts to open them. It took several tries before he could see the first lights of dawn oozing out of a dark blue sky and in through an oval window.

Another volley of kicks slammed into the door. Their desperation grew with every strike. “It’s Angelika! Wake up so we can go do the rat thing you were talking about!”

“Hold up.” Dimitry mopped his face. Although early morning nagging didn’t assuage his migraine, he sympathized with the girl: her mother suffered from the plague. He couldn’t sit around, stewing in anger while some kid’s parent teetered on the brink of death.

Dimitry threw his legs out from under the blanket and onto a cold and hard stone floor. He pushed off the bed with his hand—the one whose wrist continued to tug him in two directions simultaneously. Judging by the force with which his emblem pulled and his experience in the Amalthean Kingdom, one destination was less than a day’s horse ride away, while the other lay somewhere out at sea.

A bout of dizziness nearly tripped Dimitry as he lumbered towards Precious’ hidey-hole. He pulled her blanket-padded drawer open. “Let’s go.”

“Dumitry, make her go away,” a sleepy voice responded from within. “It’s too cold.”

More knocking. “Hurry the hell up!”

“You heard her.”

“Why does this one have to be so loud?” A messy golden ponytail crawled out from the back of the drawer. “I want Saphiria back. At least she didn’t talk so much.”

Dimitry thrust his arms into a shirt. “Stop complaining.”

Precious’ head popped out, followed by two small arms reaching for the ceiling. She yawned. Her eyes opened, then widened. Her golden irises frantically scanned Dimitry up and down before focusing on his hand. “Dumitry?”

“Yes, we’ll steal some grapes from the kitchen larder before heading out. Now hurry up.”

“No…” Her tiny fingers pinched the skin on the back of his hand. “Look.”

Dimitry raised his hand to his face. Although difficult to notice at a glance, it had a faint purple hue.

“Fuck.”

Angelika banged against the door once more. “Stop talking to yourself and let’s go!”

Dimitry didn’t respond. All he could do was gawk at the back of his hand. The discolored epidermis told him he would soon end up like the dozens of patients at the hospital and the thousands more littered across Malten’s streets.

He caught the plague—an outcome both expected and surprising. Working with the ill would eventually infect the caretaker, but Dimitry assumed his circumstances weren’t that simple.

Given the variety of perks the dark hall granted, he hoped immunity to disease was among them. A sensible conclusion. Not only was his cancer cured, but when he injured his foot in Ravenfall, the open wound didn’t become infected despite him stepping on gravel, dirt, and countless other contaminants. Did he avoid illness with only half-assed first aid and luck?

“Now what?” Precious asked.

Dimitry rushed to throw on clothes. “I don’t know, but it might be in your best interests to find another blasphemer to feed you.”

“You know I can’t find a Dumitry anywhere else.” She dove into his hood. “Figure it out.”

“I’d love to, but it’ll take time, and I don’t know if I have enough.”

The faerie pinched his earlobe. “Then stop wasting it and go!”

Ten days.

The length of a week in this world and how long Dimitry had before the plague killed him. Clewin told him the symptoms started mild: drowsiness and loss of appetite. Before long, he would experience nausea, nosebleeds, and body aches. Finally, when the disease reached its terminal stages, excruciating blisters would crop up all over his body, making movement difficult.

Dimitry had to cure the plague before it incapacitated him, robbing him of his ability to navigate the city freely. He grabbed his leather bag and threw it over his shoulder. Just as Angelika reached to knock on the door, he flung it open. “Come on.”

The fidgeting red-robed girl looked up at him with orange eyes that opened wide and averted their gaze. “Oh. I didn’t know.”

“Don’t feel sorry for me, we’ve got shit to do.” Dimitry strode through the castle’s second-floor corridor.

“But if you got sick, what about my mo—”

“She’ll be fine and I’ll be fine.” Dimitry looked back and smirked. “If it makes you feel any better, think about it this way: now that I’ve caught the plague, it means that I have no choice but to work even harder to find a cure.”

Angelika dashed after him. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Continue to wake me up early in the morning and guard me. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Although Dimitry maintained a confident demeanor to keep the accompanying girl calm, his situation terrified him. Every passing moment saw his footsteps become heavier as they marched across Malten’s castle district, which was now packed with purple-skinned residents. Then, past the market square where ox-drawn carts carried stacks of blistered corpses as plague victims piled them higher.

Would Dimitry end up on top of a similar mound of decaying bodies? The next victim in a series of thousands? Although this world was torturous and unforgiving, he didn’t want to leave just yet. He had only recently regained control of his body—something he would never take for granted ever again.

“Hey,” Precious whispered. “I think some people are stalking us.”

Dimitry nudged the back of his hood with his shoulder to request further information.

“There’s… there’s a lot! One’s watching us suspiciously from the rooftops, and the others are hounding us through the streets! I doubt they want to break bread!”

Another problem. Just what Dimitry needed. Why would anyone follow a surgeon on his way to work? Was this Josef’s doing as well?

“Angelika.”

“What?” the red-robed girl asked, effortlessly matching Dimitry’s hastening pace.

“Do you have any stalkers?”

“What?”

“I think people are trailing us and they’re not happy.”

Head shooting side to side, Angelika’s red-brown curls twisted across her face. “Where?”

“Don’t look for them. Just stay on guard.”

“Gotcha.” She reached into her robe to retrieve a dark green vol pellet. “If they try anything, I’ll introduce their teeth to their brain.”

“Careful!” Precious hissed. “Menacing humans just ahead!”

Beside a bakery with x-marked doors, a scrawny group of men watched Dimitry. One saw Angelika and paused, while his comrades pushed off the wall, readying their nail-embedded planks and jagged brick armaments.

They definitely didn’t want to break bread. Eager to avoid a deadly confrontation, Dimitry pivoted on his heel, only to discover two more thugs closing in from behind.

He was trapped.

Skin crawling, Dimitry’s head darted back and forth, scanning up and down the street for watchmen. Where the hell did the guards go when he needed them? Were they in on the ambush? “Angelika! You live here—where should we go?”

Angelika did not share in his panic. “Fucking finally. Been a while since I vented my frustration.” Murder coalesced in her indignant scowl as eight thugs neared. “Wanna bet I can kill them all with a single vol pellet?”

“Don’t you dare get yourself hurt!”

“Oh, I won’t be the one getting hurt.”

Her tone, that of a confident soldier, hinted that his concern for Angelika was unnecessary. But that didn’t mean he wanted to see a nineteen-year-old kill starving men. “Glad you’re excited, but my reputation is already in the shit. I can’t have you slaughtering people in the middle of the street. I’m supposed to be saving lives.”

“Then I’ll just beat the living fuck out of them. Happy?”

“Not entirely.” He grabbed Angelika’s red sleeve and dragged her through the narrow entrance of a widening alley—somewhere they can fight out of sight and without the threat of being surrounded.

The thugs swaggered after them.

Angelika grabbed a lustrous green pellet from within her robe. “Hastia.”

Dimitry armed himself with vol as well, praying he wouldn’t have to cast accelall in public—a stunt that would attract scrutiny and further stoke the flames of gossip.

“We warned ya,” an approaching thug said, slapping a rusted saber against his palm. “Now—“

“Shut the fuck up!” Angelika palmed his skull, and with strength and agility surpassing the biological limits of her slender frame, slammed the thug’s face into an alley wall.

His comrades froze.

Dimitry did, too. Unlike Saphiria, who fought with tact and stealth, Angelika was a rampaging beast. The women of this world were fearsome.

The thugs shared a menacing glance and barreled through the alley all at once.

Angelika kneed a man twice her size in the groin with enough force to inflict a rupture, punched another in the throat, and retreated from the overwhelming tide.

A brick flew closer.

Dimitry ducked under the projectile and grabbed the thrower’s face. “Illumina!”

Violet light barraging his eyes, the thug shielded his face.

A moment’s inattention allowed Dimitry to slug him in the celiac plexus, inflicting crippling pain and paralyzing the thug’s diaphragm. They collapsed, struggling to catch their breath.

Dimitry glanced back to check on Angelika.

Around her feet lay two incapacitated men while five others held their heads and limped out of the alley.

Angelika stomped after them. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?!”

“That’s enough.”

“But they started it!”

“Hurting them won’t change a thing.” Dimitry grabbed the girl’s shoulder to pull her back, but upon encountering an obscure sight, he froze.

“H-hey. Are you… are you hurt?”

Dimitry knelt beside a thug, who curled into a ball and brandished a familiar, filthy goatee. “I recognize this man.”

“You worried me just to tell me that? Who cares? It’s just a refugee! There’s hundreds of them!”

"Not just a refugee. When I was at the glassblower’s shop, I saw him scowling at me from behind a building.”

“I bet that prick Josef hired him to intimidate you,” Angelika said. “He’s been treating you like crap since day one. Probably responsible for the severed head and those poisonous rumors as well.”

Dimitry considered the possibility, but the evidence suggested that his predicament went beyond some friction with a competing surgeon or a random street mugging. “Unlikely. When I caught this guy stalking me, Josef still thought I was sent to help him get rid of corpses. He had no incentive to threaten me at the time.”

“Oh. That’s not good. Want me to go chase another one of those assholes down so we can ask some questions?”

“That’ll be unnecessary.” Dimitry approached the thug he struck in the celiac plexus. They heaved for air on the carved brick ground moments ago, but now played dead. “Hey, I know you’re conscious. My jab was too weak to cause you any serious trauma.”

“Don’t you worry.” Angelika sneered. “I’ll wake him up.”

The thug reached into a torn pants pocket.

Angelika kicked his arm away, and several bent copper coins flew from a greasy hand, clanging against the alley walls and floor.

“My m-money,” the thug said. “It’s yours, madam sorceress!”

Rage draining from her face, Angelika glanced away. “You’re lucky you didn’t reach for a knife.”

Dimitry paused. He counted seven copper marks and felt his heart drop. “Is… is this all you have?”

“I-I can get more! My w-wife has the other half!”

“Here comes the pity.” Precious sighed. “Just so you know, he’s not lying.”

Heavy waves washed over Dimitry’s shoulders, drowning out the urgency of moments prior. His experience in Ravenfall proved that few were above criminality amidst the desperation of homelessness. He reached under his cloak and grabbed his pouch.

Hungry eyes hawking the jingling leather bag, the thug scooped up his seven copper coins, which now clanged on his outstretched and trembling palm.

“No,” Dimitry said. “They’re yours, and I’ll give you a silver for every useful bit of information you give me.”

The thug’s mouth dropped open.

“I want to know why you and your friends were threatening me. Start talking.”

After providing first aid to the injured thugs and questioning each, Dimitry learned of his shitty situation. According to them, wealthy patrons have been using intermediaries to pay refugees and the poor to terrorize Dimitry.

A big problem.

He could not combat enemies with mysterious identities, goals, and capabilities. His sole recourse was to win the trust of someone who could: the queen.

Curing the plague remained the best solution. Cures took time to distribute, and Her Royal Majesty would have to keep Dimitry alive throughout the process. All he had to do was solve the plague before someone ‘removed’ him.

Without a wasted second, Dimitry darted across an uninviting city, through a grimy alleyway, and down a dark stairway leading to a flickering cellar. His goal was to check on his experimental rats. They held Malten and Dimitry’s fate in their purple-tinted paws.

Dimitry considered telling Angelika to stay outside to avoid unnecessarily exposing the girl to the plague-carrying couple and vermin living here, but it was no longer possible to avoid disease in Malten. Not even the castle was safe.

Once they entered the cellar, a feeble warmth embraced Dimitry’s numb fingers and nose. It emanated from a fireplace whose hesitant flame struggled to illuminate the figures of the two people sitting in front. One was a gray-haired man who fiddled with charcoal in the fireplace. Accompanying Clewin was his wife, a mopey woman with disorderly dark-blue bangs. Claricia soaked towels in a bubbling cauldron.

Clewin looked back, blood leaking from his nose. “Hey.”

“You alright?” Dimitry asked.

“Just another nosebleed. I still got a few days left in me.”

Fuck. Dimitry had to hurry. If his employees fell deathly ill, he wouldn’t get any more test rats, and his chances of curing the plague would plummet. He rushed over to the vermin-filled containers lining the walls.

“Are you here to do whatever it is you wanted with the rats?”

“That’s right. Have you kept them fed and watered?”

“I did, but I couldn’t tell if your magic cured them.” Clewin shrugged. “We also caught a bunch more like you asked.” He pointed at a row of squeaking containers on the other side of the room.

“Well done.” Dimitry knelt in front of the jug containing the control—the subject that didn’t receive preservia treatment—and lifted its rock-weighted lid.

A rat bumbled around inside as if drunk, its legs struggling to support its weight. Familiar symptoms. Just like plague patients, the rodent displayed rapidly worsening fatigue and muscle weakness. Its skin was darker too.

An expected yet terrifying outcome.

Dimitry wiped the cold sweat accumulating on his palm against his pants. Was he doomed to end up the same way?

“What is it?” Angelika whispered. Her curly red-brown hair drooped from her crimson hood as she leaned over to look inside. “Did it work?”

“I don’t know yet. We’ll find out soon.” Dimitry set aside the control and reached for a box wrapped in a pink-glowing towel. By now, the preservia enchantment should have delivered a dose equal to a spell cast by a typical mage armed with a crude vol pellet, making the subject within suitable for comparison with the others. He unwrapped the cloth to peek inside only to be met with an awful smell.

Unlike the negative control, the rat trudged through its diarrhea as it slammed its wobbling body against the box’s walls, attempting to escape. Its movements were slightly less steady than yesterday. Did preservia do nothing except compromise the rat’s bowels?

Angelika pinched her nose shut. “Were you trying to make it shit itself?”

“No.” He shut the lid and pushed the box aside. “Didn’t think you were in the mood for jokes.”

She glared at him. “I’m not.”

Next was a pitcher marked with a giant ‘V’. Yesterday, Dimitry cast a preservia targeting viruses on the rat inside. Unlike the previous subject, this one did not trek through diarrhea. It had an appearance similar to the negative control—dying.

Either modified preservia didn’t work, or whatever caused the plague wasn’t a virus. If the former was true, Dimitry and every other person unfortunate enough to suffer from the disease was as good as dead.

Ignoring a deep-seated sense of impending doom, Dimitry reached for the fourth container: one marked with ‘P’ for parasites. The rat inside didn’t fare much better. Dimitry kicked the container away and tilted his head back to look up at the ceiling, which left him with a vague notion of dizziness.

“Well?” Angelika asked in a desperate tone. “Is the rat good?”

“It’s dying.”

“That’s bad, right?”

“Very bad.”

Angelika clicked her teeth and turned away.

Claricia leaned her head against Clewin’s shoulder, who wrapped an arm around her and rocked.

A vase marked ‘B’ lay in the corner of Dimitry’s eye. The rat squeaking within, the one dealing with the aftermath of a modified preservia targeting bacteria, would decide Malten’s future. Angelika’s family’s future. Clewin and Claricia’s future.

Dimitry’s future.

He half wanted to peek at the critter to find out if he would live. A healthy specimen meant that the spell worked and could be administered on a massive scale. His other half, however, was too paralyzed to learn of his damning failure.

There was no point in fucking around. Dimitry removed the vase’s rock-weighted lid.

A rat squirmed inside, bouncing from wall to wall as if fighting for its life. Unlike the negative control, ‘V’, or ‘P’ samples, it didn’t crawl around as if about to die, nor was its skin a darker shade of purple than yesterday.

It took an appearance similar to the one affected by the preservia towel: more active and covered in its feces. Dimitry placed the two containers side by side. Grayer and more energetic than the enchantment-affected subject, ‘B’ had slightly reduced plague symptoms.

Although imperfect and in need of improvement, modified preservia worked.

There was hope.

Dimitry filled his lungs to the brim, leaned back, and released a deep breath, which relaxed his muscles as it flowed from his nostrils.

Behind him, a red-robed girl paced the room, twisting her curly red-brown strands around her finger. Clewin sluggishly poked a metal rod at a fire, his eyes downcast. Claricia wasn’t better off.

“Good news, everyone.”

Their gazes shot towards him.

Dimitry smiled. “We’re not dead just yet.”

56. Unlicensed Medical Practicioner

Hesitant relief seeped into the dank cellar beneath the former church, bringing a much-needed sense of hope to an otherwise gloomy space. While Dimitry’s discovery of a potential cure didn’t completely allay the pernicious despair that hung in the air, threatening to resurface at the first failure, it gave everyone a chance to catch their breath.

Among the weary was a purple-skinned couple. Their shadows projected across the carved stone room by a flickering fireplace, Clewin and Claricia whispered amongst themselves, sharing plans for the future. Their gentle chatter was interrupted only by Angelika’s intermittent comments and questions. Although the reluctant guard spent the past two days stressing about her mother’s terminal condition, she now had a cautiously relieved smile on her face as she leaned back against a wall, twisting her long red-brown curls around a finger.

She watched Dimitry prepare the next batch of rat samples—ten vermin trapped in adjacent makeshift containers, each destined to become heirs to subject ‘B’. They would shed further light on the plague. So far, Dimitry learned that the disease resulted from a bacterial infection, but that knowledge alone wouldn’t be enough to cure the entire city.

From the gut to the skin, the human body overflowed with bacteria. The single-celled organisms served a wide variety of vital functions, such that being healthy without their continued assistance was impossible.

Subject ‘B’ displayed diarrhea—a condition often seen after taking antibiotics and one that indicated intestinal microbial depletion. But that was just a short-term effect. What about delayed symptoms? Could they lead to malnutrition as the body struggled to supply and digest complex nutrients due to a lack of essential gut bacteria? In a city filled with starving people, it could be a death sentence.

That was why modified preservia’s current state, one that demanded it kill every single bacteria, was dangerous.

Dimitry’s solution was to uncover the specifics of the plague-causing culprit, allowing him to cull it while minimizing collateral damage. Back on earth, a microscope would’ve made short work of the matter, revealing the bacteria’s shape, size, and structure with little effort. A luxury this world didn’t have. Magic would have to make up for the lack.

He affected five out of ten rat subjects with versions of preservia that killed only one subgroup of bacteria: either gram-positive, gram-negative, rod-shaped, spherical, or spiral-shaped. If Dimitry learned which of those properties matched the microbe causing the plague, he could spare the benign bacteria not within those categories, thereby decreasing side-effects like diarrhea.

That wasn’t the only benefit to this method. If his illumina experiments were anything to go by, specificity raised the power of Dimitry’s magic. A boon he desperately needed. As it was, his magic took too long to show symptom resolution in rats, which was problematic since Dimitry didn’t have the time or vol to cure thousands of Malten’s plagued residents. He needed his magic to work quickly and efficiently.

However, like everything else, his vermin subjects were limited. Two out of ten became the negative control and the positive control. One received no magic treatment, while the other received the same DNA-degrading antibacterial preservia that ‘B’ did. They were necessary to identify the effectiveness of the other tests.

That left only three rats to discover new pathways to killing bacteria. Although heating DNA was effective, better methods could save more lives.

Dimitry placed his hand against a small wooden crate, thinking of heating carbon-carbon bonds in peptidoglycan molecules present in bacterial cell walls, causing them to break apart and rupture the organism, killing it.

“Preservia.”

He shook his arm to wave off the bone-splitting pain that came from using seven crude vol pellets in quick succession. If a few spells caused him this much grief, how could he possibly treat every patient in Malten with magic? He glanced at an enchanted towel that cost him a fortune, but now hung uselessly on a nearby shelf. It gave him an idea.

“Angelika.”

“What’s up?”

“How difficult is it to enchant something?”

She shrugged. “How the hell should I know?”

“Your mother and older sister are enchantresses, surely you know something.” Dimitry reached for a brass pot containing the ninth subject. He placed his palm against it and thought of heating the ATP synthase of any bacteria within, denaturing the protein to stop ATP production. Bacteria would cease to function and die without a source of energy.

“Preservia.”

Angelika kicked aside a crate—from which a shrill squeak resounded—and sat beside Dimitry. “Although Leona never complained about it, she definitely makes it look hard. Why do you ask?”

“I was thinking of enchanting a blanket.”

“With your modified preservia?”

“Yeah,” Dimitry said, “I think I have to. Not only is it impossible for me to cast it on everyone without getting overloaded, I don’t have the money for it either. And I don’t think that relying on her majesty to supply enough vol to treat the whole city is wise, considering she never helped when I asked for protection or maids.”

“You want to cure the whole city?”

“As many people as I can.”

“If I tell you, you have to promise something.”

“And what’s that?”

Angelika sat up straight. “When you figure this whole plague thing out, I want you to help my mom first.”

He looked into her desperate orange eyes. “Are you sure you want that? I’ve only tested it on rats so far, so there’s no way for me to know what effects it’ll have on people. It might help early on but create other long-term symptoms.”

“I don’t care. The plague will kill her while she’s waiting for you to cure everyone else in this goddamn city.”

Dimitry sighed. “Fine.” He pushed aside the brass pot and reached for an upside-down wooden bowl containing the final test subject. “Now tell me about enchanting.”

“Okay, so.” She leaned back and slammed her boots onto the top of a rat-filled crate. “Enchanting is really hard. Not only do you have to know the spell, but you also have to know how to weave.”

“Weave?”

“Yeah, you have to layer vol in a certain way or something. I tried to do it before but couldn’t. Probably because I didn’t put much effort into it.”

“I’m sure that’s the case. So, you’re saying I can’t learn to enchant?”

“Don’t bother. Just channel it.”

Dimitry’s eyes narrowed. “Do what?”

“Seriously? You can use weird and powerful magic, but you don’t know what channeling is?”

“We didn’t have it where I come from.”

“You’ve really never seen mages hold hands and stuff when they cast powerful spells before?”

Thinking back, Dimitry did. While plotting his escape from Ravenfall, he watched hand-linked acrobats chant a noisia that amplified every sound within an entire market square. “And I’m guessing there’s a way to do the same with enchanting?”

“Yep. Sometimes mom gets requests for spells she doesn’t know, so she just channels it from another Sorceresses Guild mage.”

“Would she be able to do the same for me?”

“Dunno.” She took a deep breath and looked down at her boots. “Lately, mom’s been feeling dizzy and getting nosebleeds, so it’s hard to tell if she’ll be able to handle the feedback.”

“How about your sister?”

Angelika shrugged. “Maybe. I’ve seen her do it a couple of times, but mom’s obviously way better at it.”

“I see.” Dimitry retrieved another rough and spherical aquamarine pellet out of his pouch. Palm held against the upside-down wooden bowl containing the last rat, he thought of targeting bacterial ribosome subunits with heat, denaturing them, and therefore killing the cells when they couldn’t produce protein to sustain themselves. “Preservia.”

“Is that all of them?” Angelika asked.

“Yeah.” Dimitry threw on his cloak. “Come on, let’s go.”

The girl rolled her crimson robe’s hood over her curly red-brown hair and stood up. “Where to?”

“First, we’ll check up on the hospital, then visit your family’s store.”

“’Kay.”

“Clewin!” a desperate voice rapidly approached, ringing from the adjacent alleyway.

Just as Dimitry was halfway up the stairs, a woman with a freckled face and a disheveled red ponytail held together by a pink ribbon darted down. Blinded by panic, Lili’s foot slipped.

Dimitry caught her before she banged her head against the wall. “What’s the hurry?”

“My apologies, Mr. Dimitry.” Lili performed a crude curtsy. Her breath mangled and hasty, she continued. “We need boiled water right away!”

“Did something happen?”

“T-the patients.” The woman heaved to catch her breath. “We just got here, and everyone is screaming!”

“Relax a moment and tell me everything exactly as it happened.”

She leaned back against the stairwell wall until her breathing steadied. “When I got here, I found out Josef operated on every patient, even the ones that weren’t purple. They’re still screaming and huffing upstairs and no one knows what to do! I suggested to the other nurses that we should ask Mr. Dimitry for help, but they still think you’re a sham even though the patients you treated yesterday were the only ones to recover all week!”

Dimitry grit his teeth. Josef was really starting to piss him off. “Lili, let’s go. Clewin, bring water and towels upstairs as they become ready.”

An afternoon spent cleaning pus and herb-filled lesions left Dimitry seething. He performed wound care he shouldn’t have had to. Dozens of unknowing patients groaned from sustaining pointless injuries inflicted under the false guise of medicine and a stupid grudge. Two died despite immediate treatment. More would soon.

It was the work of an asshole who thought it clever to operate while no one was around to oversee him. Unlike Josef’s typical surgeries, where he stuffed cutaneous blisters full of spices, these were deep and sealed with honey, each one a painful and morally bankrupt procedure.

He arrived overnight to scam patients while Dimitry slept. Not only did he collect money from his victims, many of whom could barely afford to eat, but he also exacerbated their already critical states.

Worse still, Josef pushed the blame onto Dimitry. Most of the nurses considered him to be the progenitor of every medical failure because he disregarded astronomical charts and holy prayers. Every death was Dimitry’s fault, and every success a divine miracle.

But the madness didn’t end there. The scrapped remnants of ceramic bottles that used to hold water and ethanol littered the floor, meaning Josef wanted to cause as much grief as possible. Not only did the loss of supplies cost several gold marks, but Clewin and Claricia struggled all day to make up for the loss.

What boiled water remained Dimitry used to flush out the wound of his last patient—a middle-aged woman with dark purple skin who moaned in agony all morning but was now asleep. He used his snoozia canister to sedate her before he could unseal the gash on her thigh to scoop out yellow goo-infused spices.

Angelika leaned against a wall, watching him work. “Even I can see that that fucker is killing people.”

“Glad someone else realizes that Josef is full of shit.” Dimitry wrapped a warm and moist bandage around the patient’s leg. “I bet he’s the one spreading those petty rumors about me.”

She leaned in to whisper into Dimitry’s ear. “Want me to get rid of him? I promise you won’t ever hear from him again.”

“As much as I want to take you up on your offer, I’ll have to decline.”

“Stop being a bitch!”

“I’m not being a bitch.” Wound care finished, Dimitry knelt to scoop up scattered ceramic scraps. “Knowing you, you’d probably clobber him in the middle of the street only to end up locked away in some dungeon for harming a trusted surgeon during an epidemic.”

“But wouldn’t that be worth it for you?”

“No.” He looked up. “People know you’re my guard, so they’ll end up blaming me. More importantly, you’re one of the very few reliable people in this city. I can’t cure the plague without you.”

Angelika’s cheeks flushed pink. “Yeah, but what if mom or my sisters end up in this damn hospital and that asshole cuts them open? I don’t want them to get stuffed full of herbs and spices like fucking aerfowls. They would die.”

She wasn’t wrong: Josef was a murderer.

How many lives met their unfortunate end at the hands of that pseudo-surgeon? Dozens? Hundreds? More? Despite that, not even the town guard would detain him because his astronomical medicine was cutting-edge in this world. Josef held more value in this city than Dimitry.

A more hands-on approach was necessary to deal with Josef. However, as Dimitry learned in Ravenfall, hasty decisions during stressful times only led to long-term consequences.

“You’re absolutely right,” Dimitry said. “But that doesn’t mean we should act rashly.”

“How about tonight?” She pulled the voltech rifle from the holster on her back, orange light from the church’s stained glass windows gleaming down the barrel. “I’ll be silent and fast.”

“Unfortunately, that won’t work either.”

“No one will see me, I promise.”

Dimitry rolled his neck, which was tight and sore after a day of looking down at patient beds. “If he mysteriously ends up dead, I’ll be the prime suspect. Not only are we business rivals, but after today’s fiasco, every nurse and patient here knows that I hate his guts.”

She clicked her teeth. “So you’re just gonna do nothing? What if you end up on one of these beds when the plague makes you start coughing up blood and that fucker decides to operate on you?”

“Firstly, keep your voice down.” Dimitry scanned the spacious room for anyone eavesdropping. Luckily, the nurses were busy, and most patients slept. “I never said I wasn’t going to do anything about it.” He beckoned her closer.

Angelika leaned in once more, her scent like that of olive-based detergent. “What do you mean?”

“Can you make an injury look like an accident while staying hidden?”

“What are you talking about?”

“For example, can you make someone stumble and fall onto a pile of scrapped wood and ceramic so it looks like they tripped? But you have to keep them alive, too—just barely.”

“Oh!” Angelika looked at him with mischievous orange eyes. “As a combat mage, I’d be ashamed if I couldn’t.”

“Good.” Dimitry wiped his hands against a clean towel. “If you have plans for tonight, I suggest you cancel them.” He headed for the domed exit. “But first, there is something interesting I want to try.”

57. Enchantment Channeling

A drowning sun shot scarlet rays onto the roofs of iron-reinforced buildings in Malten’s castle district. Unlike the rest of the city, no dying refugees sat against their walls, begging for food or money. As if it were a separate, more prosperous land, people wearing fur-trimmed cloaks and bright dresses strolled down tidy streets, discussing everything from trade to courtly matters in hushed tones. Their relaxed mannerisms showed no concern for the kingdom’s growing discord.

How long would their lives remain peaceful?

Even the wealthy displayed purple skin—the plague’s most condemning symptom. Several mansions and extravagant stores had their doors crossed off with black X’s, indicating that the tenants weren’t long for this world. Luckily, Dimitry’s and Angelika’s destination wasn’t amongst them.

The red-robed girl pushed the store’s door open, revealing an unmanned sales floor with all manner of magical products ripe for stealing on shelves. She palmed her forehead and groaned.

“Where is everyone?” Dimitry asked.

Angelika walked inside and beckoned him forward. “They’re probably having supper upstairs, but mom forgot to lock the door. Again!”

“Sounds like being an enchantress’s daughter is a real handful.”

“You have no idea.” She slammed the door behind him and rammed its bolt lock into an iron clasp in the wall. “This kind of stuff happens all the time when Leona isn’t home.”

“Who is it?” a cheerful woman’s voice called out from the floor above.

Angelika threw off her hood, freeing her red-brown curls to droop down to her waist. “It’s me, and I’ve brought a guest!”

“You’re just in time, sweetie! The food’s almost ready!”

“Got it!” She turned to face Dimitry with apologetic eyes. “I know we’re busy, but we should stay for dinner.”

“While I’m sure your mother makes delicious food,” he said, “thugs were mean-mugging us all the way to the castle district, my patients are dying, and if I don’t quickly earn the support of the queen, so will I. We need these enchantments made now.”

“You think I don’t know?” Angelika hissed. “My mom’s dying too! But look at yourself! You’ve been working all fucking day without eating even a god damn fucking pasty. Shit, do you even rest? If you pass the fuck out and succumb to the plague, we’re all dead. Dead.”

She had a point. Overwork led to medical negligence, and for someone who prescribed rest to his plagued patients and not himself, Dimitry was being a hypocrite. Not to mention he was dragging Angelika around without giving the girl a chance to relax. “Since you’re so worried about me, I guess I have no choice but to take a short break.”

“I’m not worried about you.” Angelika turned away, her winter-bitten cheeks reddening further. “It’s just that mom won’t do or tell us anything until she gets to feed us.”

The sight of a girl who agreed to murder a man for Dimitry but blushed at a toothless tease gave him pause.

“Let’s just get this over with.” She pointed to a room beyond the store’s counter where the edge of a staircase peeked out from behind a wall.

After navigating through the small store and climbing up its creaky steps, Dimitry entered a second-floor parlor reeking of mint. In the center were two people sitting at a rectangular table.

One was a familiar old man in a red robe. Ignacius looked up, pulled back a bit, and gave Dimitry a slight nod.

Next to him was a girl with messy brown hair, her attention focused on a wooden block with engraved pale blue lines held in her palm. She glanced at Dimitry, but when he gave her a polite smile, she quickly diverted her gaze.

Angelika followed Dimitry up the stairs. “Hey mom, how are you feel—” Her words came to a halt when she saw Ignacius. “I see the traitorous asshole is here, too.”

His expression heavy, the old man avoided her glare. He poured additional feracide onto a heap of charred orange powder inside his pipe’s bowl.

Raina walked in with a giant plate carrying a grilled, four-winged bird whose savory umami scent mixed with that of remnant minty smoke. “He’s your grandfather. Show some respect.” She placed the aerfowl onto the table and turned to face Dimitry. “Sorry about the commotion. Please take a seat and join us for supper.”

Full of pity for the woman whose skin was now a darker shade of purple than last time, he didn’t dare refuse her offer. “Thank you for having me.”

“Whatever.” Angelika crossed her arms across her chest. “Can I help?”

“Give me a hand in the kitchen.” Raina walked into an adjacent room with her daughter in tow.

Dimitry pulled out a chair, whose iron feet ground against the stone floor.

The girl with messy brown hair glanced up at him once more, but when Dimitry met her gaze, she reached for a metallic pen-like object dangling off of the necklace around her neck and continued to engrave the wooden block in her hand.

He smiled courteously. “I’m Dimitry. Nice to meet you.”

“Hey,” she said without looking up.

Ignacius gave a reserved chuckle. “That’s Emilia. She’s not much of a talker.”

“I don’t mind the change of pace.” Dimitry sat down. “Lately, I’ve been surrounded by people who talk nonstop.”

“Angelika does have quite a mouth on her. Though, in my case, it’s well-warranted.” The old man sighed. “Is Saph—the young lady not with you today, my boy?”

The urge to ask Ignacius if his past had anything to do with Saphiria’s enslavement or her missing father arose within Dimitry. His query, however, wasn’t fueled by suspicion. While the old man might have performed questionable deeds in his past, he proved his independence from the Church aboard the Dirty Matilda and in Coldust. It was curiosity that impelled Dimitry to ask. But with others around, now wasn’t the time. “No. Saphiria has her hands full with other things.”

“After what we did to her, I’d imagine she would.” Eyes clouded over, Ignacius fiddled with his horn pipe, undoubtedly wrestling with the demons of his past. Perhaps the ones from his days working for the Church. It was a while before he spoke again. “Still, it’s good to see you again. Just this morning, I was telling Raina about your strange magic. Is that why you’re here?”

Emilia stopped carving her wooden block but didn’t look away from it.

“It’s related. I wanted to see if I could get a special enchantment made.”

Ignacius leaned closer and ran a hand through his white beard. “You’re not thinking about making a violet-colored illumina one, are you?”

“No.” Dimitry pulled the chair he sat on closer to the table. “This time, it’s a modified version of preservia.”

“What for?”

“To keep it simple, if everything goes well, I should be able to cure the plague with it.”

The old man’s mouth dropped open. He brought the pipe to his wrinkled lips and exhaled a thick and persistent cloud of minty white smoke that filled the entire room. “If it works, can you do me a favor?”

“Depends on what it is.”

“I need you to help Raina.” Ignacius pressed a finger into his pipe’s bowl, causing it to release a dying hiss as the fire burnt out. “My girl started getting nosebleeds. She puts on a brave face and acts merry, but I know she’s scared.”

“Angelika already asked.” Dimitry leaned back in his chair. “From the start, I never intended to let a single mother of three lose her life to something I can prevent. You have my word.”

Emilia shot Dimitry a glance. Before he could confirm whether she wore an expression of gratitude, surprise, or irreverence, she looked away.

“You’re a good kid.”

Was it a line someone who intended to commit murder later that night deserved to hear? Dimitry gave Ignacius a crooked smile. “Not always.”

The grilled corpse of a half-eaten four-winged bird lay on the center of a dining room table. Five people ate their fill and sat in prolonged silence. Unlike most family meals where the participants shared their thoughts and feelings with words, this one did so with gestures.

Angelika slammed her spoon into a bowl of pottage and shot the occasional glare at Ignacius, who avoided eye contact with the furious young lady. Emilia continued to carve the wooden block in her hand with the pen-like engraving tool dangling from her neck. Raina, perhaps to mend the awkwardness, asked questions.

“Sweetie, how has work been? Have you been feeling well?”

“Me? I’ve been fine.” Angelika looked at her mother with somber, orange eyes. “You obviously haven’t.”

The woman with purpling skin laughed as if to cover up her impending doom with false jollity. She glanced at Dimitry. “I hope Angelika has lived up to your expectations.”

“I couldn’t ask for a better guard. She’s been a great help.”

“Really?” The bubbly woman beamed a smile so joyful that it might have been the fuel for everything positive in the universe. “That’s great!”

After another silence, Ignacius pushed his plate away. “Remember I told you about the strange magic I saw on the way here?”

Raina shook her head. “That silly story again?”

The old man reached into his red robe for a pure vol pellet, which gleamed under the light of an illumina-enchanted ceiling. He dragged it across a table filled with dirty dishes. “My boy, would you show them?”

“Here?” Dimitry asked. “Wouldn’t it just be a bother?”

“Trust me. No one in this household will ever think magic is a bother.” Ignacius nudged Raina’s shoulder and grinned. “Wait until you see this.”

Feeling like a circus performer, Dimitry picked up the lustrous metal sphere. What would entertain the Vogels the most? Perhaps a display that was showy but not wholly inconvenient to clean up. He gripped the pellet with one hand and placed his other onto the table’s edge. “Invisall.”

The wooden table they ate from vanished from sight, leaving only floating cups, dishes, and a crispy avian floating in mid-air.

Angelika jumped up. “What the fuck?!”

“Language!” Raina leaned over to furiously pat the top of an unseen table. She looked more like an astonished caveman discovering fire than a hospitable mother.

Emilia dropped her engraved block which crashed into an invisible object with a loud thunk. She prodded forth with a slender finger to confirm that the dining room furniture didn’t disappear from existence.

Dimitry used the commotion as a chance to sneak a yellow, pea-like snack under his hood to appease a faerie whose stomach grumbled throughout the meal.

“Salted samul?” Precious mumbled. “Disgusting.” She munched on it anyway.

Angelika rammed her boot into the table’s support. “It’s all still here!” She looked at Dimitry with eager eyes. “Can you use it on people? Can heathens see you when you vanish? Can you teach me?”

Raina intervened before Dimitry could respond to her beloved daughter’s requests. “Have you ever enchanted an object with invisall? Do you want to try? I’ll pay for it!”

Ignacius interrupted their barrage of questions with a violent coughing fit resulting from laughing too hard. It was a while before he caught his breath. “I knew they’d like it.”

“I hate to stop the fun,” Dimitry said, “but I came here for a reason today. It’s related to my ‘strange magic’.”

“Uh-huh.” Raina approached, her fingers tapping against her apron as if in anticipation.

“I wanted to try enchantment channeling. Angelika told me you would be able to help.”

“I’d be delighted to.” The woman clapped. “Girls, clean the table! Dad, can you bring the vol?”

In Dimitry’s thirty-four years of existence, he never saw a room become tidy as fast as he just did. The entire family put aside their differences to work as a cohesive unit for the sole purpose of seeing magic.

On the surface of a clean tablecloth covering a still invisible dining room table lay a pile of vol pellets and a flattened rag the size of a hand towel. Raina squirmed on a nearby chair. Emilia, Angelika, and Ignacius watched on with unbridled curiosity.

“This is your first time channeling magic, correct?” Raina asked.

“Yes,” Dimitry said. “I’m not sure what to do.”

She flashed him a reassuring smile. “It’s not much different from using the spell the same way you always do. Just chant it and envision its effects while channeling vol from one palm to the other. I’ll take care of the rest, okay?”

Ignacius stood against the wall, rolling a vol pellet between two fingers. “I don’t know if it’ll be that simple. The boy’s magic differs from ours.”

“I know it’s unique,” Raina said, “but it’s not the first time I’ve channeled an enchantment I couldn’t cast.”

Angelika stepped forward. “The Church boot-licker isn’t lying, mom. Dimitry’s illumina is violet-colored. I’ve seen him use it before.”

Raina tidied the stack of pellets. “Is that really true?”

“I can do a few other colors, too,” Dimitry said. “Not that it really makes much of a difference.”

The bubbly woman looked up. “Can you show us sometime?”

Stood against the wall with green seeds in hand, Emilia stopped nibbling to shoot Dimitry a wanting glare.

Apparently, the whole family was eager to see Dimitry’s magic. It wasn’t in him to disappoint them. “Sure. When my schedule frees up.”

Raina beamed a wide smile. “I know your time is valuable, so let’s get started.” She reached a hand to her back to untie a string on her dress, exposing her upper spine. “Place your palms on my higher cores.”

Dimitry furrowed his brow at the strange request. He shot a glance at Angelika and Ignacius, who both looked on nonchalantly. “Where exactly am I doing that?”

“Just below my shoulder blades.”

“So, just put my hands there?”

Raina displayed a wicked grin. “You’re a man, don’t be shy.”

Angelika exhaled a deep, weary breath. “Mom, please don’t say it like that.”

The bubbly woman giggled.

“R-right.” Dimitry approached her from behind and placed his palms on her back. “By the way, can you cast spells from higher cores?”

“You can, my boy, but they’re hard to control. Most mages only use the ones in their palms and soles.” The old man chuckled. “There were certainly times I’ve kept vol hidden in my shoes to cast a sneaky spell.”

Dimitry recalled Ignacius casting magic through his feet when they were escaping the Church in Coldust. A useful tactic. When his situation became less tumultuous, he would dissect a corpse to map out every circuit and core precisely. Perhaps possibilities he never imagined existed.

“I’ll start absorbing vol in a moment,” Raina said. “When you feel it gathering under my right shoulder blade, I want you to absorb it through your hand like you would any pellet and send it across your body and into the opposite core. Except you want to channel through your palm, not concentrate it. Okay?”

“Got it.”

She placed a purple-tinted hand over a stack of dark green pellets, which began to shrink.

A warm sensation accumulated beneath Dimitry’s right hand. When he absorbed the energy, flowing continuously through his palm, it didn’t irritate his circuits the same way a normal spell did. Was Raina taking on the discomfort in his place, or was enchanting different from casting?

The energy overflowed, giving his arm a vague sensation of fullness. Now wasn’t the time to theorize.

Catching his derailing train of thought, Dimitry focused on sending the warmth across his body while thinking of adding heat to circular bacterial DNA, degrading it. “Preservia.”

Vol didn’t stop flowing from Raina’s back.

Dimitry channeled every bit from her right higher core to her left, all while struggling to uphold the imagery of degrading DNA. Soon, a glow covered the entire towel-sized rag, indicating a successful enchantment.

Or at least Dimitry hoped it did. Stupefied expression on his face, he glanced over the woman’s shoulder to observe the baffling result of their efforts.

While preservia enchantments typically radiated a bright pink color, the rag’s glow was darker and denser. It appeared compressed. Was it due to his modified magic?

“That’s strange.” Raina held up the cloth. “I’ve never seen it look like that before.”

“My boy…”

Angelika leaned forward, a confused frown on her face. “Does it even work?”

Hands folded against her chest, Emilia watched in silence.

Dimitry picked up the rag, a subtle pulse radiating from its magic. Maybe, just maybe, he held in his hand the cure to the plague and his own salvation.

58. Phase I Trials

Angelika’s ass was numb from sitting on an icy Malten street for far too long. Like the many refugees surrounding her, she was cold and hungry and wearing loose, ragged clothes—her disguise while she staked out the hospital’s domed entrance. She waited here all evening, an eternity, and her target still hadn’t arrived. A yearning for Leona’s cooking and a warm bed grew.

But she couldn’t go home yet. Not until that fucker Josef arrived. How much longer would Angelika have to wait before the bullshit surgeon showed up to kill plagued patients and steal their money? Hell, if it wasn’t for Dimitry, mom could have been one of his victims!

While Angelika despised heathens and bandits—parasites that preyed on her city—anyone who might hurt her mom or sisters pissed her the fuck off. Josef among them. His disposal would be a boon to Malten.

Angelika grinned in anticipation of the act, when an odor fouler than bedpan fumes made her gag. Did a refugee shit themselves?

Keeping her face hidden in the shadow of her hood, Angelika scanned the three-way street for her target. Nope. Josef still wasn’t here. Just a pile of ceramic and wooden scrap beside the hospital entrance and people huddling around fires or under makeshift blankets. Damn refugees were no better than bandits. They robbed and begged and cluttered the streets, pillaging all of Malten’s resources without giving anything in return! Food, clothes, and even vol grew expensive because of them.

Her glare paused at a scrawny boy who shivered against his purple-skinned mother’s chest. How long had passed since they ate a square meal or slept on a warm bed?

Angelika’s meanderings halted at the sight of an approaching hooded figure. She peeked out from under her ragged cloak to look at their face, a dark green moon illuminating its features.

A small, graying beard. No hair upon a bald head. A shit-eating grin.

It was Josef.

Motionless, Angelika hawked his every gesture as he approached the hospital’s closed doors. She had to time this perfectly. A single misstep would either kill him or let him live long enough to tell his tale.

She reached into her cloak’s pocket to retrieve a pellet she prepared specifically to kill this asshole. Cold and sleek between her fingers, she rolled the vol into her palm. Angelika absorbed all of its power through her circuits, which made her body hot despite chilling winds and biting frost, then concentrated half of it into her palm’s core.

Josef stopped in front of the hospital’s door. Beside him was a pile of ceramic and broken crates assembled from the mess he left behind when he ransacked the church last night. How satisfying that he would die by his mess.

Angelika held out a palm underneath her cloak, aiming at the edge of a wooden beam poking out from the bottom of the heap.

“Propelia,” she whispered.

It swept under Josef’s feet, causing him to lose his balance and stumble into the church’s wall.

“Propelia,” she muttered once more, targeting the asshole’s back.

Josef’s descent accelerated, slamming his belly into the pile of scrap. An agonizing cry rang out across an otherwise quiet street. His shrieks and shrills awoke refugees from their uncomfortable slumbers, many of whom rushed over to help.

The hospital’s doors burst open, oozing light onto a filthy stone road and a dying old man. A wooden splint dug into his shoulder, and another into his stomach. Josef’s cloak brandished expanding spots of blood as his shouts transitioned into whimpers and faltering prayers.

A group of refugees helped a nurse drag the body inside, and everyone’s attention focused on the soon-to-be-dead Josef. The fucker wouldn’t bother Dimitry anymore. Now he could concentrate on treating mom.

Angelika smirked. Although she took no pleasure in murder, she certainly did in a job well done.

Pained moans and concerned voices echoing from behind, Angelika headed home to warm up. She craved nothing more than a heated bath.

Morning’s first light illuminated the gloom and chilled cellar below the hospital, its luminosity aggravating Dimitry’s growing headache and nausea. He massaged his temples with two hands that were a darker shade of purple than yesterday and sighed.

His disease was progressing, thugs had set up camp outside the hospital to threaten anyone that got close, and aside from the faerie napping in his hood, Dimitry had no one to watch his back. Clewin and Claricia’s worsening symptoms required them to rest on hospital beds while Angelika was out running an errand. The plague exhausted everyone, and he was no different.

Sat beside a wall lined with containers holding diseased rats, he looked over his results once more, making sure he didn’t miss the slightest detail that could aid him in identifying what bacteria caused the plague.

Or that was his intention. Dimitry couldn’t focus.

His thoughts returned to the gruesome sight he saw when he arrived at the hospital that morning. A bald and lanky surgeon lay cold and still beside a bowl of hastily plucked and bloodied shards. The cavities they created now played host to spices and herbs. Just the way Josef taught them, the night shift nurses had tried to save his life.

They failed.

This time, no one accused Dimitry of a failed surgery. Josef’s death resulted from an accident and an unfortunate decision made by the celestial bodies themselves. Common sense common only in a medieval cesspool like this one.

Although Josef’s passing bestowed the hospital’s ownership to Dimitry, allowing him to instruct the nurses unimpeded, implement functional medicine, and claim the positive reputation that accompanied every saved life, something dark and looming festered within. Its harrowing clawing became more frantic the longer Dimitry reflected on his actions. What scared him, however, wasn’t incessant guilt, but his growing ability to embrace it.

Dimitry had killed another man, and he ordered a girl not even twenty years old to carry out the assassination—a burden that should have been his alone. However, it wasn’t one he could carry himself due to a relentless pursuit by thugs and a mysterious third party that stalked him from the rooftops, trailing him from the hospital to the castle and everywhere in between.

One could never be too cautious in this world: Dimitry learned that lesson well. If he had his own version of the ten commandments, it would be second on the list right below ‘thou shalt kill so others may live’.

Josef’s death served as a testament to that fact. Even if Dimitry somehow forced him to leave the hospital, the lanky man would have worked elsewhere, continuing to take lives under the guise of perverse pseudo-medicine.

One murder prevented hundreds more.

That was how Dimitry rationalized his unsavory philosophy. He would exploit Josef’s death by mentoring the hospital’s entire staff. All of them. Even if instructing the night shift nurses on how to properly care for and dress wounds required working around the clock, forgoing sleep, he didn’t mind. Especially if it meant that filling gashes with condiments became a thing of the past.

The goal was to turn the hospital into a vehicle for curing the plague. And, if the results of his latest experiments were anything to go by, it wasn’t a distant dream.

Rats afflicted with preservia disintegrating the DNA of rod-shaped or gram-positive bacteria fared better than both the negative control and positive control. Their skin was grayer, they had more energy and, more importantly, their bowels no longer splattered liquid feces everywhere. If his next round of tests targeted gram-positive, rod-shaped bacteria exclusively, the spell would become more potent while reducing side-effects further.

Simply put, it was a triumph.

However, not all results showed promise. Preservia affecting subjects by cleaving peptidoglycan monomers didn’t show improvement. The rats continued to crawl around, their skin rigid and purple. They were nearly identical to the negative control vermin that received no treatment. Subjects with denatured bacterial ATP synthase or ribosomes were slightly healthier, but not as well off as those with disintegrated DNA.

Dimitry lacked a crucial piece of information regarding the efficacy of his magic. Why were some spell pathways better than others, even if they would all doubtlessly lead to the death of any bacteria they affected? While microbes could produce more ATP synthase and ribosomes, the energy and protein bottleneck would kill them before then. How about peptidoglycan? All bacteria relied on the essential molecule to keep their cell walls intact, so why did they survive?

Was preservia less effective on smaller molecules like peptidoglycan? No. If illumina could target electrons, compounds containing multiple amino acids wasn’t an issue. Or did spells differ in what they could hit? That was one possibility.

Another explanation was that far more peptidoglycan existed in bacteria than DNA, ribosomes, and ATP synthase combined. Disintegrating organic molecules required a lot of power. Since vol took on the form of heat when absorbed, perhaps it was a fuel source with a predetermined amount of energy. Like gasoline or coal.

Was magic more efficient when it took efficient pathways to accomplish its goal? Now that he thought about it, it seemed obvious. When there was time, he would—

Two sets of boots thumping down stone steps awoke Dimitry from his musings.

The first to enter the cellar was a red-robed girl.

Trailing behind her was another, whose wavy scarlet hair flanked a beautiful face. Leona nodded in greeting while catching her breath.

Angelika pulled off her hood to reveal red cheeks and dark bags under tired eyes. “Just like you asked me to last evening, I brought Leona, and I did the other thing too.”

Her fatigued features reinvigorated the darkness lingering in Dimitry’s gut. Did she sleep at all last night? Did stress from Dimitry’s murderous orders give her insomnia? “I hope it wasn’t… too difficult on you.”

“What? No. I don’t give a shit about that.” Angelika stepped forward. “Is your magic ready yet?”

“I-I see.” Dimitry’s burden lightened. “Unfortunately, it still needs testing.”

“Can’t you go any faster?”

“I don’t know if it’s ready for human—”

“Come the fuck on!” Angelika stomped with a heavy boot. “Mom’s nose was bleeding all night, and now she’s having trouble standing up, too!”

Leona pushed her distraught sister aside before stepping in front. She pulled a leather pouch out of her cloak and held it out with both hands, bowing deeply all the while. “On behalf of the whole family, we brought vol in hopes that it would expedite your efforts. Please accept it.”

Dimitry diverted his gaze from a seething Angelika and reached for Leona’s offering, which was heavy in his hand. Just how much vol was inside? Sadly, even an infinite amount wouldn’t change the fact that treatment wasn’t ready yet. “I need more time. It’s too early to know if the modified preservia enchantment will work.”

He pointed at a dark pink glowing towel enshrouding a vase. “I’ve only started testing it this morning, so I don’t know how the rat will react to it yet. And even if the enchantment cures its plague, I still wouldn’t know what effects it’ll have on people.”

“For fuck’s sake!” Angelika’s bottom lip quivered. She looked down at a sitting Dimitry, orange irises trembling. “By the time you figure it out, she’ll be dead!”

“Angelika!” Leona shouted, her voice shaky. “Control yourself. You’re not the only one who’s scared.”

“What do you want me to do? Wait around like a jackass?”

“I want you to shut up.”

Angelika groaned and leaned back against the wall. “Fine. Let mom die.”

Leona turned to face Dimitry. “Please.” She bowed lower than last time. “I’ve heard about your powerful magic. Could you please, please try? We can’t afford to lose our mother. She’s all we’ve got.”

How was Dimitry supposed to respond to that? What if his magic created long-term complications that killed Raina? What would he say to them then? He massaged his forehead to soothe an intensifying headache. “Give me a second to think.”

Bed-ridden patients didn’t have long to live. It wasn’t long before dark blisters cropped up along with peeling skin, resulting in increasing amounts of necrotic tissue. Some people lost entire limbs to amputation—a dangerous prospect in a world without a functional understanding of germ theory.

Raina, Clewin, and Claricia had less than half a week before then. Not enough time to conduct proper trials. Although the concept of testing magical medicine on people before verifying its safety on animals irked Dimitry, he had no choice but to push his plans forward.

“Fine. Let’s try it.” Dimitry glanced up at a girl in the middle of a tantrum, and at the other, who remained bowing. “Leona, do you know why I asked Angelika to bring you here today?”

“I am ready to channel your spells at any time. Give me the word.”

“This time, we’ll be making a blanket-sized enchantment. Is that okay?”

Leona took off her robe, folded it, and placed it on an empty cask. “The result might not be as good as one made by our mother, but it’s not often that I receive complaints about my work.”

“Good.” Dimitry stood up and rolled his stiffening shoulders. “I have something interesting to try.”

59. Wizard Surgeon

When Raina’s eyes opened, red light from a darkening sky was the first thing to greet her. It entered through a bedroom window overlooking the castle district’s center from the second floor of Vogel’s Enchantments.

Breathing was difficult.

Blood clogged the back of her nose, and a metallic taste filled her mouth. Did Raina have another nosebleed while she slept? With how frequent they’ve become, growing in frequency and intensity by the day, it wouldn’t have surprised her.

But it wasn’t all bad. The throbbing headache Raina fell asleep with no longer pounded against her skull. Instead, it only pressed down on her forehead. Did her midday nap, interrupted by gasps for air, make her feel better, or was it that—

Wait.

The kids!

Did they eat? Was Leona managing the store properly? Although she was a clever girl, her enchantment skills weren’t quite there yet. How about Emilia? Were her seal inscribing studies going well? And Angelika. Raina hoped she wasn’t fighting with her grandfather again. Was she starving after work?

Raina didn’t have time to waste in bed. She shot up, curling her body into a seated position. Thankfully, the swift movement didn’t make her dizzy or nauseous, and her body wasn’t fatigued either. Her stomach hurt, though.

Something threw itself at Raina, wrapping their arms around her neck, snuggling close with a soft and warm cheek. She didn’t have to look to know who it was. Although Angelika was crude with words and quickly became heated during an argument, she was also the most affectionate out of all of her children.

“Did you eat? How was work? Did Dimitry let you out early? Are you hungry?”

“I’m fine,” Angelika said. “Everyone’s fine. How are you?”

Her daughter was safe.

A wave of relief washed over Raina, sending cooling ripples throughout her body. She already lost one beloved combat mage to war—another would be too much to bear. “Did Mira or her majesty give us any new jobs while I slept?”

“Who gives a shit?” Angelika hugged tighter.

Raina felt warmth and joy and intense guilt. No proper mother would make their children worry as much as she did. She couldn’t let the plague take her yet. Ever since Adal passed away in the Einheart Wars and Ignacius vanished, Angelika had clung to Raina as if every moment they spent together would be their last.

A day she thought would come soon.

However, the deep-seated sense of impending doom in the pit of Raina’s stomach vanished. She was ready to work. To manage the store, to cook, to mentor Leona. Although she wasn’t as healthy as she was a week ago, she felt well enough to take care of the kids.

“How are you?” Angelika muttered.

Raina smiled as wide as she could. “I’m much stronger and healthier!” She threw out an arm and flexed it to display her newfound vigor.

Angelika pulled back, her eyes half-open and red with dark bags beneath them. “Really? You’re not saying that just to make me feel better?”

“I’m telling the truth! As healthy as a—” Raina froze at a sudden realization. “Could it actually…”

Lifting the corner of the enchanted blanket she slept on—the one that Leona brought over that afternoon—Raina examined its glow.

It was darker and pinker and more intimidating than the one she made for Dimitry yesterday. She saw nothing like it. Did its magic cure her plague?

Denial and curiosity bubbled up within Raina. How did a mere surgeon cast spells that neither she nor anyone else in the Sorceresses Guild could? Invisall, violet-colored illumina, and now this? And it wasn’t at its full power, either.

Leona said she weaved a medium-strength enchantment, so why was the aura denser than last time? Even the Church couldn’t make that. Just how much was Raina ignorant about?

She couldn’t die yet.

If her children weren’t reason enough, studying this magic was!

“Mom, why are you staring? Do you feel dizzy again?”

“Angelika, sweetie… did that surgeon friend of yours really make this?”

She nodded. “He told us to tell him right away if it starts to work. What should we do?”

Raina jumped out of bed with sprightly energy. “Leona!” she shouted loud enough that her daughter downstairs could hear. “Close the store and get ready to go out!”

“Is everything okay?!” Leona yelled in response.

“Mom?”

“Sweetie, can you go to the chest and bring me a vol ingot?” Raina rushed over to her wardrobe and dug through it, looking for something cute to wear. “Then go get some sleep. You’ll get wrinkles if you keep staying up all night.”

Light snowfall and freezing winds drifted through a crowded market square filled with merchants, passersby, and panhandling refugees. Their layered voices were loud but stood no match for the town crier’s. His piercing announcements were the fruit of decades of work experience. In all that time, however, no one paid him to deliver a message as stupid as the one he was about to.

The town crier took off his hat, then swiped a purple hand across its surface to remove a thin layer of snow. After fitting it back atop his head, he cleared his throat, rung his bell, and opened his mouth to convey the same message he yelled for the past three days.

“Hear ye, hear ye, good people of Malten! The east market hospital is offering free cures for the plague and curse! Look for a church brandishing Celeste’s statue! Residents, nobles, and even refugees are welcome!”

Although the announcement came out of his own mouth, the town crier didn’t believe a single word of it. Why would anyone give away a cure for free? The people of this city were too idiotic to ask themselves that same question. They flocked like sheep to an obvious scam.

Not his problem.

The job paid well, and the market guards didn’t tell him to stop.

“Come on,” a man in ragged clothing said to his unfortunate female companion. “Let’s get in line before it grows any larger.”

“But what about those rumors? Isn’t the pale-eyed surgeon a sham?”

“My buddy said he made his nosebleeds stop! We were neighbors back in Volmer. We can trust him!”

The muddy-haired woman held out a darkening arm. “… Which way is it?”

Foolish refugees.

They believed every lie the town crier fed them. Not only because of his impeccable delivery and flawless annunciation, but because desperate people acted like idiots. The surgeon who hired the town crier knew that. It was all part of his grand scheme.

The town crier snorted the blood pooling in the back of his nose before bellowing the second part of his message. “For those who can’t wait and have coin to spare, an expedient cure is available for twenty-five gold marks! Skip the line and receive better treatment than the rest!”

A basic trick. The ‘free cure’ was only there to create competition to make dying nobles more willing to pay for something that didn’t exist. If he was rich, the town crier would have spent his final moments enjoying his luxuries instead of giving them away to a scammer.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t. He had to make what little money he could so that his family could survive when the plague finally took his life. With an ailing grandmother and two hungry kids at home, the town crier had no choice but to work until he died.

It was a better use of his little time than standing in line outside some shady hospital.

A merchant with a fyrhound fur coat stood at a nearby market stall, speaking too enthusiastically. “And when I finally got inside, the Jade Surgeon told me to lie down on enchanted bedclothes glowing a really dark color. Never seen anything like it.”

“What happened?” His gullible companion asked.

“I spent half of my morning there. When I left, I thought it was a waste of time ‘cause I still felt like shit. But look!” The merchant pinched the skin on the back of his hand. “The Jade Surgeon’s methods work!”

“Think we can buy those bedclothes from him?”

“Damn, I should have asked. With the plague spreading, we could make a killing in Feyt!”

A faint glimmer of hope lit up within the town crier’s abdomen, filling him with hesitant warmth. He pinched the stiff and purple skin on the back of his hand.

Unlike that merchant’s, it wasn’t getting any better.

He stuffed his bell into his coat pocket and stepped off the podium. Even though he figured out Dimitry’s scam days ago, he would stand in the hospital’s line to confirm his suspicions.

“I need cutters, forceps, and my number ten scalpel.” Dimitry’s command echoed past the chatter of nurses, patients, and the shouting of watchmen outside, who have been chasing away thugs ever since the rumors of a cure have begun to spread.

“Yes, Mr. Dimitry!” Lili ran on her tiptoes, careful to avoid stepping on ailing people. They lay on tightly packed floor-level mattresses dressed in glowing, dark pink bedclothes. Initially, she thought it strange that Dimitry had most bed frames thrown out, but now it made sense—the furniture took up too much space. Without them, the hospital could fit twice as many patients.

Lili reached the room’s corner, where a small table held up an assortment of bottles and bowls. A vase among them contained the curious iron tools that a sooty giant wearing only an apron over his bare chest brought over just yesterday.

Cutters were easy to remember. They resembled the nail clippers Lili had back in her father’s manor. The surgical forceps were unique—blunt blades with looping handles. She plucked both instruments out from their container, then turned her attention to what always gave her trouble. Scalpels. There were too many, and they all looked so similar.

“Mr. Dimitry, which—”

“The one with a fat and curved blade.”

“Got it!” Hoping it was the correct one, Lili grabbed a scalpel and dumped all three tools into an alcohol bath. Apparently, it was for ‘sterilization’. She didn’t understand what it meant yet, but she was learning. Every day brought new challenges she never faced whilst living in Einheart.

Back then, all she did was read poetry, meet with suitors, and care for the stable’s horses. Although it was only a month ago, it felt like an eternity. Lili often wondered how her parents fared against the growing heathen threat, if her family’s estate and its people were safe, but she had other things keeping her occupied now.

Lili’s job as a nurse demanded her full attention. When Her Royal Majesty’s stewardess assigned it to her upon her arrival in Malten, she scoffed at the notion. She believed it below her station to assist common folk. However, the satisfaction she received from helping patients, accepting their gratitude, was worth more to her than any gold armlet a noble chump could offer her.

For once in her life, people needed her.

Relied on her.

No longer was Lili a pretty ornament for men to joust over with increasingly expensive yet meaningless gifts.

She found her calling.

Recently, her feelings towards her occupation only grew stronger. Unlike when she worked for Josef, whispering encouraging words into the ears of patients who wouldn’t survive by week’s end, Lili now took pride in her work.

They saved lives in this hospital.

With those heartening thoughts in mind, Lili wiped the surgical tools held in her hand with a warm, wet rag, then sprang forth to her mentor’s side. “I’ve retrieved them, Mr. Dimitry.”

“Did you sterilize the blades?”

“In the manner that you’ve shown me.”

“Good job.” Dimitry lifted a patient’s purple hand that had three fingers missing. In their place was a big hole filled with milky yellow pus, pink water, and an odor so rancid that it made Lili wriggle her nose. It happened often. The terrible plague, which was not a curse, often caused permanent damage if it festered too long.

“Anything else, Mr. Dimitry?”

“Stay here.” He took the clippers from her cupped hands. “I want you to watch carefully because I expect you to be able to do this someday.”

Her? Do that? A jolt of anxiety shot down Lili’s spine. “I don’t know if I can, I’m just a—”

“You’re a smart girl. Out of every nurse here, you learn the fastest. Believe in yourself like I believe in you.”

Although it was strange for a man the same age as Lili to call her a girl, she took his compliment graciously. No one relied on her being smart before. Perhaps all that time she spent studying under the manor tutors had paid off. She took a deep breath and focused on the surgery.

Dimitry clipped away skin—tough and dry like jerky—from the patient’s hand, small fragments flying off with each metallic click.

“Isn’t that painful for the patient, Mr. Dimitry?”

“No. The tissue is dead.”

Lili glanced down at the middle-aged woman, who watched Dimitry slice away her purple skin without a single groan or wince. Although hard to believe, his words must have been true. “How did you know?”

He held up the wound so that Lili could look into its gruesome and murky interior. “See how there’s no blood coming out?”

She nodded.

“That means the skin isn’t healthy, and the nerves inside don’t work anymore. If we don’t get rid of it, it’ll only get worse, and if we do, new and healthy skin will grow in its place. That’s the purpose of debridement.”

Strange words like ‘nerves’ and ‘debridement’ had become increasingly familiar to Lili despite their exact meanings remaining unclear. Hopefully, with time and experience, she would grow to understand them. Could she really learn to do what Dimitry did?

She hoped so.

The prospect excited Lili.

60. Busy Hospital

Five hectic days passed since Dimitry learned that modified preservia enchantments disintegrating rod-shaped, gram-positive bacterial DNA cured the plague. The first beneficiary, Raina, visited the hospital’s cellar that night, bringing Leona and the test blanket along. With their help, Dimitry produced two sets of dark pink glowing bedclothes to treat himself, Clewin, and Claricia.

Results weren’t immediate.

Although the enchantment needed less than half a night to take effect, complete symptom resolution was a much longer process. Fatigue, muscle weakness, and nausea were the first to go. In the following days, skin would gradually regain its normal color while nosebleeds decreased in frequency.

Patients who developed black blisters, however, weren’t as fortunate. A third would die despite treatment with preservia. Among them were the elderly, children, and those who lived on Malten’s streets—victims of brutal weather and prolonged starvation.

Dimitry couldn’t do much to help them. Although disheartening, he tried to take solace in increased survival rates. Before the cure’s advent, anyone with blisters—a stage the plague used to reach in eighty percent of infected patients—was destined to end up in a mass grave.

Not anymore.

Most people were free to leave the hospital to recover after a nap on enchanted bedclothes. On an evidence-based hunch that the bacteria-causing plague died during that time, Dimitry implemented a rotation-based system for all but the critically ill and the rich, ‘premium’ customers. Each glowing mattress treated approximately eight patients per day. He discharged and admitted most patients in massive waves.

Unfortunately, a lack of equipment limited the number of people the hospital could treat at once, with enchantment production being the bottleneck. The first morning, Leona and Raina produced only six sets of bedclothes to avoid overload. However, by the second day, enchantresses under orders from the head of the Sorceress Guild began to visit the cellar.

The hospital now had seventy-four plague-curing mattresses.

When Dimitry wasn’t bouncing back and forth between them, performing debridement on terminal-stage plague patients, he was testing new versions of preservia, channeling additional enchantments, or taking short naps. The workload was intense, but his experience in a trauma center had prepared him for it. He was happy to do it. For the first time in months, Dimitry was saving lives instead of taking them. A development he welcomed with open arms.

It was the only thing keeping his burning eyes open, desperate in their efforts to maintain focus while Dimitry scooped out pus and liquefied necrotic soup from a wound embedded in the side of a patient’s foot. Every time he retracted the surgical spoon, he would wipe its gunk against a nearby towel until only a thin layer of bacterial biofilm remained on his fleshy canvas.

Dimitry slathered honey—the only antimicrobial he could get—onto the wound’s raw surface and pressed the back of his sleeve into his eyelids to momentarily relieve their underlying dryness. “You’re all done, Mr. Roicht. When the nurse comes around, she’ll wrap your wound. Do you have any questions?”

“Will there be any more surgeries?” the elderly man asked.

“No, that’s all for today. Don’t take off the bandage and don’t poke around. It’ll just make it worse. Come back sometime tomorrow, and we’ll change it for you.”

“I am in your debt, Jade Surgeon.”

Dimitry forced a smile. “Think nothing of it.”

Not only was his care substandard in part due to a lack of gauze, gloves, and saline water, Mr. Roicht was a refugee. The plague threatened his life no longer, but without food or a home, chances are that the elderly man would die from exposure to the elements. It was only a matter of time.

With an elongating line outside and patients packing the hospital’s interior, there was nowhere to shelter people from the cold. Dimitry swallowed his inadequacy. His time was better spent treating the next patient.

“Dimitry!” a nurse said, nearly tripping over the edge of a mattress as she dashed over. “There’s another customer who says they want to pay!”

“Bring them in.”

“But there are other people who’ve been waiting all—”

He rolled his stiff and tight neck, then looked the nurse squarely in the eye. “I know it feels wrong, but we can’t keep the hospital running without their support. Allow the paying customers in. If anyone complains, let Angelika and the watchmen take care of them.”

“O-okay.” The nurse turned away, the spring in her step gone as she trudged towards the entrance.

Dimitry shared her concerns. He wanted to treat everyone fairly, but he couldn’t. Tools, ale, employees, and enchantments were pricey investments. The only support he received was paying nobles, enchantresses from the Sorceresses Guild, and the watchmen sent by the queen to arrest thugs and end disputes over positions in a growing line.

When the nurse returned, she trailed behind a portly, middle-aged man and a fit one approximately twenty years old. Both men wore steel armor, each component glowing a different color. Hospital staff and patients alike showered the younger man with attention and compliments.

“It’s Valter!”

“Our savior is here!”

“He’s so handsome…”

The portly man, however, didn’t appear to be the target of any praise. “Hey, you!” He pointed at Dimitry with a metal-clad finger. “You the one in charge here?”

“Can I be of service?”

“Here.” He retrieved a full and bumpy leather sack from under his breastplate. “There’s fifty in there. I want the best, and I mean the very best treatment you got. I want you to make Valter better quick!”

“Father! Why do you seek to waste my time here?” Valter pulled a handkerchief from the crevice beneath a lustrous pauldron and dragged it past a burn scar on his cheek, soaking the blood leaking from his purple nose. “My men are out there defending the city walls from heathens on their own!”

“How are you supposed to lead an army when you can barely stand?”

“But father, I—”

The portly man pressed his payment into Dimitry’s hand. “If you can fix this moron before he runs out and gets himself killed, every coin is yours.”

Dimitry peeked inside the sack to discover a small fortune of gold marks. Enough for four more blankets and a day’s worth of supplies. “Very well.” He beckoned the two armored men forward. “Please, mind your step.”

Their metal boots clanged against the hospital’s stone floor as they followed Dimitry to a partitioned corner of the hospital.

“How long will it take?” the portly man blathered. “Unlike these refugees, we can’t waste away our busy lives in this filthy place.”

Dimitry ignored the snob’s self-indulgent remarks in favor of remembering the time of day. Four bed rotations passed since he last went outside, meaning that it was midnight. “Valter will have to stay here for a short while, but we’ll discharge him before morning.”

“That’s it?”

“He won’t be perfectly healthy right away,” Dimitry said, stopping in front of the curtain separating the ‘premium’ section of the hospital from the rest, “but his condition will continue to improve over the next couple of days.”

“This better work, Jade Surgeon.”

“It will. I used it on myself, and I’m alive to tell the tale.” Dimitry turned his attention to Valter.

The young warrior wore a breastplate with a golden glow belonging to a reflectia enchantment. Based on information Dimitry gathered from the handful of soldiers and guards he treated, it was one of the most potent and common enchantments on the battlefield due to its ability to reflect magic targeted at the wearer.

That included preservia.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to take off your armor for the treatment to work. Do you need assistance?”

“Do not trouble yourself with me.” Valter removed his gauntlets and dropped them onto a table with a loud thunk. “I appreciate the offer, however.”

“Richter?” a voice called from behind the curtain. It belonged to another one of the hospital’s ‘premium’ customers.

The portly man guffawed in a manner both friendly and patronizing. “Moritz, is that you, you lazy prick?” He pulled back the curtain.

“Why are you here?” A short yet muscular man laying on a dark pink glowing mattress asked. “Shouldn’t you be back at your estate, wooing sheep while your son does all the hard work?”

“Unfortunately, I can’t because a certain stonemason guild master can’t pull his head out of his ass long enough to fix Malten’s walls.” Richter brandished a giant smile. “Do you want me to do your job for you too?”

“It hasn’t even been a week since the night of repentance. Quality work takes time. Has becoming a marquis made you forget what it means to do hard labor?” Moritz gave Richter a shit-eating grin. “Does someone wipe that fat face for you now, too?”

“Please,” Valter whispered. “There are people here.”

“Hard labor? All you do is slap rocks with a hammer while I’m out patrolling the fields making sure a heathen doesn’t take a giant crap on the grain you’ll be eating for dinner.”

“You’re not doing that. Your men are.” Moritz chuckled, then lay silent for a moment. His elated facial expression clouded over. “Speaking of which, is it just me or have bread prices gone up lately?”

“It’s not just you.” Richter crossed his arms over his chest. “Every month we lose another fucking village, and my serfs are fleeing south. The fact that it’s winter isn’t helping either.”

“Ah, shit.”

Although Dimitry didn’t intend to eavesdrop on their conversation, it was hard not to when they yelled loud enough to wake up every patient in the hospital. Their conversation troubled him. Would food become a problem?

No.

It already was.

Refugees starved on the streets with the situation deteriorating rapidly. Worse still, despite Dimitry’s wealth of modern knowledge, he couldn’t help. He remembered reading something about inefficient farming techniques in medieval times but had long since forgotten the details.

Dimitry did, however, know a thing or two about genetic recombination and cross-breeding. A time-consuming endeavor.

Or was it?

He had access to accelall and enchantment channeling. With the help of a person knowledgeable about this world’s crops like Richter, could he start an agricultural revolution? Unfortunately not. He had a hospital to run.

“Mr. Dimitry!” Lili’s voice cut through ambient chatter. “Someone wants to see you!”

“Tell them to wait like everyone else, or until traffic dies down.”

“They said they want to make you rich.”

Illuminated by a moon peeking out from behind distant clouds, small snowflakes twisted and danced in spiral patterns. They landed on the stone and iron roofs of Malten’s buildings, forming a thin layer of green that covered the entire city.

Dimitry watched the beautiful sight from the hospital’s second floor. He stood beside a stone arch, enjoying the icy wind brushing against his cheek, which seemed to extract fatigue with every passing flurry.

But he didn’t come here for his own enjoyment.

The cold was an excuse for him to wear his cloak. Precious took residence within its hood, waiting to provide emotion-reading support during his negotiations with a woman who claimed that she could make him wealthy.

“I hope the cold weather won’t be a bother,” Dimitry said. “It’s the only place I know where we won’t be interrupted by patients or nurses.”

“A fine decision if I say so myself. I appreciate you taking time out of your undoubtedly busy schedule for me.” She placed a hand on her chest and bowed with grace. “My name is Sophie Flynn, owner and manager of Malten’s Blue Compass branch. Not only are we one of the most prosperous trading firms in this city, but we also own seven riverboats and three ocean-ready cogs. Our trade reaches as far as the Amalthean Kingdom including—”

Dimitry held out a hand to stop her. “It’s clear that you’re a very important person, but I’m afraid it’s as you say. My time is limited. To cut introductions short, my name is Dimitry, and I’m a surgeon working at this hospital.”

Sophie smiled, coaxing shallow wrinkles from the corners of her lips. “The Fraud, the Jade Surgeon, the Flesh Barber. I was surprised to learn that they’re all one and the same person.”

He furrowed his brow. Although the first two nicknames rang familiar, the third stumped Dimitry. “Flesh Barber?”

“They claim you like to excise organs for your own devious pleasure.”

Considering the constant sharp debridement procedures and the occasional amputation, Dimitry understood why the populace gave him that title. Untreated, rotting tissue worsened. Surgery was a necessary evil for many patients with end-stage plague symptoms.

“But I know it’s not true.” Sophie stepped forward, her smile reaching her cheekbones. “A mere glance into your tired eyes shows that you’re doing your best to save people, aren’t you? That you’re the only one standing between death and life for many helpless, voiceless refugees.”

“She’s trying to butter you up,” Precious whispered.

Dimitry could tell as much. “Can you get to the point?”

“That’s what I like about you, Jade Surgeon. Eager to return to your—”

Perhaps catalyzed by days of insufficient sleep, irritation bubbled within Dimitry. He stopped listening to the overly wordy merchant and headed for the hatch leading downstairs.

“I want to buy some of your enchanted mattresses!”

He stopped. “Only the bedclothes carry enchantments, and they’re not for sale. Every single set saves eight lives a day.”

“Thirty gold marks each.”

Her words tempted Dimitry. That was more than twice what he paid to enchant them. “I’m afraid I have no choice but to turn you down. I still don’t have enough to fill the hospital, so I can’t give any away.”

“Why not?” Sophie asked, pleasant smile making its way back to her face. “I counted how many you had, and I’m ready to offer you in excess of 2200 golds for all of them. If you ever decide to stop playing the hero, it’ll be more than enough to retire for life and live more luxuriously than a baroness.”

“Let me guess. You’ll use them to exploit dying people?”

“What a horrific way to put it. If it makes you feel better, not the ones in this city. I can’t beat someone who’s giving away the cure for free.”

Dimitry sat down on one of the few remaining rooftop crates. “What do you mean?”

“Normally, I wouldn’t share my secrets, but I know that you’re no noble simpleton. Money alone can’t move you, can it?” Sophie’s blue lips shivered. She bundled her fur coat tighter around her slender body. “The plague spread to Ontaria and Feyt not long ago, and you’re the only one with a fix. You’re their last hope.”

“I see.” He looked up at a dark sky from which snowflakes fell and landed on his face. Sophie found his weak spot—guilt. If Dimitry rejected her offer, it would result in preventable deaths. However, he couldn’t give her the enchanted bedclothes he already had.

“If you provide the enchantresses, vol, and ten gold marks per unit, I am willing to channel ten sets of enchantments a day for you. That’s all I can make time for.”

“Sorry, Jade Surgeon, but it’s not worth it for me.”

“She’s lying,” Precious whispered.

“That’s unfortunate.” Dimitry stood up and walked towards the downstairs hatch once more. “I’ll be taking my leave, then.”

“Wait!” Sophie counted her fingers. “It seems my math was off. We have a deal.”

“Come back in the morning with what we’ve agreed on and—”

A wooden creak interrupted their conversation.

Two women in yellow robes opened the hatch and climbed up to the hospital’s roof. Court sorceresses.

One looked at Dimitry with cold-blooded eyes from under her hood. “Are you Dimitry Stukov?”

Why was everyone crawling out of the woodwork to pester him now? Couldn’t they tell that he was busy? “You’ve found me.”

“Her majesty demands your immediate presence. Bring whatever tools you use to cure the plague.”

61. The Royal Offer

In the furthest reaches of the castle’s third floor, Dimitry stood beside intimidating marble double doors. Enchanted stones embedded in the corridor’s floor and walls painted their reflective surfaces a deep azure color. When a yellow-robed woman pushed them open, they trudged inward with a heavy and prolonged creak, revealing a massive bedroom containing gilded furniture fit for royalty.

The court sorceress glanced back at him, nudging towards the room’s interior.

Dimitry’s cue to enter.

An aging queen with black-streaked gray hair lay under the blanket of a four-poster bed. A chair stood nearby. Red and gold with intricate embroidery, a royal mantle hung over its edge, and a familiar girl in a yellow dress sat on its cushion. Her indigo eyes trailed Dimitry as he walked inside. She gave him a broken smile.

Seeing her pale skin remain unplagued comforted Dimitry. He nodded to Saphiria and turned his attention to the queen.

“We’ve brought the surgeon, Your Royal Majesty.”

“Guard the doors and make sure no one approaches until I say. Not Klaire nor the ‘gift’. Is that clear?”

The gift?

“Yes, Your Royal Majesty.” The court sorceress turned around. As she marched out of the room, her piercing eyes shot Dimitry a glare.

He considered the gesture as a warning—Dimitry would suffer if he harmed the queen. Although the enchanted bedclothes hanging over his shoulder haven’t claimed any lives yet, he hoped the queen wouldn’t be the first. Dimitry walked towards the bed the size of a condominium living room. Suppressing a yawn that struggled to get free after five days of poor sleep, he knelt on both knees.

“There is no one here to impress. Raise your head.”

Dimitry stood up. “Yes, Your Royal Majesty.”

“Are those enchanted rags you carry intended for me?”

“Yes, Your Royal Majesty.”

“I’ve heard of them.” The queen pulled her arms from under a velvet blanket and lifted them towards the ceiling. “If you two would, I’m nauseous, and my back isn’t what it used to be.”

Saphiria rose from her chair to support the aging woman’s purple-tinted arms.

Dimitry wrapped a hand around Amelie Pesce’s waist. After he helped her to her feet, he spread a dark pink glowing cover across the bed’s surface. “Your Royal Majesty, how long has it been since your skin began to change color?”

“Three days.”

“Have you had any nosebleeds or anything else I should know about?” Dimitry signaled Saphiria to lay the queen back down.

“My nose bled for the first time earlier in the night, and my hands and neck are quite stiff.”

Relief flowed like a cooling wave through Dimitry’s body. He caught the queen’s illness early. Now he wouldn’t have to worry about the court sorceress outside stomping his face in for a failed procedure. Throwing the other half of the bedclothes, an enchanted blanket, over Her Royal Majesty, he examined her hand for inflammation and gangrene. Plagued skin peeled from extremities first.

“Dimitry.” The queen looked at him with unflinching red eyes. “What do you think of my city?”

He stopped palpating the woman’s fingers in search of rigid tissue, unsure of how to respond. Malten had many issues, but he didn’t want to offend her by listing all of them. Conversely, brown-nosing was foolish. Her Royal Majesty’s profession relied on manipulating and understanding people. He chose a diplomatic response. “It’s a fine city, but it has its problems.”

“I believe I told you last time we met. When we’re alone, you may speak freely.”

Saphiria gave him a supportive nod.

“Very well,” Dimitry said. “The streets are filthy, overcrowded, and infested with vermin, allowing the plague to spread unabated. Most of my patients, refugees, go days without proper meals as food continues to grow scarce. Poor nutrition makes them more susceptible to disease.

“The injured soldiers I’ve treated spoke as if they were fighting an uphill battle against heathens and bandits. Vol’s high price makes earning a living as a thaumaturge difficult. At times, both sorceresses and members of your army spoke of fleeing south.” He paused. “I’m afraid to say it, but Malten may not hold out long at this rate.”

The queen smiled as if satisfied by his response. “You seem as knowledgeable as my daughter claims you are, but you and I both know there’s more to it than that.”

“Your Royal Majesty?”

“Leandra, bring in the gift.”

The door burst open, and a middle-aged court sorceress dragged into the room five well-dressed men, chains binding their necks and arms, eyes abandoned by hope.

A bearded man edged forward. “Your Royal Majesty, I—“

The court sorceress kicked the back of his knee to topple him and knelt on the back of his head, pressing his face to the floor.

The queen scowled. “These miscreants paid the peasants to harass you and bribed my watchmen to ignore the signs—a ploy to extort the populace and flee Malten after lining their purses with coin. For those who were once merchants and the noble physicians of the Barber Surgeons Guild, they have become a disgraceful sight. As you can see, corruption and vanity have spread through my streets as well.”

Dimitry froze, no longer palpating purple feet for dying tissue. He intended to curry the queen’s favor from the start, to attain safety through a demonstration of his skills, but while the queen mobilized her forces to defend his hospital as he had hoped, a delivery of the men who orchestrated his intimidation went beyond expectations.

The knowledge also brought new considerations to light. Why wasn’t Josef among the conspiring surgeons? The complexities of medical politics begged a question from him. “Your Royal Majesty, you say there are surgeons among these men, but when I arrived in your city, you mentioned the Barber Surgeons Guild wasn’t around anymore. Dealing with ruthless competitors I did not know existed made my job more difficult than necessary. Are there others I should be aware of?”

“I did not lie to you. The guild disbanded after many of my physicians fled the kingdom. These pests are the remnants. They formed a secretive coalition without my consent, and although there was another amongst them, he was murdered before I could capture him.”

Saphiria looked away, her expression similar to when she killed the thugs in Estoria.

A glance at those aversive indigo eyes told Dimitry the full truth. Saphiria had assassinated the last conspiring surgeon, meaning Josef wasn’t amongst them. He was just another intimidation victim. The stress of a mysterious adversary led Josef to blaming Dimitry, and he exacted vengeance by killing patients with grotesque procedures and attributing the horrific outcomes on Dimitry. A pointless tragedy.

“Now hand down their punishment,” the queen said.

Dimitry awoke from his musings. “Me?”

“This is my gift to you—the fate of those who have wronged you despite your attempts to aid my subjects.” She watched him with narrowed eyes.

Although the queen introduced her offer as a ‘gift’, her tone and calculating glare hinted it was anything but. Was she testing him?

“Imprison them,” Dimitry said.

“There is no need to be so reserved. If it is your desire, they shall be beheaded.”

“They are useless to me dead.”

“How so?”

“Only the living can help me secure medical trade, clientele, supply chains—“

“Oil of vitriol,” a plump man uttered. “Aqua fortis, acidum salis, aqua vitae, caustic soda. Any medical reagent! I can get—“

The court sorceress thrust her knee into his back.

Dimitry furrowed his brow. The mention of aqua vitae had captured his intrigue. If the people of this world could distill alcohol, perhaps they could manufacture other chemicals as well. He would look into ‘medical reagents’ sometime. “As you can see, they have their uses.”

The queen flashed a smirk and waved her hand as if shooing away unwanted pets. “Leandra, throw them into the dungeon.”

“Come, dogs!” the court sorceress said, pulling the chains like a leash. The five men followed her out of the room, and the door slammed shut.

Yet more terrifying women. This world overflowed with them.

“One who utilizes every resource is worthy of consideration...” The queen paused. “Tell me, is it true that your magic extends beyond surgical applications?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“The enchantresses I’ve charged with serving your hospital have informed me of your obscure spells, which I presume were channeled into these rags.”

“You’re right about the bedclothes,” Dimitry said, “but I was told the head of the Sorceresses Guild sent the enchantresses.”

“And who do you think Mira answers to?” Amelie laughed. “However, providing the means and eliminating obstacles is the least I could do to support the man who is single-handedly healing my subjects. My true question lies elsewhere.”

Dimitry stood up. “I’ll answer to the best of my ability, Your Royal Majesty.”

“Is it…” The queen glanced at Saphiria. “Is it true that you possess magic that allows you to communicate with aquatic demons?”

Adrenaline spiked through Dimitry’s veins, and his heart skipped a beat. He stared into Saphiria’s indigo eyes, which looked back at him apologetically. Just how much did she reveal about him? Was she forced into it, or did she do so willingly? “If it wouldn’t be rude to ask, why do you wish to know?”

“Don’t misunderstand. Aquatic demons have been attacking our fishing boats for months, and Saphiria suggested you can help. It would do a great deal for our food supplies if you could quell their rage. I guarantee that no one but us three knows of your sacrilegious spells, and no one else would learn of them unless you wished them to.”

Could Dimitry trust her? Although the Church’s physical influence vanished, their teachings remained carved into the local culture and beliefs. People hated corrupted creatures, so how would they treat someone who could communicate with them?

But that was the general populace.

The queen and Saphiria were victims of the Church. One lost her husband and sons, and the other all that and her childhood. If there was anyone who hated the Church as much as Dimitry did, it was them.

“It’s true,” he whispered so the court sorceresses standing outside couldn’t hear.

“That makes my decision easy.” Amelie gave Dimitry a demanding look. “I want you to be my personal doctor.”

The offer stumped Dimitry. He stared into the aging woman’s tired yet unflinching red eyes, ones that looked like they had seen the world crumble around them but survived on sheer willpower alone. It was a while before he broke free from their grasp. “I apologize, Your Royal Majesty. As overjoyed and privileged as I am to receive such an honor, spending my time here while patients die in the hospital would be irresponsible of me.”

“There are two rulers in this world: those who wish their subjects to kiss their feet while whispering honeyed words, and those who demand their wisdom. I am the second. I’m not requesting your presence at the castle—only your knowledge.”

Lying with hands on her chest, the queen turned her gaze to the carved oak canopy of her bed and watched it as if it were a rolling sky. “In less than a week since you arrived in my kingdom, you’ve returned my heiress to me, lifted the plague’s curse, and impressed every enchantress I’ve sent you with magic known to none of them. I would be a damned fool to let you slip by the wayside.”

Dimitry sat on the edge of a mostly vacant bed, speechless. If he had his say, would he be able to manage the city’s health care? The tidiness of its streets? Could he gain the trust and support of other high-level officials? He desperately wanted to agree but pushed his luck further. “On one condition.”

Amelie’s red eyes flickered. “Oh?”

“My hospital is struggling to fit every patient. I need a bigger one.”

“Of course. It is a mere church. Would a cathedral suffice?”

“C-cathedral?”

“For over a month, I’ve allowed migrants to take shelter in it from winter winds. However, less than two weeks ago, my attendants sealed it off when watchmen discovered inhabitants with cursed purple skin living within. That’s no longer a problem for the efforts of the Jade Surgeon. It is yours if you accept my proposal, but my resources are stretched thin as it is, so upkeep would be entirely your responsibility.” The queen grinned. “As would collecting payment for your services.”

Processing her words proved difficult. The cathedral’s towering spires hung in the distance, visible at all times from anywhere in Malten. Its size rivaled the castle. Could Dimitry maintain such an enormous structure? Hire enough workers? Teach them? He accumulated hundreds of gold marks by treating wealthy patients, but never imagined that he would spend them building a proper hospital.

“I’ll give you time to think on it.”

“May I visit the cathedral tonight?”

“I’ll see that no one stands in your way.” The queen smiled pleasantly. “Now that we’ve wasted precious time prattling, would you cure my plague?”

“It won’t be long now, Your Royal Majesty. Try to sleep.”

The queen pinched the dark pink glowing blanket. “Surely, there is more to it than this. What surgeon works without astrology charts and healing sands?”

“An efficient one,” Dimitry said, examining the queen for peeling skin one last time. “Rest for a full night, and by the time you wake up, the medicine will have started to take effect already. You won’t need the enchanted bedclothes after that. If it isn’t too much of a bother, I would like them back. They’re quite expensive.”

“I’ll be keeping them. Klaire will leave fifty gold marks under your guest room bed as recompense. You may leave now.”

Dimitry uttered a dumbfounded laugh. Although he borrowed them from the hospital where they were desperately needed, the queen’s payment would be enough to produce several more sets. He threw his medical bag over his shoulder. “I see. Pleasant dreams, Your Royal Majesty.”

62. Potential for Aggressive Expansion

Although blue light was said to impede sleep, it did nothing to keep Dimitry conscious as he waited outside Saphiria’s castle bedroom. After his meeting with the queen, the girl asked to join him on his visit to the cathedral, but he didn’t know if he would make it that far. His eyelids were heavy. Their mass steadily increased until they closed, sending warm ripples throughout his body and glimpses of an oncoming dream.

A tilting sensation jolted him from the seductive pull of yet another microsleep. He caught his balance, and his eyes shot open only to discover a stiff-faced court sorceress watching him with unceasing suspicion from just a meter away. She glared from under a yellow hood, condemning him. Of what, he wasn’t sure.

The creaking of hinges struggling to uphold marble doors echoed across an otherwise silent corridor. As they pushed out, a girl wearing a black cloak came into view as did her room’s interior. The yellow dress she wore moments ago was now crumpled on a dresser. Her stockings hung off the edge of her bed. Two obscure high heels with platformed bottoms lay sideways in opposite corners of the vast space.

The court sorceress knelt. “Your Royal Highness.”

Saphiria didn’t acknowledge the prostrating mage. “Thank you for waiting.”

Dimitry stood outside for five minutes at most—a far cry from the eternity it took most women on Earth to get dressed. “I don’t mind.” He strode down the corridor with her walking by his side. “If anything, I’d say you were too eager to change out of your clothes.”

“That’s because they don’t fit me.”

“That’s not true. I think the dress looked great on you.”

“That’s not what I meant. I don’t feel like I belong in them or in this castle. I can’t live up to anyone’s expectations.”

Although he couldn’t relate, Dimitry thought he understood. To spend eight years as a slave, killing at the behest of an uncaring master, would give any princess doubts about her position as royalty. “Do you want to leave?”

“No. There’s something I must do.”

“What’s that?”

A passing maid with faintly purple skin stopped beside the pair. She bowed. “Your Royal Highness. Charitable Jade Surgeon.”

Was she a former patient? Dimitry couldn’t recall, smiling just in case.

“I want to help people like you do,” Saphiria said. “Like my father did.”

“Well, you’ve certainly helped me.”

“How so?”

“You know what happened to the murdered surgeon, don’t you? Having another person causing me trouble might’ve been more than I could handle. So thanks.”

Saphiria frowned. “Did Precious run her mouth?”

“No,” Dimitry said, ignoring the panicked wriggling beneath his uniform. “Knowing you and seeing your expression, it was obvious.”

“I… I see.”

The faerie relaxed.

“But let me be clear, while I appreciate the assistance, I’d prefer if you stayed home. You need to take some time off and gather your thoughts.”

“I knew you would say as much,” Saphiria said, “but I can’t. Do you remember the vol and iron mines I told you about? The ones I used to visit with my father?”

“Yes.”

“The tunnels are flooded now.” Her hands fidgeted hands as they walked. “Half of the blast furnaces are broken, and the waterwheels don’t turn so well. Some people are forced to rely on bloomeries.”

“And you want to fix it?”

“I can’t on my own.”

So that was what she was up to. Dimitry passed into a tower with an embedded stairwell. “Can’t you ask your mother for help?”

Saphiria shook her head. “Mother’s too busy defending this city, many of the old engineers have fled Malten, and those who haven’t are hiding from bandits and heathens.” She glanced at him. “But I was thinking, since you have many machines in your homeland—”

“I don’t know a thing about engineering.”

“But can’t you come with me and look just in case?”

As they passed into the castle’s first floor, a well-dressed man with decorated epaulets knelt in front of Saphiria, a charming grin on his face. She walked past him as one would around gum stuck to the pavement. Insinuating that it was somehow his fault, the man shot a furious glare at Dimitry.

He ignored the rejected man. “Even if I went, how can I possibly make a difference?”

“I know you have memory problems, but perhaps you’ll remember something if you saw the Amphurt mines.”

Dimitry sighed. Not only did he know next to nothing about mining, but managing a hospital and its never-ending surge of patients consumed most of his time, always demanding more. And yet, Saphiria was the only one he would make an exception for. He owed her his life many times over. “I need a few days to get the plague sorted out first.”

“Thank you.”

Thick charcoal clouds hung in the sky above Malten, leaking early morning light onto a grandiose cathedral. The structure of stone and colored glass loomed over the city. As if built to display the Church’s abundant power and wealth, four towers made up the square-shaped building’s corners, each brandishing stacked decorations more extravagant than any other structure around it.

If Dimitry agreed to the queen’s proposal, it could be his. But how the hell was he supposed to maintain that?

Although only half the size of the one in Coldust, the cathedral here would take a sizable workforce to keep clean. And what about the broken stained glass windows? Could he afford to pay for new ones? Should he just board them up?

Like several other buildings in Malten, nailed planks covered up the cathedral’s doorway, their adjoined surfaces displaying an ominous black X. The intention was to ward off trespassers by hinting at a plague-inducing curse within. Clearly, an ineffective deterrent. Someone had broken the bottom of the makeshift barrier to sneak inside. Were they still there? If so, how many?

Would they attack on sight?

Saphiria wore a battle-ready expression when she glanced at Dimitry. Perhaps she wondered the same.

He beckoned her closer and tapped the back of his hood where a faerie lay curled in silent slumber.

“What now, Dumitry?” Precious yawned.

“Do you sense anyone inside?”

“Inside where?”

“Take a look.”

Saphiria stood in front of him to hide an emerging faerie from the prying eyes of refugees crowding a busy intersection.

Precious scrambled around Dimitry’s shoulder, her golden ponytail tickling his ear until her head poked out. “Good morning, Saphiria.”

“Hello,” the indigo-eyed girl said with a slight smile.

The faerie’s gaze traveled up the cathedral wall behind Saphiria. “Wowie. Is that really going to be yours, Dumitry?”

“Keep your voice down and focus. Do you sense anyone?”

“Lots.”

“Can you give me a number?”

“Maybe like twenty.”

Crap. Saphiria and Dimitry would be overwhelmingly outnumbered if they entered. He needed more information. “Are they hostile?”

“I don’t think so,” Precious said. “Just scared and hungry. But you never know, starving people can get pretty violent.”

Her words rang true. Even Dimitry wasn’t above crime when he arrived in Ravenfall. He reached for a pure vol pellet inside his cloak’s pocket to cast accelall on Saphiria and himself in preparation for combat. “Thanks. You can go back to sleep now.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice. Try not to die.” She rubbed a weary eye with a tiny fist. “Bye, Saphiria.”

“Bye.”

Precious crawled into the crevice between his shirt’s shoulder and cloak.

Saphiria glanced up at Dimitry.

He nodded. Hoping that the inhabitants were unarmed refugees, Dimitry crouched under the plank barrier and into a giant hall half as tall as the enormous structure itself.

Saphiria followed close behind.

However, before they could explore any further, a man whose muscular physique bulged out from under a dirty shirt looked in their direction. He picked up a nearby nail-embedded plank, rested it over his shoulder, then stood up. With a crack of his neck, the man lumbered in front of them. His cold and steady eyes looked down.

Saphiria pulled a lustrous dagger with a sapphire-engraved hilt from the leather sheath strapped to her leg.

What little dawn’s light snaked into the cathedral’s interior through broken windows revealed the silhouettes of cowering people hiding behind the monstrous man. Some were children. Hardly a threat. Was the muscular man protecting those who couldn’t defend themselves?

The sight convinced Dimitry to unhand the pure vol pellets in his cloak’s pocket. He nudged Saphiria’s shoulder, who nodded and put her weapon away. Dimitry threw his hood off and met the man’s gaze. “We’re not here to make trouble. We only want to take a look.”

“Milk, wait,” a feeble voice resounded from further within. A hunched, old man trudged forward. “I knew I recognized you. To what do we owe the pleasure, Jade Surgeon?”

It was Mr. Roicht—one of the hospital’s patients.

Curious faces shuffled closer.

“Pale green eyes. It’s really him!”

“He cured my son’s curse.”

“Is the Jade Surgeon here to help?”

Without a word, the lumbering giant named Milk walked back towards his crate, which squeaked as if about to collapse when he sat on it.

“Mr. Roicht, how’s your leg? Did you keep the bandages clean and dry?”

“It’s fine, Jade Surgeon, it’s fine.” He beckoned them forward. “But would you do something for me while you’re here?” The old man limped towards the inner sanctum.

“I’ll try, but I can’t promise anything.” Dimitry followed, his gaze bouncing from one dirt-covered face to another. Precious was right—there were around twenty people.

Mr. Roicht stopped beside a girl no older than ten. She shivered under a small rag with only her head and mismatched shoes sticking out, her skin ghostly pale. The old man pulled her hand from under the thin blanket to reveal bony fingers, red and inflamed. “Can you help her? I don’t want to repeat what happened to the others.”

The freezing chill perforating the massive building made what ailed her obvious at a glance: frostbite. Dimitry knelt beside the girl and took her cold hand in his. He palpated her fingers, which showed no sign of gangrene or frozen tissue—not yet, anyway. Left in the cold for too long, however, and she would lose them entirely.

Dimitry smiled as pleasantly as he could. “How are you doing?”

“G-good,” the girl said with blue, trembling lips.

Bullshit. She wasn’t ‘good’ at all. “Can you feel me pressing down on your fingers?”

“They’re t-tingly.”

“I see.” Thankfully, her frostbite was still in its early stages. “Did you have anything to eat today?”

“I h-had some grasshopp-pers before I sleeped.”

It was as Dimitry feared. Without the Church around, no one fed the poor. Not even the children. A lack of food and water made it hard to generate body heat, hastening frostbite’s advance.

Saphiria stood watching nearby. Her indigo eyes fixed on the young girl, displaying a cocktail of sympathy and inadequacy.

Dimitry stood up and looked at the twenty dirty faces glancing at him from behind luxurious marble pillars. Were they all suffering the same way?

Even if they were, he had every excuse not to help. He wasn’t supposed to be here right now: his hospital was understaffed and crippled without him. But what the fuck was the point in spending all day curing the plague if its victims would die despite his efforts?

He had money. Lots of it. Although Dimitry reinvested most of the marks he earned from treating ‘premium’ customers back into the hospital, he still had several hundred gold coins saved up. Initially, he planned to save them in case he decided to flee Malten.

But his plans just changed.

Helping every dying refugee was impossible.

Helping two dozen wasn’t.

Dimitry looked up at the concerned princess beside him. “I need you to do me a big favor.”

Saphiria nodded.

“Go to Vogel’s Enchantments, say that Dimitry sent you. I don’t know if it’ll be Leona or Raina behind the counter, but whoever it is, tell them to enchant some stuff with low-strength incendia and that I’ll pay back every mark with interest. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.” Saphiria gave him a resolved smile. “This fight doesn’t belong to you alone. They’re my citizens.” She glanced back as she walked away, then crouched past a broken plank barrier and onto Malten’s dark streets.

Dimitry was speechless. He never expected Saphiria to use his own lines on him. She might make a fine queen some day. Putting aside the thought, he fished inside his leather bag for a fat pouch filled with gold coins—the ones he received as payment from Marquis Richter last night. “I know it’s hard, but try your best to stay warm. Can you do that for me?”

The girl nodded.

“Good girl,” he said before standing up.

Mr. Roicht had an astonished look on his face. “What are you planning to do with all of that?”

“Buy food and ale.”

“For us?”

Dimitry smirked. “Well, I won’t be able to eat it all myself.”

“Milk.” The old man placed a hand against his hunched back. “I’m sorry for making you do everything, but can you go assist this young surgeon?”

With the same emotionless expression he wore from the start, the muscular man stood up. His unkempt blonde mustache wiggled.

Was that a yes?

Fatigue hounded Dimitry as he dragged his feet across Malten’s dirty stone streets with a heavy cask of ale in his arms. Physical exertion was the only thing keeping his eyelids open. That, and caution. Although Dimitry wasn’t short, perhaps slightly taller than the average American, the towering man walking alongside him blocked out the rays of a mid-morning sun from reaching his face.

Milk carried two massive barrels full of food, one on each shoulder. Their doubtlessly oppressive weight didn’t coax so much as a strained expression from his face. It remained cold and unemotive the entire trip. From the market square, through butcher street, and back to the cathedral, it gazed ahead stoically.

Dimitry was ready to run the entire time. Although Precious would have whispered a word of warning or tugged on his ear were it the case, he couldn’t help but think Milk would mug him after seeing his gold-filled pouch.

The giant had the countenance of a stone-cold killer and wore a torn shirt whose gaping holes revealed a gruesome, blade-scarred abdomen. Milk was no stranger to violence. However, despite his battle-worn body and unsociable demeanor, the giant was surprisingly helpful. He showed no displeasure when asked to carry food.

Still, Dimitry couldn’t help but sigh from relief when they reached the cathedral. No longer would he have to be alone with the stoic giant.

Milk approached the building’s boarded entrance, rolled barrels full of food one by one under its bottom crevice, then climbed through himself.

Dimitry followed him. Unlike before, the building’s dark interior was somewhat visible. Light from an enchanted lamp illuminated its marble pillars and dirt and small animal bones lying on the ground. The gentle red glow of incendia blankets cuddled the bodies of chatting refugees, among them the young girl from before.

Saphiria stood beside her, arms hidden under her cloak and quiet. She distanced herself from the ongoing conversation. Her blank expression brightened when she saw Dimitry approach. “Hi.”

“Hello,” he said. “I see you’ve done a fine job.”

“You too.”

“Was Raina or Leona at the counter?”

“Leona,” Saphiria said, “but when I said it was Dimitry’s request, Raina rushed down. She said she recognized me from when she used to serve my father.”

“Did you—” Something tapped Dimitry’s back.

When he turned around, the hulking wall of muscle called Milk stared down at him. The giant nudged his head towards the girl from before. Did he want Dimitry to check on her hand?

A good idea.

Although she was probably fine now, blisters sometimes cropped up after heating frostbitten tissue. Dimitry knelt beside the girl. “Do you feel any better?”

She looked down. “My fingers feel really hot.”

Dimitry touched the incendia blanket covering her hands. It was only warm. Amplified sensations of heat were normal for patients recovering from frostbite. “Can I take a closer look?”

After the girl nodded, he held her hands to the illumina lamp’s light. No blisters or darkened skin. She was perfectly healthy aside from some red but warm fingers. Thankfully, Mr. Roicht brought attention to her extremities before frostbite led to gangrene.

Amputating or performing debridement on a little girl wasn’t pleasant.

“How is she?” Saphiria asked.

“She’ll be fine, thanks to you,” Dimitry said. “Any longer, and it could’ve been bad.” He smiled at the little girl and pointed to the food-filled barrels that the other refugees rummaged through. “Don’t be shy if you’re hungry.”

“Thanks, big sister.” The girl bowed, then ran off.

Saphiria froze. As if unsure of how to accept gratitude, she stood still, watching the girl dig for jerky.

The innocence in a former assassin’s shocked face warmed Dimitry on a cold morning. Their job here was done. When he pushed off the ground to leave, a surge of dizziness nearly caused him to faint. He threw a hand out against a decorated wall to catch himself.

“Are you okay?” Saphiria asked.

“Yeah, I just need to find some time to get some sleep. Might not be for a while, though.”

“Why? Do you have to be somewhere?”

“I have to go back to the hospital.” Dimitry yawned. “In fact, I really shouldn’t have come here in the first place.”

“I’m glad you did.” She smiled, an accomplished gleam in her indigo eyes. “I’m glad I did, too. Can I come with you?”

“I don’t mind, but won’t your mother get worried that her precious daughter stayed out too late?”

“I… don’t belong in the castle.”

“In that case, feel free to tag along.” Dimitry walked towards the cathedral’s exit. “It’d be nice to have somebody who’s calm in that hectic place. Maybe my nurses can learn a thing or two from you.”

“I’ll try my best.”

“Excuse me,” a feminine voice called out from behind. When Dimitry turned around, he discovered a woman with faintly purple skin like that of a recovering plague patient. Jerky held in one hand and a ceremonial cup full of ale in the other, she stepped forward. “Do you need anyone else for your hospital? I-I can clean and sew.”

A man’s holler echoed throughout the grand hall. “How about a hunter? Need one?”

“I can make beds!”

“I used to be a farmer, but I can do other things, too!”

Dimitry stroked the fledgling beard on his unshaven chin. If he accepted the queen’s proposal and turned this cathedral into a hospital, he would need workers.

Lots of workers.

A quick headcount revealed sixteen working-age people with eager faces. A building this big could have a kitchen to feed them, rooms to house them, and care for enough patients to afford their salaries. Dimitry’s growing reputation as the Jade Surgeon would make it easy to get customers.

But could he manage a hospital-sized hospital?

A small one ran him ragged, leaving him almost no time to sleep. Perhaps the situation would improve with time as his employees became proficient at their crafts and developed autonomy. However, that was far into the future. Aside from Lili, his nurses couldn’t even dress a wound properly.

Still. It was worth a try and better than leaving these people to starve. Dimitry took a deep breath. “I need a few days, but I’m sure I can find something for all of you to do. Try to stay healthy until then.”

63. Business Negotiations and Promotions

Chilling winds blitzed past Dimitry, penetrating the fabric of his hood. Its freezing touch against his cheek was the only thing keeping him awake as he trudged past a line of purple-skinned prospective patients waiting outside his hospital for treatment. Thankfully, none had dark blisters or peeling skin. That meant fewer surgeries for him to perform and lower mortality rates.

Did most of the terminally ill, desperate for treatment, come already, or did they die before they could?

“Are there always this many?” the cloaked girl beside him asked.

Dimitry’s eyes traveled down the queue that extended past seven buildings. “No. Usually, there are a lot less. I guess word has finally spread to the surrounding villages. Either that or people aren’t afraid of the ‘flesh butcher’ anymore.”

Saphiria looked up at him. “Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“I heard that you cut away fingers for demonic rituals.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“From a viscount at a banquet.” Saphiria diverted her gaze. “I didn’t believe it, but then I remembered those aquatic demons you spoke to...”

“Do you really think demons exist?” Dimitry asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Although the things that attacked our boat were violent, do you think they did it because they’re actual demons, or because religious zealots used to hunt them down, believing they were corrupted creatures?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Me neither.” Dimitry shrugged, his gaze focusing on a girl with curly red-brown hair under a red hood stood in front of the hospital. “But if anything, they spoke with more grace and understanding than any Church clergy I’ve met. Perhaps we were the demons all along. You should know that better than anyone after what you’ve been throu—”

“Stay the hell in line,” Angelika shouted at a shocked refugee. “Trying to sneak in won’t help any of you.” She leaned back against the hospital’s wall, then noticed Dimitry. “Oh, hey. Done playing hooky? Who’s that?”

Saphiria performed a small bow.

“Just a friend,” Dimitry said, “Any thugs roaming around lately?”

“Like one or two? Don’t worry, I took care of them.”

Only a few stragglers remained. It seemed Saphiria and the queen eliminated the source of the problem. “Well done keeping the peace. Anything else happen while I was gone?”

“Aside from a bunch of patients waiting for you inside, there’s that.” Angelika pointed across the street at four women with trembling lips in front of a tailor’s shop. Three wore red robes and the fourth a fur-trimmed cloak. It was the merchant Sophie and the sorceresses she dragged along to weave the enchantments Dimitry promised he would channel. “They’ve been waiting for you since before I got here.”

“Thanks. Keep up the good work and try not to hurt my patients.”

Angelika brushed her curly red-brown hair into her hood and grinned devilishly. “No promises.”

Although Dimitry had more important things to do, ten gold marks per channeled enchantment was a small fortune and would serve as much-needed cathedral renovation funds. Besides, he had a favor to ask of the merchant. “Sophie.” He beckoned her. “Follow me.”

Hands wrapped around their chests like four shivering mummies, the women trailed behind Dimitry and Saphiria.

Sophie caught up. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere where we can chat without you freezing to death.”

“As thoughtful as always, Jade Surgeon.” Sophie glanced at Dimitry, then at Saphiria. Her broad and devious smile vanished. “It’s a pleasure, Your Royal Highness.”

Saphiria stopped walking. “How do you know who I am?”

“I apologize for my rudeness.” The aging merchant dropped onto a cold stone street and knelt. “You may not remember it, but your father and I worked together many times before his unfortunate passing. Her eyes are like sapphires, he used to tell me, and he wasn’t wrong. When the captain of the Blue Compass ship you rode from Coldust informed me of the arrival of a noble Pesce lady matching your description but older, I was dubious. But only after hearing rumors of the princess’s return and seeing your highness in person am I sure. Please forgive my insolence.”

At the words, the enchantresses following the merchant knelt as well, and soon, half of the people on the street did too.

Dimitry didn’t want to cause more commotion than they already had. “Prostrate yourselves once we reach the cellar. Don’t do it here.”

Saphiria turned away from Sophie and followed Dimitry into the alleyway leading to the hospital’s cellar. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault that you’re the princess,” he said. “Now I understand what you meant when you said that you didn’t belong in the castle. Must be tough dealing with that all day.”

The two walked down the steps of a cellar that was no longer the disgusting dump it was seven days ago. A small yet inviting table stood where bloodied iron chains used to lay. The shelf running along the wall no longer held up Church paraphernalia but folded enchanted bedclothes, recently washed by one of the two residents living here.

Claricia looked back at the sound of boots hitting stone. She nodded in greeting.

Following her lead, Clewin dropped his fireplace poker, wiped his forehead with the back of his arm, and stood up. “Morning, Dimitry. Madam.”

“Not making alcohol today?” Dimitry asked.

“We already have a bunch stored on the roof.” He pointed back at a massive cauldron. “The missus and I decided to catch up on blankets since we’re always running low.”

“Well done taking the initiative. We’ll be having guests shortly, so I hope we don’t get in your way.”

“Nonsense,” Clewin said. “Is it more enchantresses?”

“Them, and an extra.”

“We’ll do our best to stay quiet.”

Clewin and Claricia sat in front of the fireplace, only their backs visible.

Dimitry pulled out a chair for Saphiria. “Tired?”

“Thank you.” She lifted her cloak as she sat down.

Four sets of footsteps stomped down the cellar’s steps, each pair belonging to a woman. The first to enter was Sophie. She glanced at the enchantresses following her, then pointed at the wall. “Wait there quietly. We don’t want to disgrace ourselves in front of her Her Royal Highness more than we already have.”

“Yes, madam,” a young enchantress mumbled.

Dimitry stroked the unshaved stubble on his chin. Sorceresses were rare and all but members of high society. If Sophie could push them around like that, it confirmed her claims: she was a powerful merchant.

He pulled out another chair. “Don’t beat yourselves up over it. Princess Saphiria is much too modest for senseless deference to the extent that she would entertain a lowly surgeon such as myself. Make yourselves comfortable.”

The enchantresses released captive breaths, their facial expressions slightly more relaxed than before.

Sophie sat down. She gave Saphiria an uneasy smile, then shifted her attention to Dimitry. “In that case, let’s get down to business.” Her hand reached into her fur-trimmed cloak’s inner pockets and retrieved two large leather pouches. “A hundred gold marks in one, and enough vol for ten sets of enchanted bedclothes in the other.”

“I know that was what we agreed upon, but may I request something else?” Dimitry asked.

The merchant looked at him with cold eyes. “Perhaps.”

“Instead of money, I want you to pay me in food.”

“Tell me more.”

“I’ve heard that unlike Malten, Feyt and Ontaria have cheap and ample food supplies since their heathen situations weren’t as severe. Since you’ll be shipping the bedclothes there anyway, I was wondering if instead of gold marks, you could bring back food.”

A malicious smile crawled across Sophie’s face. “We already had a deal. Ten golds per set of enchanted bedclothes.”

“I’ll make it worth your while.” Dimitry leaned back in his chair, which gave a long creak in response.

“How so?”

“I’ll lower the price to nine gold marks per set, but I want the payment to be split into two. Half in coins, half in grain and dried meat.”

The merchant waved her hand. “The discount doesn’t make it worth my hassle. While my men are out there purchasing food, they could be selling cures for the plague.” She leaned forward. “Unless you lower your price to seven.”

Dimitry wished he could get Precious to read Sophie’s emotions to help in his negotiation, but the faerie couldn’t whisper to him in a room this crowded. Regardless, the deal was still beneficial to him. Even after offering Sophie a discount, he would save money since he didn’t have to purchase food from an overpriced market.

He needed it to feed the refugees living in the cathedral. Most were working-age adults, and their help would be necessary to convert the rundown building into a hospital. “The lowest I’m willing to do is eight.”

“That’s fine with me,” she said, the wrinkles skulking from the edges of her lips digging deeper into her face, “but aren’t you forgetting something?”

Dimitry furrowed his eyebrows. “I am?”

Sophie tapped a long, azure painted fingernail against the wooden table. “I’ll purchase grain and meat for you, however, don’t you think you need a place to store it? Or were you planning to leave it here?”

Ah. She made a good point. Dimitry initially thought to leave the goods in the cathedral, but he didn’t consider the thousands of hungry rats and refugees roaming the streets, eager to survive. His experience in Ravenfall taught him that starving people had no qualms about stealing food. Himself included.

“But you are the Jade Surgeon after all. You’re not doing it for profit, are you?” Sophie rested her chin on her hand, amused. “Even a monster like myself can appreciate what you’re trying to do. Tell you what. I’ll store it for you in my warehouses and granaries this one time, but next time, I might not be so kind. Think of it as a start to a long and mutually beneficial partnership.”

Dimitry hid a relieved sigh. “I appreciate it.” He stood up. “Now, all of us here are busy people. Let’s get those enchantments made.”

“Mr. Dimitry.”

He opened his eyes.

Shaking his shoulder was a freckle-faced girl in her early twenties. A long, red ponytail held together by a pink bow fell into her brown gown as she hovered over him with a concerned frown on her face. “Mr. Dimitry, wake up.”

“What time is it?” He asked, pushing away a stack of weighty blankets pressing down on him. Did someone cover him with them during his nap?

“It’s night.”

“Night?” Dimitry overslept. “Crap.” After channeling enchantments for Sophie and performing a few basic surgeries for critically ill patients, Saphiria recommended that he take a short nap to rest his eyes. That was the plan, anyway. His many restless nights finally caught up with him.

Dimitry stood up, groggy from sleeping for far too long.

The usual chatter of patients and nurses livened the hospital’s mood, while unwashed refugees’ body odor and Lili’s lavender perfume filled the air. A crowd of diseased people packed the small space, none of which appeared to be in critical condition. However, something felt off. Someone was missing.

“Lili, where’s the girl that was here with me?”

“You mean Her Royal Highness?” She straightened her pink bow. “Two court sorceresses came for her shortly after you fell asleep.”

A chilling sensation shot down Dimitry’s spine. Although that explained why Saphiria didn’t wake him up as promised, it also meant the queen knew that her daughter stayed in a hospital filled with commoners. Was she upset at him for borrowing the princess for longer than promised? “Did they complain or ask you to pass me a message?”

“I didn’t hear them say anything, but they looked angry. Then again court sorceresses always do.” She looked up. “Why? Were you trying to hide the princess from them, Mr. Dimitry?”

Her question caught him off-guard. He straightened out his yellow and red shirt, then reached for his cloak, which hid a faerie in its inner pockets. “No, I was merely showing her highness how we cured the plague in this hospital. She takes her subjects’ welfare seriously.”

“Mysterious, kind, and diligent. Einheart nobles could learn a thing or two from her.”

“That’s not even scratching the surface.” Dimitry threw a hood over his head. “I’m heading to the cellar. Don’t be afraid to call me if there’s an emergency. Oh, and thanks for waking me up.”

“Think nothing of it, Mr. Dimitry.”

He walked through the hospital’s domed doorway and past a line of purple-skinned hopefuls waiting outside in the frigid cold. Even after six days of operation, the number of plagued victims didn’t seem to decrease. It wasn’t like the city was all that large—at most fifty thousand people. Where did they all come from? Were they new refugees?

Although he didn’t have answers to those questions, Dimitry knew that he needed more space to accommodate them. The small church constantly overflowed with patients, none of whom had any privacy. They slept beside one another, waking their neighbors with the slightest movement or groan, disrupting much-needed sleep.

The problems didn’t limit themselves to patients. Nurses had nowhere to rest or take breaks. Neither did Dimitry. If he accepted the queen’s offer and converted the cathedral into a hospital, he could have something akin to an on-call room, an office, and perhaps even private bedrooms for his employees. The building had three floors and four towers—ample space for everyone.

But could he maintain the cathedral long-term?

Dimitry pulled open the cellar’s hatch. Although he had a steady income now, what would he do when the city ran low on wealthy people eager to fork over large sums of cash for a cure, and Sophie had all the preservia enchanted bedclothes she needed? Treating the occasional wound wouldn’t provide enough income for a cathedral’s maintenance costs and his growing workforce.

Could he expand into manufacturing pharmaceuticals, among other products, to make up for it?

He entered the tidy cellar to find out.

With sleep-deprived eyes and skin still a faint shade of purple, Clewin and Claricia sat idle at a small wooden table warmed by a waning fireplace’s feeble light. They were taking a well-deserved break. The couple worked long days within this cramped space and had constant interruptions even during their off time.

“Mind if I join you two?” Dimitry asked.

Clewin pulled out a chair. “Please. By all means.”

“Thanks.” Dimitry sat down.

“Ale?” Claricia asked, her blue hair no longer streaked with dirt.

“I’d appreciate it.” After she poured Dimitry a mug full of the earthy smelling liquid, he took a bitter and alcoholic sip, then turned his attention to Clewin. “How do you feel about your job?”

“That’s sudden.” The gray-haired man sat up straight. “But if I can speak honestly, it’s a bit boring.” He waved his hand. “Please, don’t get me wrong. It’s a lot better than sleeping on the street. Just that compared to herbalism, distillation gets monotonous quickly.”

“I see.” Dimitry took another swig of ale, which had a slight burn to it. “Would you be interested in making something else?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m thinking of giving you a job more varied than the one you have now.”

Clewin’s brows furrowed. “What kind of job?”

“You’ll be making new medicines and things like perfume.”

“Medicine? Perfume? You don’t need me to distill alcohol anymore?”

Dimitry set his ceramic cup onto the table with a clink. “You won’t be distilling alcohol anymore, but you’ll still be responsible for it. I know it’s too much for one man to do on his own, so I want to hire a few apprentices to help you.”

Clewin laughed as if in disbelief. “I’m sorry, Dimitry, but look around you. We barely have enough space to live here as it is. It’s simply impossible.”

“That won’t be a problem. I’m relocating this hospital to a place where you and Claricia can have a room to call your own with space for personal possessions. You won’t have to sleep on a bundle of blankets anymore.”

“You mean like a real bed? With a frame and all?” Clewin asked. “What kind of hospital can fit all that?”

“One the size of a cathedral.”

Claricia’s mouth opened. She shot a glance at her husband.

Clewin nodded, then placed his folded hands onto the table like a businessman might. “I see. Your offer is tempting, and we’re both delighted by it, but would you listen to one of our requests first?”

“What is it?”

“If you’re going to be hiring other people, can you give Claricia another job? You’re wasting her talents by having her wash bedclothes all day.”

“Oh?” Dimitry leaned back in his chair, resting his elbows on its armrests. “What kinds of talents does she have?”

“I can read and write in multiple languages,” Claricia muttered in a rare moment of speech. “I used to be a librarian in Volmer.”

Dimitry stroked his chin. In an era where most shop signs displayed pictures instead of words, reading was a rare skill. Writing even more so. He was wasting her talents. “Very interesting. Can you do math as well?”

Claricia froze. “A-a little. Why?”

“Soon, when the plague dies down, our business will become a lot more varied than it is now. I can’t manage expenses and payments on my own. That’s why I’ll need a trustworthy bookkeeper like you. In addition, you’ll be responsible for other things like keeping track of patients and wages. Can you handle that?”

Trusting Claricia with his finances might have been foolish considering that Dimitry met her less than a week ago. However, not only did he have no concrete reason to doubt her, Precious could confirm whether she was stealing from him with a few simple questions.

It was a sure bet.

The mopey, blue-haired woman stood up and bowed. “I won’t let you down.”

“Very good.” Dimitry smiled. “I’ll be counting on both of you when the time comes.”

64. Foundations for Healthcare Infrastructure

‘In the primacy of woman and man, the epiphany of the Goddess cometh to Celeste in the still of night.’

“You must lead thy fellows through thickets and dangers, corrupted creatures and wicked flora, to found The Holy Kingdom upon the crest of this new world. Erect sanctuaries around my shrines and prepare for the cataclysmic battles of the end times. Heed my words, lest demonic forces drive the world into chaos once more afore the advent of my apostle.”

“Yes, my Mother,” Celeste prayed, grasping a twig of the almighty birch. “Bestow upon me thy power so thy will may be done.”

‘The magnanimous Goddess empowered her twig till it groweth into a branch, a cane, a staff. Power incandescent and true, Celeste brandished it afore the weary and the hungry, the desperate and the broken.’

“Come, my people! Our Mother spoketh of our destiny and salvation. I am the shepherd to guide us through the storm to the crest of the new world!”

‘Shirking the shackles of volition, woman and man rose to claim their birthright under the benevolent eye of Zera. For only by her might could humankind—’

Dimitry slammed the book shut and slid it across a dusty granite table. “When you’re right, you’re right. A waste of my time.”

“Told you. You haven’t even gotten to the part where it says ‘thou shall killeth’ me.” Precious sat on the cover, her torn white dress blocking the third word in ‘Gospel of Awakening’. “Seriously, why would anyone want to kill someone as charming and graceful as me?”

“If all corrupted creatures are as arrogant as you, maybe the sacred texts aren’t too far off the mark.” Dimitry averted his gaze from the pouting faerie to glance around the sunlit study he sat in—one of several rooms on the cathedral’s third floor.

Like the rest of the building, only scraps, dust, and grandiose furniture too heavy for thieves and pillagers to carry out populated the room. The holy scripture Dimitry found probably would have been stolen as well if it didn’t lay crammed in a nook between a shelf and a wall. Not that he searched for it: religious ramblings didn’t interest him.

He came here to inspect the building he intended to turn into a hospital before accepting the queen’s proposition. How much space did the cathedral have? Were there health hazards like mold or bacterial growth? Magic traps? Could it provide housing for the twenty refugees taking shelter in the main chamber downstairs?

“So?” Precious asked.

“So what?”

“Are you going to blaspheme and turn this oh so sacred place into another butchery?”

“Well, that depends.” Dimitry squirmed to get comfortable in a granite chair whose cushion-less and rigid seat made his butt ache. “You’re going to be a tenant too, so I might as well get your opinion first. What do you think?”

“Hmm.” Precious’s golden ponytail darted side to side as her eyes shot from one corner of the room to the other. “Aside from broken windows letting cold air in and Zeran emblems covering literally everything, it could be worse.”

“Is that your way of saying you like it?”

“Maybe.”

“Personally,” Dimitry said, “I thought you’d love it. With all this space to laze around in, you won’t have to hold in your laughter around suffering patients and can sleep in on winter mornings instead of hiding under my clothes. I can get you a doggie bowl full of grapes and—”

Precious perched onto Dimitry’s shoulder, her green wings ringing like tiny wind chimes. She rubbed her small hands together and grabbed his earlobe. “You… will… regret… saying… that!” Despite pulling back full force and grimacing like a powerlifter thrusting six hundred pounds of steel off the ground during a squat, her efforts went in vain.

“Ow. Stop. That hurts. You’re too strong.”

“Yeah yeah. I can sense you having fun at my expense.”

“I just wanted to encourage you,” Dimitry said with a grin. “You’re precious when you’re flustered.”

“Puns too? What a very Dumitry thing to say.” She released his ear and glanced at an arched marble doorway. “Oh no, the loud one is back.”

“Pocket or shoulder?”

“Pocket.”

Dimitry flapped open his cloak and tugged at the side of a sewn leather pouch, which Precious promptly glided into.

Stomping followed by impatient knocking.

He sat up straight. “Come on in, Angelika.”

“Does that mean you’re done talking to yourself now?” she asked, opening the door. “I’m not disrupting anything, right?”

“No, you’re fine.” Dimitry pointed at a chair on the opposite side of the desk. “Did you find anything?”

Angelika shrugged, sat down, and removed her hood to reveal long and curly red-brown hair. “Just random crap like baptism cups. I didn’t see any traps. Knowing the conniving pricks at the Church, I’m sure they had some lying around at some point, but their enchantments would’ve dissipated years ago. Though you can never be sure without using revealia.”

“I see. Any other thoughts?”

“It’s an easy place to fortify in case heathens invade the city. With only one entrance and thick walls, we can have sorceresses attack from the windows while archers shoot crossbows from the roof. The only problem would be carapaced devils, but if they got into Malten, we’d be fucked anyway.”

Were carapaced devils the ones that looked like giant turtles? Dimitry rested his chin on his hand and tapped his cheek with a pointer finger. “And what are the chances of that happening?”

“A week ago, I would’ve said impossible.” Angelika leaned back and threw her boots onto the granite desk with a loud thunk. “But since heathens started coming from the north during the last night of repentance, I couldn’t tell you for sure.”

“Yeah, I saw. Didn’t they break parts of the city walls? Does that happen often?”

“No. It’s just that those bastards caught us with our pants down. We had to split up in the middle of the night without a plan. Maybe this month will be different if we manage to pull our heads out of our asses.”

Dimitry looked up at an old and rusty iron chandelier dangling over his head and took a deep breath. Heathens were a problem. His problem. Although he wasn't responsible for fighting them, he would be for mending the casualties. With other surgeons closing down their shops since his arrival, this kingdom’s small army relied entirely on him, just like Dimitry relied on them.

Would he be able to keep up with demand?

Even on a regular day, when attacking heathens were few, at least one soldier arrived at his hospital seeking treatment. A non-issue since their wounds would have received rudimentary first aid by then. Heathen’s blood already flushed out, all Dimitry had to do was disinfect and seal the liquefied gashes.

However, on a night of repentance, when hordes of heathens swarmed the city walls all at once, would casualties on the front lines receive first aid? Or would they die from rapidly deteriorating injuries while their comrades struggled to fend off nightmarish invaders?

Dimitry didn’t know.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t prepare.

There were able-bodied refugees seeking employment in Dimitry’s cathedral. Potential employees that could learn first-aid. Carry fallen soldiers. Become medievalesque EMTs and perhaps one day, with adequate equipment and training, paramedics.

“How many soldiers are injured during a typical night of repentance?”

Angelika tilted her head to the side as if in deep thought. “Maybe like twenty hurt and a few die? But usually, it’s just militiamen. Knights have armor and enchantments to protect them while we combat mages stay in the back.”

“Do you think there’ll be increased casualties in the future?”

“If heathens keep coming from the north, you can bet your ass there will.”

“In that case, we have a lot of work to do.” Dimitry stood up and kicked his uncomfortable chair back. “Go downstairs and get the refugees in order. I’ll join you shortly.”

“This isn’t a guard’s responsibility, you know? Dealing with refugees all day.” Angelika gave Dimitry an inconvenienced sigh, trudged out of the room, and stomped away.

Making sure the girl had left, Dimitry tapped his cloak’s pocket.

“What now?”

“Change of plans. Climb up into my hood. I’ll be needing your help.”

Whistling wind blew frigid air into the cathedral, directing an occasional snowflake in through shattered glass windows. It would drift down and melt on the heads of refugees who, with recently filled bellies, stood against an inner sanctum wall. One little girl, an elderly man, nineteen working-aged adults, and a giant named Milk. Promised employment, all but the latter watched a seated surgeon with hopeful eyes.

Dimitry wriggled to make himself comfortable on a cushion-less granite chair. It didn’t help. Resigning to discomfort, he examined the refugees in front of him, studying their dirt-smeared faces, ragged clothes, and eager expressions.

There were more of them compared to when Dimitry first visited two days ago. Since he promised every refugee in this cathedral jobs and basic necessities, he hoped their numbers wouldn’t increase further. By accommodating too many people, his limited resources would vanish before he could turn a sustainable profit, and his business would collapse.

Trying to support everyone would end up helping no one.

Regardless, a hospital required many workers. A fact obvious even to someone without administrative experience like Dimitry. He needed clinical assistants to handle housekeeping of patient rooms and employee living quarters, guards to keep order and pacify troublemakers, porters to move beds and patients, and a chef to feed them all. Not to mention the pharmacists and ambulance operators he wanted to train.

Dimitry cleared his throat to address the refugees. “Although many of you know me as the Jade Surgeon, my name is Dimitry. You may refer to me by whichever is most comfortable for you.

“Her majesty offered me the opportunity to take ownership of this cathedral and turn it into a hospital, and I intend to do so. But, as promised when I visited two days ago, I don’t intend to throw any of you to the curb. Anyone who wishes to stay will receive a job along with payment, housing, and food. That includes new residents.”

“Celeste guided us here!”

“I’ll do anything, Jade Surgeon! Just say the word!”

“Is it true that you intend to pay us?” a woman asked, her weary eyes holding a faint glimmer of hope.

Their unbridled enthusiasm and praise made Dimitry feel like some shady televangelist. Burying the feeling, he continued. “Before I begin assigning jobs, I want to make something clear: this will be a real hospital. I’ll be asking questions to learn what role you’re best suited for, and you must answer honestly. Raise your hand for yes, keep silent for no. I have magic that allows me to detect lies, so don’t bother trying. Is that clear?”

Despite a roar of resounding yeses, the eyebrows on Milk’s unfaltering face furrowed.

As far as Dimitry knew, this world didn’t have lie detection spells.

Did the giant man catch onto his bluff?

Acting unfazed, Dimitry lifted Gospel of Awakening’s tough leather cover to reveal a collection of sacred scriptures—his source of scrap paper. Unlike modern books, every character was handwritten and, more importantly, the book had ample blank pages. Each one clean and uniform and made from smooth yellow paper, they were doubtlessly too precious to use as a scratchpad.

But now wasn’t the time to appreciate art.

Dimitry lifted a quill from a ceramic inkwell resting on a recently emptied food barrel, then drew a chart inside the gospel. A row for every prospective employee, identified by their current number in line, and a column for each desirable trait. He glanced up at the gathering of dirty and impatient faces. “Who here can read at least one language?”

Three hands shot up.

“I don’t sense anyone lying,” Precious whispered from the back of his hood.

Expectedly, most of his prospective employees had low education levels. The knowledgeable among them would make excellent pharmaceutical apprentices for Clewin. Dimitry held his quill horizontally and etched three pitch-black checkmarks into his chart. “And how many of you can write?”

All three hands dropped.

“I see. Who here has worked in health care or medicine before?”

No response.

“Anyone here a wizard or a sorceress? Or, more broadly, can cast spells?”

The refugees shared worried glances in silence.

Dimitry stroked his freshly shaved chin. In this war-torn world, mages were more desirable than doctors: it made sense that they wouldn’t end up homeless and hungry in a country under constant threat by heathen attacks. He moved on to the next category. “Can anyone use glassware like vials?”

Once again, no response. Unsurprising results. Not only was glass rare and expensive, but it was also useless to most people. Ceramics and iron were cheaper and easier to handle.

Disappointed, Dimitry moved onto broader categories. “Who here knows how to do laundry, clean floors, among other related activities?”

Fourteen people raised their hands, mostly women. Excellent candidates for clinical assistants and launderers.

“Very good.” Dimitry scribbled an equivalent amount of checkmarks. “Who here can cook? I need someone who can feed the entire hospital and all of its patients.”

Almost everyone thrust their arms into the air, perhaps excited by the prospect of having constant access to food.

“I can, Jade Surgeon!”

One woman bowed, her voice trembling. “By Zera, choose me, Dimitry sir!”

“Me!”

“There’s no need to worry,” Dimitry said. “I promise there’ll be enough food for all of you. Who here has experience with a diverse array of cuisine and can use a bread oven like the one on the second floor of this cathedral?”

Most hands fell down, leaving only two in the air.

“Someone’s lying,” Precious whispered, “but I can’t tell who. They’re too far away.”

Thankful to have access to a corrupted creature, Dimitry stood up and stopped in front of the man who claimed himself a chef. “What’s the most people you’ve ever cooked for?”

“At least seventy, Jade Surgeon.” His eyes gleamed and sparkled like that of a car salesman. “No one knows food like me. Fish, grain, and brewing ale from fent. I’ve even prepared feasts for counts!”

Precious tugged on Dimitry’s left ear—an action indicating the presence of a liar.

Knowing that starvation made people do things far worse than lying, Dimitry preferred not to throw a desperate person out onto the streets. As a warning, he took a dark green pellet out of his cloak, flashed it before the liar’s eyes, then returned it to his pocket. “Have you heard about the Jade Surgeon’s strange magic?”

“W-what?” the liar muttered.

“I saw it myself,” Mr. Roicht, an ex-patient, said. “Those blankets and mattress covers in your hospital glowed a mysterious, dark color. Never seen anything like it.”

“Precisely.” Dimitry looked away from the old man and back at the liar. “I have other spells too—one among them can detect the truth. Are you sure you have the credentials to become my chef? If you don’t, I’ll know.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I understand. I have nothing to hide.”

So the liar chose to remain one? Dimitry reached into his cloak, pretended to grab a vol pellet resting within, and chanted a made-up spell. “Truthia.”

The other refugees, as if watching a mind-blowing demonstration, looked on with amazement and bated breath.

Dimitry shook his head. “If you lie to me so blatantly, how can I be sure you won’t do the same to your patients and co-workers?” He pointed towards the cathedral’s exit. “Leave.”

“But I swear…” The liar twisted the edge of his creased shirt. “I’ve been doing it my whole life.”

Perhaps trying to pull off Dimitry’s left ear, Precious tugged with additional force.

“Angelika,” Dimitry said, “would you kindly show him out?”

A red-robed girl stomped out from behind a distant marble pillar, a scowl on her face. “Stop wasting our time. Can you leave yourself, or do I have to make you leave?”

Milk looked up at Angelika, a hint of admiration in his usually expressionless eyes.

“I think the liar pissed his braies,” Precious whispered, suppressing a giggle.

Watching the deflated man march out of the cathedral left Dimitry wracked with guilt: he threw a homeless person back onto the cold streets. However, he had to do it to uphold the integrity of the hospital and display a warning for anyone else considering lying or stealing.

Still.

It felt wrong.

Dimitry didn’t let his indecision show. He approached the other potential chef—a woman in her mid-thirties, and, with a hand remaining in his cloak pocket, chanted “truthia” once more. “What’s the most people you’ve ever cooked for?”

“H-hundreds. I used to be a miller’s wife, you see. W-we hosted all kinds of festivals for the village.” The woman edged forward. “Please, I speak the truth!”

“She’s terrified, but I don’t sense anything else,” Precious whispered.

“Try to relax. What kind of food did you serve?”

“Food?” The woman froze as if forgetting what the word meant. “Mostly pottage, bread, sometimes cheese and bacon.”

“That’s quite the assortment. You’ll be our chef. I expect that you remain honest in the future.”

Hands held by her sides, she bowed deeply, making her body parallel to the floor. “Y-yes, Jade Surgeon.”

“Just as a reminder,” Dimitry said as he walked away from his newly hired chef, “I can provide food, money, and housing for everyone here. All I ask in return is honesty and your best efforts.” He turned around to face the antsy refugees. “Next, I’m looking for anyone with combat experience who’s willing to keep order within the hospital… among other things.”

A hesitant hand rose. “I’m a… used to be a hunter. I can use a longbow.”

Then another. “I’ve fought heathens on Volmer’s shores for a half-decade.”

“A-are crossbows fine?”

Three healthy male volunteers in total. Enough to guard the hospital and avoid relying on Malten’s watchmen. Defending this cathedral, however, would be only half of their duties: their secondary purpose was to rescue injured soldiers on nights of repentance.

That was why Dimitry sought a fourth. Similar to ambulances in the real world, he wanted to establish them in pairs: one to drive a cart, while the other performed first-aid like flushing heathen’s blood out of fresh soldier wounds.

There was only one person with combat experience who was strong enough to carry a person, maybe even two, without breaking a sweat.

The scarred giant Milk.

Dimitry glanced in his direction.

Like an unsympathetic movie hit-man, Milk looked back without a shred of emotion on his face. Then he gave a slight nod. Or did he?

Dimitry couldn’t tell for sure, but assumed Milk did. He walked back to the Gospel of Awakening, checked a few boxes, then assigned jobs.

The easy part was over.

He shut the book and glanced up. “As of today, all of you work for me. Your first assignment is to clean this entire cathedral, starting with this chamber and the dormitories on the second floor. The sooner you do that, the sooner you receive pay and training. Any questions or concerns?”

Hushed yet excited chatter filled the inner sanctum.

Guess that meant no.

65. Court Doctor

Dimitry stepped out of a cold tower and into a spacious corridor. His heavy boots hit the sleek and solid floor, every clack and tap echoing across granite and marble walls. The castle’s third floor, and a destination he visited with increasing frequency.

Just three days ago, court sorceresses brought him here to cure the queen’s plague. Today, however, no one forced him to come. He marched through the passageway of his own volition to tell Her Majesty that he accepted her offer. That he would serve as the court doctor in exchange for a dilapidated cathedral.

His hospital.

Or what would become one, assuming he played his cards right and managed to reach the queen’s chambers.

Barraging him from all sides were the piercing glares of robed women and steel-clad men. Dozens of them. They stood against the walls, their plain yet menacing getups coated a shade of blue by enchanted stones embedded in the floor.

Were there always this many?

No.

Something felt off.

Despite Dimitry’s attempts to avoid eye contact with the stone-faced guards, one threw out a hand to halt his advance. Her stalwart and incriminating eyes attacked him from the shadow cast by her yellow hood. “Her Majesty demands your immediate presence.”

Dimitry took a step back. Why did the queen want to see him now? Did she know he came to meet with her, or was it something else? For example, him ordering the murder of a rival surgeon. “May I know why?”

“You’ll find out.” The court sorceress beckoned him forward.

Although Dimitry’s gut feeling nagged at him to escape, to run away from an imminent trap, he followed her lead. Declining her command would only make him more suspicious than he already was. Even if he tried to leave, how far would he get before being stomped into the ground by trained warriors?

As he trudged forward, the number of court sorceresses, combat mages, and armed soldiers increased. They concentrated at the end of the corridor in front of a pair of marble doors, whose grandiosity reached the ceiling. Muffled voices came from beyond.

Whatever the occasion, it was doubtlessly more important than Dimitry.

The court sorceress he followed nodded at two more, signaling them to pull on the doors’ golden handles. With a heavy and prolonged creak, a large room slowly revealed itself. A chandelier with engraved illumina rocks hung over a round table playing host to a teapot, eight cups, and a person sat behind each one.

Among them was the queen herself. Unlike the times they met in private, her red eyes exuded prestige and power.

“I remember him,” a portly man in glowing armor blathered in a demeaning tone. “We don’t need a surgeon right now.”

The woman sitting across from Marquis Richter, perhaps only a decade younger than the queen, straightened the yellow cuffs of her decorated red robe. “So that’s the famed Jade Surgeon? Personally, I wouldn’t mind hearing his opinion on the matter.”

“We’re discussing war with demons and bandits, sweetheart. If my knights find a constipated heathen, I’ll call for him personally.”

“How simple-minded.” The woman took a sip from her cup. “As expected of a brute who knows nothing more than how to swing a heavy stick. Magic like his could change everything.”

“Brutes, huh?” Richter leaned forward, an amused frown on his face. “Would you and your delicate sorceresses like to try fighting on the front lines for once instead of hiding atop a wall?”

“Do you think you can ground flying and carapaced devils in our place?”

“Richter. Mira. That’s enough,” Amelie Pesce commanded. “I called for Dimitry personally.”

Mira? Wasn’t that the name of the Sorceresses guild’s guildmaster? It would explain her robe’s unique design.

The queen glanced up at the controversial surgeon. “Have you decided?”

Dimitry took a relieved breath. The queen didn’t accuse him of anything. Instead, she followed up on their deal—one that would be foolish to decline. Not only did she want his input on city-wide decisions, but she also offered him ownership of a cathedral in return. An asset that would prove invaluable for saving lives, making money, and as a pharmaceutical manufacturing facility. Although managing it would be nothing short of challenging and cause endless problems, they were the sort worth tackling. And, as the queen’s personal doctor, Dimitry would have access to information and resources few others did.

His decision was easy.

“Yes, Your Majesty. I intend to serve to the best of my ability.”

“As of this moment, you are this court’s doctor.” She curled a finger. “Bring him a chair.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” a maid muttered. She leaped away from the circular room’s wall to fulfill her duty while another poured a fresh cup of tea and set it onto the table.

“Take a seat.”

Dimitry did as the queen commanded and glanced at the indigo-eyed girl sitting beside her. He gave Saphiria a nod in response to her hesitant smile.

“But we don’t know anything about him,” Richter grumbled. “He could be working with the other kingdoms or even the Church itself.”

“I understand your concerns.” Amelie glanced at the person sitting next to Dimitry. “Lukas, did you learn anything about our mysterious guest?”

The man held a cup in a hand missing a pinky. “On orders from Her Royal Majesty herself, I sent one of my best men to track Dimitry as he navigated Malten. He spent most of his time inside the hospital and its cellar, communicating with no outsiders except for the ill, cursed refugees, and the prominent Blue Compass merchant Sophie. In addition, I took it upon myself to investigate the death of a rival surgeon named Josef.”

Richter tapped a finger against the table impatiently. “And what did you find, spymaster?”

Lukas shook his head. “The Jade Surgeon was in his guest room at the time of incident, so his involvement is unlikely.”

Although Dimitry took a sip of bitter tea as if unfazed, he was anything but. Why did the queen order her spymaster to trail him? Did she wish to protect him from the conspiring surgeons, or was it to ease her subordinates’ suspicions of him?

Neither.

According to Precious, someone had been stalking him since his second day in Malten aside from intimidating thugs. The spy Lukas mentioned. Back then, Dimitry was just another surgeon tasked with curing the plague.

Did the queen distrust him from the start?

“How about you, Mira?” Amelie asked. “Did Angelika uncover anything?”

A pang of betrayal struck Dimitry. He considered that Angelika wasn’t a mere guard. In a city where militarized mages held more value than doctors, it made little sense for him to receive personal protection when Josef and the other surgeons didn’t. Dimitry had assumed Angelika’s support was his reward for returning Saphiria to her home, but discovering the truth so suddenly stung.

Did the curly-haired girl rat him out for Josef’s murder?

“Nothing of the sort. I’ve only heard praise from her.” The sorceress guildmaster folded her arms onto the table. “Not only did the young man save her mother—my head enchantress Raina—from the curse, he also displayed rare magics and spent every waking moment saving lives. I believe he will make an excellent addition to your court, Your Royal Majesty.”

Dimitry’s pounding heart eased its relentless assault against his ribcage. Angelika covered for him. He guzzled his tea in relief.

“Do you need more testimony?” The queen asked.

Marquis Richter groaned. “No, Your Majesty.”

“With that settled, let’s continue to where we left off before the Jade Surgeon’s tumultuous arrival. Klaire?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” A beautiful woman with bundled light blue hair lifted a book off of her lap and set it onto the table. As if knowing its contents by heart, she flipped open the cover to her desired page and scrolled down with her finger. “This week, Amphurt’s refined iron and vol production decreased once more. From ninety-four and four and three-quarter cartfulls to eighty-nine and three and a half cartfulls.” She looked up. “At this rate, we might not have enough to bargain with Ontaria and Feyt for supplies.”

The blacksmiths guildmaster sitting to Dimitry’s right, who wore a shirt for perhaps the first time in his life, sighed. “Metal quality has been getting worse, too. Often, my wrought iron shipments have far too many slag inclusions, making them difficult to work with.” Elias crossed his muscular arms over his chest. “We need to get the finery forges working right.”

“Is that why your rock hammers blunt so quickly?” Richter asked. “Before, my men could crush a carapaced devil’s shell without issue, but now even a crawler heathen’s leg is enough to dent them.”

“My smiths are doing the best they can with what they have.”

Saphiria looked up from her lap at Dimitry, expectation in her eyes. She had mentioned that Amphurt was a vital town east of Malten that served as the center for this kingdom’s mining and smelting operations—the queen’s primary source of income. The ongoing conversation only reaffirmed Amphurt’s importance.

Without metal, this city would fall.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t do anything to help: Dimitry couldn’t fight and knew little about mining. Perhaps the man in the dark hall would grant him a spell allowing him to assimilate Earth’s collective knowledge, but he didn’t get his hopes up. This world never made it easy for him.

Did something else exist that could help?

He hoped so.

Mira brushed her short, hazelnut hair from her face. “Klaire, will the vol shortage be problematic for my girls?”

“Not this month or the next, but I predict it will soon.”

The sorceress guildmaster frowned. “As if the taxes weren’t bad enough.”

“We have to slaughter those damn bandits before they cause any more damage,” Richter blurted. “Do we even know where their outpost is?”

The spymaster, whose pinky-less hand now hid in his pocket, met the marquis’s gaze. “My men questioned a few bandits and learned that it’s in the eastern forest. It’s only a matter of time until we find it.”

“I leave the matter to you, Lukas,” the queen said. “Richter. How goes Amphurt’s defense against heathens?”

“Not well, Your Majesty.” The portly man adorned in glowing armor sighed. “My army can’t patrol the northern border and defend Malten at the same time. The local militia isn’t organized, either. They’re useless in a surprise attack. I propose we build proper towers and walls around Amphurt and its mines to give them a fighting chance.”

“That won’t be possible,” someone short and stout spoke up. It was Moritz—Dimitry’s former patient and Malten’s stonemason guildmaster. “My people are struggling to make repairs to this city’s walls, let alone Amphurt’s. We can’t transport and shape enough stone in time.”

“Would more refugees help?” Lukas asked. “My scouts report that Einheart lost half of its defenses this past night of repentance. Desperate people in search of work should arrive soon.”

“That won’t help,” Moritz said. “Although they’re not dying on the job anymore thanks to the Jade Surgeon’s efforts, I’d still have to train and house them, hoping they don’t flee south as soon as they learn to quarry.”

Amelie’s red eyes narrowed. “How fares Volmer?”

“Better than Einheart,” the spymaster said, “worse than us. I guarantee their survival for several months.”

“Are Feyt and Ontaria still sending them aid?”

“They are, Your Majesty, but I fear grain won’t be enough to save them.”

“I see.” The queen glanced at Klaire. “And what of our own food stores?”

The blue-haired woman fiddled with a pen-like object resting on her ear. “They’re dwindling rapidly, Your Majesty. Despite lax hunting laws and increased wheat prices, I fear we might have to further our reliance on the southern countries.”

“She’s right, Your Majesty.” Richter exhaled a prolonged groan. “My fields’ productivity isn’t what it used to be.”

“Hmm.” The queen leaned back. “What of our fishing boats?”

Klaire flipped ahead a few pages in her book. “The three we sent out yesterday returned with damage to their hulls and little to show for it. They’re currently in port receiving repairs.”

“Damn fishmen,” Richter groaned. “My army can’t afford a war with heathens, bandits, and aquatic demons all at once.”

Mira straightened her robe’s cuffs. “For once, we are of the same opinion.”

The queen stared at Dimitry as if coaxing something from him. Did she want him to speak up? Perhaps it was why she wanted him to be her court’s doctor in the first place—his ability to communicate with aquatic demons.

A skill that would doubtlessly bring him trouble.

‘How much trouble?’ was the question. Assuming the aquatic demons that attacked the merchant vessel he rode from Coldust returned to their ‘hierarch’ with news regarding Dimitry the human diplomat, it would grant him a modicum of safety during negotiations. They seemed graceful and understanding, even amid a ship raid. Precious was proof that humanity could cooperate with corrupted creatures. Why would aquatic demons be any different?

Could Dimitry establish diplomatic ties with them? It shouldn’t be too difficult. After all, the best basis for an international treaty was already in place.

Shared enemies.

The Church and the ‘rock giants’.

Not only would Dimitry end a ceaseless war, but he could also set the foundation for a human-demon alliance that fought united against heathens. How many lives would he save on both sides? Would it prevent damage to the city? Could it lead to the development of novel technologies using magic known only to corrupted creatures? For example, faeries could locate and manipulate people by preying on their emotions. Did aquatic demons possess a similar ability? Perhaps something more potent? Or maybe a spell Dimitry could modify with his scientific knowledge?

Yes.

His decision would lead to trouble.

But it was trouble worth undertaking.

Dimitry cleared his throat, keeping a deceptively calm expression as everyone in the room, even the guards and maids stood against the walls, burdened him with heavy stares. “As many of you heard earlier, I am in possession of strange magic.”

Mira smiled. “From my sorceresses and the enchanted bedclothes Her Majesty allowed me to study, I’d describe it as powerful rather than strange.”

“What of it?” Richter blurted.

“Besides being able to modify preservia like I did to cure the plague, I have other spells, too.”

“Do you speak of your disappearing magic?” Mira asked.

“Disappearing magic?” Lukas leaned forward. “My men in Amalthea reported hearing of such a thing. Does it truly exist?”

“My head enchantress and her daughters saw it. They wouldn’t jest about such a matter.”

“In that case,” Lukas said, rolling a dark green pellet across the table, “would the Jade Surgeon demonstrate it for us?”

Of course a spymaster would be interested in a spell that turned things invisible. His eager face and that of the others sat around the table. The expectant maids, court sorceresses, and soldiers stood against the room’s walls compelled Dimitry to reach for the marble-sized vol pellet.

Although he would reveal his ace in the hole, a spell that allowed him to escape from peril, declining Lukas’s request would lose him credibility and what little respect Dimitry had from those in the room. Conversely, showing off his magic would win him support.

A trade-off. One that netted positive.

Like a washed-out circus performer who could only repeat the last trick he remembered, Dimitry placed a palm onto the table.

“Invisall.”

It vanished from sight, leaving a stewardess’s book, nine cups of tea, and a teapot floating in mid-air.

Mira stared with composed yet wide-open eyes.

Lukas ran a finger along the table’s edge.

Then, murmurs. Talking. Excited voices erupted throughout the room. Even court sorceresses, who spoke only as much as necessary, engaged in furious debate amongst one another. Everyone glanced at Dimitry as if desperate to learn his secrets.

Before they could ask him questions he preferred not to answer, he rushed back into his speech. “As I was saying, I am in possession of strange magic. This spell makes people and objects disappear. Another works only on myself and allows me to communicate with aquatic demons. I’ve negotiated with them before. They’re not the unthinking monsters most people envision they are. I believe it’s possible to peacefully end the war.”

“A-absolute madness,” Richter exclaimed.

“It makes sense.” Elias ran a giant hand across his bald head. “They know how to make basic weapons and armor, so they can’t be simple beasts.”

“Blasphemy,” a guard stood against the wall muttered.

The discussion quickly became chaotic. Some voices hopeful, others furious.

Her Majesty gave Dimitry a reassuring smile, one that lasted a split second, then slammed her fist against an invisible table.

“Silence!”

The chatter ended.

“While consorting with corrupted beasts is blasphemous, unthinkable, what does that mean to us who lost the Church’s blessing so long ago?” Amelie shook her head. “No. We didn’t lose it. They took it from us, abandoned us. How many here lost friends, family, lovers in a senseless war? Everyone here should know by now what really happened eight years ago.”

An armored guard behind the queen lowered his spear and gaze, perhaps remembering something he wished to forget.

“Does anyone else have a better plan? Should we throw away more lives while blindly following the teachings? Wait for the Church to rescue us? This surgeon, the one who saved many amongst us already, offers his aid once more. Are we to spit in his face? Personally, I want no more needless bloodshed dirtying my hands. I already have enough.”

Only creaking furniture and the clanking of metal armor filled the room.

“However.” Her red eyes focused on Dimitry. "Can you truly end this senseless war without sacrifice?"

"I believe it's possible to negotiate a truce, Your Majesty. Heathens threaten aquatic demons as much as they do us. When I spoke to them on Malten’s shores, they weren’t averse to cooperation. I am known as a diplomat to one they call ‘hierarch’."

“Hierarch?” Lukas asked with furrowed eyes. “I’ve never heard of such a creature.”

“That’s my point exactly.” Dimitry glanced around at a sea of dubious faces. “We are blindly fighting a war with a race we know nothing about. What else could we learn about them? Gain from them? Access to fishing locations to feed a starving city? Magic that could turn the tide in battle or change the way we live? Something else we’ve never imagined? The possibilities are endless.”

“New spells, you say?” Mira sipped her tea. “I believe I speak for every sorceress in this room that your words are tempting, indeed.”

Klaire scrolled through her book. “If we regained uncontested access to our old fishing spots, we could offset our agricultural losses and reduce our reliance on neighboring countries by thirty percent.”

“And you volunteer to speak to them?” Richter asked. “Why would you, a surgeon with no ties to this city, risk your life for us?”

“It is precisely because I am a surgeon,” Dimitry said. “Although it is my job, I take no joy in mending dying men. I prefer them to live. If we’re successful, not only will we risk fewer lives, but we’ll have an ally to help us ward off heathen attacks. Prevention is the best cure for death.”

Intrigued whispers leaked from the corners of the room. Contrary to her primal nature, a court sorceress stood against the wall nodded at Dimitry.

“I'll support the Jade Surgeon’s efforts by sending a boat and diplomatic gifts,” the queen said.

Richter rocked in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, then came to a halt. “I assume we’re going to Fishman Island to negotiate? I’ll send a few soldiers and nothing more. I can’t afford to lose men to silly games.”

“Although I’d love to come myself to see your magic in person,” Mira said, looking at Dimitry, “my endless duties require me to stay here. You will have Angelika and several of my other girls.”

“I’m not much use in a fight,” the blacksmithing giant Elias said, “but I will send some of my best work. Hope it helps.”

Lukas the spymaster maintained a blank expression. “I’ll allocate messenger pigeons and a keeper.”

“I’ll throw in some stuff too, I guess.” Moritz the stonemason grinned. “Maybe aquatic demons like gypsum statuettes.”

“Mother,” a quiet voice belonging to a girl with raven black hair spoke up.

Everyone turned to face her.

Saphiria’s face was full of resolve. “I wish to go as well.”

“No. You will stay in the castle.” The queen turned to look at the woman with light-blue hair. “Klaire, you’ll accompany Dimitry.”

“But Your Majesty, I cannot—”

“Few know this kingdom as well as you do. You will serve in my stead in the negotiations. I will see that you’re properly rewarded.”

Klaire’s hands trembled as they closed her book. “Y-yes, Your Majesty.”

“Everyone has until tomorrow night to finish their preparations.” Amelie gripped the sides of her royal mantle and slowly rose to her feet. “This summit is adjourned.”

66. A Princess and a Mine

An intricately carved ceiling stared down at Dimitry as he lay in his guest room for the first time in what felt like ages. He had been too busy. Most days, he slept in the hospital, taking a short nap before returning to work. Today was different.

After taking part in the queen’s summit, he returned to the church to find only two patients requiring surgery. Dimitry performed debridement on both, channeled some enchantments with the help of Mira’s sorceresses, and returned to the castle to sleep on a bed that consisted of more than a mattress. However, despite the comfort of its warm and fibrous woolen linens in an otherwise cold room, he couldn’t sleep.

Dimitry wondered if he had bitten off more than he could chew. Not only was he building a hospital, curing the plague, and serving as the court’s doctor, two days from now, he would be at the forefront of this kingdom’s diplomatic relationship with corrupted creatures.

Negotiations that would decide the course of a prolonged war.

That was why he prepared by gathering whatever information he could from a similarly unholy beast. Or was ‘beast’ too strong a word? Dimitry’s head turned on its pillow to face a source of jingling reminiscent of miniature wind chimes. “Anything else you could tell me about aquatic demons?”

“I don’t know.” Precious ran the corner of his woolen blanket down her green wings, brushing away something only she could tell was there. “Their horns are blue, they have spears, and they like to stab things. What more is there to say?”

“You lived in the Gestalt Empire before it collapsed, right?”

“Yeah.”

“For a long time?”

“What’s your point?”

Dimitry turned his gaze back to the ceiling. “Is it a recent thing, or did humans and aquatic demons always fight?”

“For at least a century. Sometimes the Church would push them back to the ocean, and then the aquatic demons would regroup to raze villages and towns near the shore.”

“Over a hundred years of squabbling, then?” Dimitry sighed. By now, both sides had ingrained hate and war into their cultures. “Fixing that won’t be easy.”

“Yep. Your insatiable urge to butt into other humans’ business never fails to get us into trouble.” The faerie cuddled into his woolen bedsheets. “But it’s not all bad. At least no one stalked us today.”

“That’s because Lukas’ spy stopped trailing us ever since the queen cleared me of suspicion. Angelika isn’t a problem either. She carried out the murder I asked her to instead of reporting it to her superiors. Speaking of which, couldn’t you sense that Angelika was spying on me from the start?”

“Was she really?” Precious asked. “Maybe that self-important sorceress lady told her to, but I honestly don’t think she cared much about you at all until you saved her mom. She was either bored to death or scared to death the entire time.”

Dimitry stroked his chin. “Do you know how she feels about me now?”

“Gratitude, respect, and occasionally annoyance.”

Annoyance at the fact that Dimitry made her carry out endless tasks? “At the very least, I know I can trust my back to her when we visit Fishman Island.”

“Looks like she’s good for something, even if she has a big mouth.”

“Like yours is any smaller.”

Unfazed by his words, Precious stretched her slender arms towards the ceiling and yawned. “Think she’ll mouth off an aquatic demon and get everyone on board killed?”

“Doubt it.” Dimitry squeezed his hands under his head to support his neck. “She may be hotheaded, but she isn’t dumb.”

“Are you sure about—” Precious’s head shot to the side. “Someone’s at the door.”

“Hostile?”

“No.”

Dimitry threw the blanket over the faerie.

“Jerk!” her muffled whisper spat from underneath.

Gentle knocking on granite.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me,” the quiet voice of a familiar princess responded. “May I enter?”

“Of course. Give me a moment.” Dimitry threw on his red and gold overshirt before opening the door.

Her raven black hair hiding under a dark cloak’s hood, Saphiria stood in a blue-lit hallway. Unlike the past week, grief no longer clouded her indigo eyes. They harbored resolve. She walked in, carrying a green glowing padded jacket in her arms. “Let’s go to Amphurt.”

Dimitry took a step back. “Now? Does your mother know?”

“She won’t until after we leave.”

“What if we get caught by guards?”

“I’ll say I forced you to come.”

Taking a deep breath, Dimitry kicked the door shut behind her. “How long’s the trip?”

“We can return by tomorrow morning.” Saphiria laid the enchanted jacket onto his bed.

It was midnight now. Was Amphurt really that close? The fact that Dimitry wouldn’t have to spend much time away from the hospital and his plans to visit the town eventually made his decision easy.

Many of Dimitry’s recent patients traveled from the settlements surrounding Malten, meaning that the plague spread deep into the countryside. Before deciding on how many bedclothes to send, he needed to know the extent of the disease’s damage.

There was also the matter of the shrine. Dimitry’s emblem constantly tugged towards east main street—the same direction as Amphurt. Although receiving another ominous relic wasn’t thrilling, he may as well retrieve it. The man in the dark hall told him they were the key to his victory and survival. What that meant exactly was unclear. However, if the shrines helped him live, something Dimitry was keen to do, he could spare the time to loot them.

And he did tell Saphiria he would go. Might as well fulfill his promise to his closest ally and the future queen of Malten.

Dimitry reached for the enchanted jacket on his bed. “I saw soldiers wearing something like that before. What is it?”

Precious crawled out from under what she made look like a heavy blanket. “It’s a protectia enchantment, Dumitry.”

“I borrowed it from the armory,” Saphiria said. “Does the gambeson fit?”

Dimitry untied a string binding the two sides of the jacket and thrust his arm into one of its padded sleeves. Unlike the green glowing exterior, the interior had a golden enchantment. That of reflectia. Was it to prevent the protectia enchantment on the surface from affecting the wearer, or an additional layer of defense? In either case, the vol required to weave it wasn’t cheap.

Curious, Dimitry patted the jacket’s surface. Penetrating its green glow took more effort than he expected. Did the enchantment weaken oncoming forces?

Saphiria stepped closer. “Shall I lace it for you?”

Normally, Dimitry would have declined her offer, but he didn’t know how to do it himself. “Please. If you would be so kind.”

“How sad,” Precious said with a malicious grin. “Can’t even dress yourself.”

“Are you still mad that I threw the blanket on you?”

“You could’ve warned me! I’m not a giant, bumbling idiot like you! It’s heavy!”

“I’ll be more careful next time.” Dimitry turned his attention away from the livid faerie to watch a knelt Saphiria as she concentrated on tying his gambeson shut. How strange for a princess to dress a commoner. “Should I use invisall to help us sneak out?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Saphiria said. “Royal guards have no choice but to obey my commands and let us leave.” She stood up. “All done.”

“Thanks.”

After putting on his cloak, whose collar almost ripped in its struggle to contain the gambeson’s added bulk, a sulking Precious climbed into Dimitry’s hood. They left his guest room and passed through a mostly empty castle hallway.

When Dimitry opened the heavy doors leading to the castle district, a yellow-sleeved arm shot up from the other side to prevent his exit. A court sorceress’s arm. Her vicious glare relaxed as it traveled from Dimitry’s face to Saphiria’s. “Your Royal Highness.” She knelt. “May I inquire as to your business outside the castle?”

“I’ll be visiting Amphurt once more.”

“I don’t wish to intrude on your personal affairs, but it is late. Won’t you please delay your trip until morning?”

“Sorry.” Saphiria walked past her. “I can’t.”

“It would worry me to let you leave alone,” the court sorceress said, panic in her voice. “Shall I call for a detachment from the royal guard?”

“No, we wish to go in secret. Tell mother that I left of my own accord and took Dimitry along despite his efforts to convince me otherwise.”

“Yes, Your Royal Highness.” The yellow-robed woman glanced up at Dimitry, her desperate expression like that of a person passing a baton in a near-hopeless relay race.

Was she worried over the princess’s safety, or that she would take the blame if something happened to Saphiria? In either case, it must have been tough looking after a disobedient heiress. Full of pity for the unfortunate guard, Dimitry forced a smile. “I vow to do everything I can to keep the princess safe. I’ll see that she returns by midday, even if I have to use my most powerful magic.”

Perhaps seeing his invisall demonstration at the queen’s summit, the court sorceress took a relieved breath and rose to her feet. “You have my gratitude, Jade Surgeon. I pray to Zer— pray for your safe travels.”

“Let’s go.” Saphiria tugged on Dimitry’s cloak. “This way.”

She led him to a structure beside the castle. Its stables.

The smell of festering horse waste intensified as they approached one of the few wooden buildings in the entire city. When the princess passed through its entrance, she nodded at a kneeling stable worker and opened the closest stall door.

A white horse, distracted from grazing hay, looked up. Unlike most of its neighbors, this one already had a saddle on its back. Did Saphiria plan their trip beforehand?

“Hi, Dorothy. How are you?” Saphiria stroked the massive beast’s nose and scratched its chin. “Are you ready to go?”

Dorothy nickered, gently waving her well-trimmed mane side to side.

Cold winds crashed against Dimitry’s face as he raced east along Malten’s northern river. He passed cottages, long-dead heathens, and mounds of smoking turf tended to by people Saphiria referred to as charcoal burners. With every stride from his polka-dotted horse, the pull from his wrist’s emblem grew stronger. It led him to some distant shrine.

What would the relic hidden within show him this time? Another vision of the algae beasts unknown to both Saphiria and Precious? Heathens? The Church? He didn’t know why the man in the dark hall stressed the importance of the shrine’s guidance, but—

An obnoxious sound, louder than his horse’s clomping, echoed from an otherwise silent forest.

“Whoa.”

Slowing down, Dimitry focused on the curious outcry.

It was an amalgam of giggling, shrieks, the mad laughter of dozens of high-pitched voices.

“Does anyone else hear that?” he asked, pulling back on the reins.

“Don’t listen!” Precious reached a hand from his cloak’s hood and pressed it to his ear canal. “Ignore it!”

Was it something dangerous? Like mythological sirens?

Dorothy stopped beside Dimitry. The dark-cloaked girl riding on the white horse’s back shook her head. “It’s just faeries.”

“Faeries?”

Saphiria nodded.

“It’s nothing.” Precious clambered out of his hood and wrapped her shivering arms around his face to cover his eyes. “Let’s go look at miners or whatever it is we’re doing out here. We don’t have time to waste, right?”

“Why are you so worried?” Dimitry didn’t bother removing the faerie, whose slender limbs did little to block his vision, before leading his horse into a small forest clearing.

His curiosity brought him to a sight he could have done without.

A stiff and calloused purple corpse, likely that of a refugee, lay on a dark patch of grass. Surrounding the deceased woman were faeries. Lots of faeries. Naked and full of corrupt joy, most of them hovered over the dead body like flies around decaying gruel, while a few sat, excreting a bumpy foam onto their defenseless victim. Were those… eggs? They covered every crevice and orifice.

As a surgeon, Dimitry witnessed gore that would make most laymen wince. Worms buried in skin, green and white bacterial soup festering within deep wounds, brains exposed through cracked skulls.

This was no less disturbing.

“Is that normal?” he asked.

Saphiria nodded once more, her indigo eyes unfazed by the repulsive sight they glazed over.

“I promise. I’m not like them.” Precious let go of his face, her cheeks red for perhaps the first time ever. “Let’s go.”

Dimitry turned away from the tornado of wild faeries shrieking senseless words to look at his companion. The one who hated the cold. Precious’s tiny legs shivered, and her wings buzzed as if struggling to generate body heat. She never would have left his warm cloak unless she really didn’t want him to see that. Was Precious self-conscious of her species? If so, it was hard to blame her. “I’ll forget what I saw. We’re going.”

“I appreciate it,” she muttered as she snaked past his ear and into her favorite lounging spot inside his hood.

One hand grasping Dorothy’s reins and another pointed at a sky where faintly visible gray smoke rose past willows and oaks into a dark abyss, Saphiria rode ahead. “We’re almost there.”

Already? They traveled less than an hour. Not that Dimitry knew how long that was anymore. This world didn’t have reliable methods of telling time, nor were there precise units for it. He tapped his horse’s side with his boot, sending it forward.

As the number of trees decreased—only low stumps remaining where they once stood—makeshift walls of accumulated rocks and black crystallized chunks resting on barren earth came into view. Erected behind the shoddy fortifications were tents, wooden towers, and an assortment of medievalesque contraptions.

“Is that Amphurt?” Dimitry caught up with Saphiria and asked. “It looks too small to be a town. Even Vael was bigger.”

“No,” she said. “Those are the vol mines and smelteries. The iron ones are further upstream, and beyond them lies Amphurt. Do you remember anything yet?”

Dimitry couldn’t recall mining technology he never learned. “Unfortunately not.”

“I’m sure you will when we get up close. Let’s go inside.”

“Wai—”

“Canter!” Saphiria commanded. Dorothy’s metal horseshoes hit the dirt rhythmically, clopping ahead, leaving only clouds of dust in their wake.

Precious gently tugged on Dimitry’s earlobe. “When are you going to crush her hopes?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just a hunch,” she said, her voice quiet and dejected since they encountered wild faeries. “Although you don’t have the heart to tell her you can’t help her, I can almost taste the pity and guilt inside you. Your deception, too, whenever you go along with anyone suggesting you have amnesia. I figured either your memory loss was so bad that you didn’t know what was true anymore, or that you’re really not from here.”

“And what did you decide on?” Dimitry asked.

“I’ve spent centuries wandering Remora, even when the Unblessed Lands still had people living there. Your magic, your science, your methods didn’t exist before you. I used to think you were just an idiot, but somehow everything you do works.” Precious sighed. “I honestly don’t know what to think anymore, but I’m sure you know much more than you let on.”

“Very astute of you.” Dimitry cracked a smile. “But would you do me a favor and keep your findings to yourself?”

“As long as you do the same for me.” Precious rolled around inside his hood, wrapping her body in its fabric. “Not that you have to worry about me gossiping. Unlike a certain Dumitry, most people would kill me before listening to what I have to say.”

“Being a corrupted creature sounds tough.”

“You have no idea.”

When Dimitry caught up with Saphiria at the mining settlement’s crudely reconstructed entrance, a guard prostrated beside her white horse.

“Please rise,” she said. “I’m here in secret.”

“Yes, Your Royal Highness.” The guard stood. “I see your envoy isn’t with you today. Shall I accompany you in their stead?”

“No.” Saphiria dismounted Dorothy. “We’ll be fine. Thank you.” She glanced back at Dimitry and entered the mines.

Following her lead, Dimitry strode by the confused guard. He accompanied Saphiria near a wooden structure operated by men wearing simple brown tunics and matching coifs.

One worker sat in a booth attached to an unexpectedly complex contraption. He pulled on a cable, which opened an overhead sluice gate directing water from a nearby river and onto the side of a massive water wheel. It began to turn as did the pole protruding from its axle. Every rotation curled up a thick rope that, as it shortened, lifted a wooden platform loaded with full water buckets and chunks of teal stone from a giant hole in the ground.

Was that the ore extracted from a mineshaft?

Saphiria looked up at Dimitry, expectation in her indigo eyes. “Do you remember anything?”

He shook his head.

She bit her lip and dragged him by the arm to a cylindrical brick tower that sent clouds of gray smoke into a vast and dark sky. Two men pumped bellows on either side, invigorating the fire inside in turns.

“How about the blast furnace? Anything?”

Lingering guilt within, Dimitry turned away from the structure blowing hot air into his face to meet Saphiria’s desperate gaze. “I hate to say it, but I’m not really sure what I’m looking at. All I know is that it’s processing ore somehow.”

“I see.” Saphiria looked down. “I’m sorry for wasting your time. Let’s go home.”

Dimitry took a deep breath. It pained him to disappoint her. If he had trained as an engineer, he could have advanced this world’s mining and smelting capabilities centuries into the future. Increased ore production. Supplied the kingdom with so much vol that supporting sorceresses, enchanting bedclothes, and conducting magical experiments would be the least of this country’s worries.

But he didn’t know where to start.

He was a doctor.

Nothing more.

“You didn’t waste my time.” He showed her the emblem on his wrist, which tugged towards a close-by shrine. “There’s somewhere else I want to visit.”

67. Alien Constructs

Oncoming frigid winds pressed the rough fabric of Dimitry’s hood against his cheek when he glanced back at voluminous clouds of smoke expanding into a dark sky behind him. They rose from a settlement with shoddily repaired walls.

Her Majesty’s iron mines.

Although they appeared small now, they were anything but. Hundreds of underdressed laborers trudged through sub-zero temperatures while hauling cargo, pumping bellows, or shoveling charcoal in a facility more massive than four villages put together.

Size, however, was its only redeeming feature. Unlike the iron mines’ compact vol counterpart, its infrastructure was battered. Disorderly. Collapsing.

Several water wheels no longer lifted elevators from mine shafts, forcing miners to pull heavy carts topped with lustrous gray stones up narrow walkways. Once they reached the surface, they would leave their ore at a station where men in wet clothes would wash and crush it in a machine powered by sluice gates and horses. The only ones worse off than drenched workers trying to stave off hypothermia were those lugging sacks of charcoal over their shoulders, rushing to feed ten-foot-tall blast furnaces before the flames burnt out.

Their efforts weren’t always successful.

Fuel was difficult to get. According to Saphiria, many charcoal burners fled south, seeking safety from heathens. Replacing them was an endless struggle that would eventually choke this country’s metal industry—its primary source of income.

Eager to help, Dimitry attempted to recall knowledge from a thermodynamics course he took one and a half decades ago. He knew how a theoretical steam engine functioned, but what metals should he use to build one? How thick did the walls have to be? Could smiths produce the required parts? Would it be plausible to discard contraptions with well-known functionalities in favor of ones that could break down at any moment without a soul to repair them?

He didn’t know.

It was a task that would consume time and effort Dimitry couldn’t afford to spend. His best course of action was to focus on what he came here to do. He pulled back on his horse’s reins to slow the animal to a trot, then raised his right arm.

Like a blue homing beacon glowing amongst a dark sky, the knight emblem on his wrist tugged forward with more force than it had all night. It insisted he race past fields and villages, which grew in size and density as they approached Amphurt, towards its goal.

A cache containing an unknown relic.

Horseshoes rhythmically clomping in twos against frozen dirt caught up to Dimitry. Their source was a pure white horse carrying a girl whose raven black hair glistened in a waning moon’s weak light. “Are we going the right way?”

“We should be there soon.” Dimitry tucked his hand under his cloak to shield it from freezing winds.

“In Estoria, you told me it led you to a cathedral with a shrine.” Saphiria pointed ahead at a townscape built onto a distant hillside. “There’s one in Amphurt, too.”

“Really?”

“Yes. The cathedral there is bigger than the one in Malten.”

That was strange. Why would the Church erect a bigger cathedral in a town than it did in a neighboring city? “Can you take me there?”

Saphiria nodded and, her expression one of contemplation, turned her gaze to Dorothy’s white mane. “May I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“I don’t wish to burden you with difficult questions, but I’ve been wondering about it ever since we escaped from Ravenfall.” Saphiria glanced up at him with curious indigo eyes. “Why do you have that mark on your wrist? Is it your means for casting strange magics?”

Even though Dimitry trusted her, he couldn’t give a satisfying response to an inquiry he couldn’t answer himself. He provided her with a simplified version. “A man gave it to me.”

“A man?” Saphiria looked forward, bracing herself as Dorothy leaped over a tree stump. “What does it do?”

“Aside from leading me to shrines, I don’t think it does much—”

The distant sound of shattering wood, as if by overwhelming force, broke Dimitry’s concentration.

Then a loud horn, yelling, and stomping.

Dimitry’s head twisted towards the commotion—a cluster of cottages to his left. “What the hell is that?”

“Crawling devil,” Saphiria said, her face emotionless.

Precious turned under Dimitry’s hood, her wings tickling his neck. “What’s with all the noise?” She yawned. “Are we in Malten yet?”

“Does it sound like we’re in Malten? Crawling devils are attacking a village.”

“Heathens in the middle of the month?” Precious’s ponytail brushed against his ear as she peeked out of his hood, her golden hair blowing in the wind. “Unlucky. Must suck to be those guys.”

“Why does it matter?” Dimitry asked. “I know more of them like to attack on nights of repentance, but do their numbers fluctuate throughout the month as well?”

“Yes,” Saphiria said. “Although we’re close to a town, it’s rare for them to strike now.”

Were heathens the reason people used lunar calendars to tell time? He saw one in Malten’s castle before. A year comprised fourteen months, each separated by roughly twenty-eight days. It made sense for the moon to receive special attention in a world where it hung large and bright in the sky, produced mysterious green sparkles on nights of repentance, and predicted the behavior of deadly stone creatures.

Creatures that intrigued Dimitry.

He glanced at Saphiria. “I want to get a closer look.”

She stared at him, baffled. Then, after an extended pause, nodded.

“Are you out of your mind?” Precious pinched his earlobe with small and cold fingers. “Do you want to die?”

Dimitry understood the faerie’s concerns. Although his actions would put all of them in danger, observing a heathen on land would teach him how the mysterious giants moved, how they covered their victims in corrosive blood, and, most importantly, how they died. Lessons he could use to train and arm his ‘ambulances’ to prevent unnecessary casualties during the heathen invasion at the end of the month.

Or perhaps someone lay dying right now, less than a hundred meters away. Dimitry preferred to live knowing that he didn’t abandon a patient who suffered as heathen’s blood liquefied his skin and organs into a purple soup.

“We won’t get too close,” he said, pulling his horse’s reins in the village’s direction. “If anything happens, I’ll cast accelall on us.”

Saphiria followed his lead. “Okay.”

Precious exhaled a weary breath. “Maybe you two really are insane.”

As they approached the uproar, the ground’s rumbling intensified. A heathen’s stone legs, knees, and round core peeked out over cottages’ thatched roofs, bolting from one to the next. It wasn’t long before the whole creature came into view. Towering over eight men pelting it with bolts and arrows, the crawling devil gave chase to someone wearing only braies and a shirt.

The hastily dressed man dashed through the village’s streets. “Fucking kill it already!”

“Shut up and keep running!” yelled a man wielding a bow taller than himself. He shot an arrow at the heathen. “If you die, I’m marrying your daughter!”

One stood on his crossbow’s glowing limbs, cocking the weapon by pulling back on its string. “And keep that damn thing away from my house!”

Dimitry’s polka-dotted horse exhaled a loud and frightened snort, then came to a halt. It took several steps back. Dimitry watched open-mouth as the nightmarish scene played out less than fifty meters away from him.

Out of the many projectiles targeting the heathen, only three pierced its central, rounded core. Blue blood poured from newly formed chinks, etching a glowing trail on frozen mud wherever the heathen’s six legs took it.

If nine men struggled to fell one crawling devil, how many were necessary to kill two? Three? Dozens marching, joined by flying and carapaced devils as they rushed towards a damaged city’s walls all at once?

And with numbers that increased every month.

Bows and rock hammers weren’t enough. They were too weak. Too risky. The only alternatives were sorceresses, who required decades to train and fortunes to maintain, and voltech weaponry. Both consumed vol—a precious resource whose use attracted further attention from heathens.

This world needed powerful weapons: guns, cannons, explosives. Ones that didn’t rely on vol or sacrifice.

Ones that Dimitry couldn’t provide.

He knew little about manufacturing weapons, preparing munitions, or chemicals that corroded stone. Most of his non-professional knowledge vanished long ago, victim to the sands of time.

“It’s almost dead, keep shooting!” The archer nocked another arrow.

“I said, stay away from my house!”

“I… I can’t!” The running man scrammed into a denser residential area. “There’s nowhere else to fucking go!” He glanced back at the crawling devil trailing him.

Propped up by four hind legs, the heathen rotated its front two limbs sideways and swiped them as if they were mandibles. The running man dodged the attack by turning a corner. Forward momentum, however, didn’t allow the stone monster to do the same. It rammed into a cottage no larger than the living room in Dimitry’s condominium back on Earth.

Blue blood soaked the building’s collapsed thatch roof, the excess spilling from the wreckage down makeshift steps and into a narrow ditch running through a frozen dirt road. The heathen remained buried under timber beams, unmoving.

The man who ran for his life now lay on the street, looking up at a dark sky leaking dawn’s first light. “Celeste… guide… me…” he uttered through heaved breaths.

“Donat,” the longbow wielder said as he approached his comrade. “You a’right?”

“Yeah… might need to change my braies, though. Knew I shoulda used the bedpan before going to sleep.”

“Good thing it was just Caspar’s home.” A man swung a timber beam into the dead crawling devil’s core, scattering its blue guts further. “Damn traitor left south days ago.”

“Who cares? Let’s celebrate. I have fresh and cold ale in my cellar.”

“You mean the strong stuff your wife makes?”

“Promise ya won’t be disappointed.”

Dimitry watched the laughing men trudge away, not taking part in their merriment. He knew something they didn’t. That Einheart and Volmer would collapse soon, leaving heathens nowhere to go but Malten. Tonight’s fiasco would become commonplace.

Unless someone did something soon, this kingdom was doomed. But who could solve—

“Dimitry!” Saphiria’s panicked call woke him from his musings. She knelt beside a wailing pig. Heathen’s blood coated the limping animal’s hind leg, coaxing blisters from its inflamed epidermis.

“Right.” He jumped off of his polka-dotted horse and reached for his leather bag. “Hold it still.” Dimitry poured water onto his patient’s swollen wound.

Even if humans weren’t among tonight’s casualties, it seemed that there would always be one.

Timber-framed buildings flanked narrow roads of flattened dirt. Illuminated by the scant light of dawn, it was still too early for people to trudge down their frozen surfaces. The only ones keeping them company were the few refugees huddled in alleyways and patrolling militia, who scanned the horizon for oncoming threats. Strapped to their backs were crossbows or mailbox-sized rock hammers.

One weapon for people. The other for heathens.

Neither, however, was this town’s biggest threat.

Dimitry looked down from atop his polka-dotted horse, focusing on a pair of faintly purple legs sticking out from under a thin blanket. Then, he examined a homeless man with pale skin slumbering in an alleyway. Most people were asymptomatic or in the early stages of infection.

The plague hadn’t consumed Amphurt yet.

Unlike Malten, this town’s modest population density prevented bacterial infections from spreading uncontrolled. A beneficial state of affairs that wouldn’t last forever.

Not that it mattered.

Dimitry had a plan in mind to contain the outbreak before it threatened the populace. With his position as court doctor, he would coerce the queen into setting up plague-curing outposts armed with modified preservia blankets throughout the countryside. Facilities that would save countless lives and decrease the number of patients that traveled to his hospital for treatment, freeing up space for other injuries.

Convinced of his initiative’s inevitable success, Dimitry turned his gaze towards the only eye-catching sight in the entire town—a giant cathedral dwarfing every surrounding building. Its height outclassed the one in Malten by a whole floor, just like Saphiria said it did.

But she failed to mention its most absurd feature—the pointed end of a massive jet-black monolith jutting out from the building’s roof.

Contrasting an early morning’s dark sky, light blue sparkles trickled down the alien construct’s sides, thinning before they vanished into the wind. This cache’s volume must have been a dozen, no, a hundred times larger than the one in Estoria.

Was its sole purpose to house an ominous orb?

Dimitry sought to find out.

He reached the cathedral, which dominated the town’s central market square and dismounted his horse. After Saphiria alighted from Dorothy, they passed through the structure’s arched entrance into a spacious inner sanctum. Spacious, except for the base of a massive shrine stood in the middle.

Its pyramidal base rose from the ground and past the second floor. However, unlike the monolith’s sleek appearance, the rest of the building was anything but. Blood coated pillars and marble floors. Broken windows lined the walls with shattered stained glass fragments, each reflecting the shrine’s alien blue light.

What the hell happened here?

Saphiria reached for the sheath strapped to her leg to retrieve a dagger with a sapphire engraved into its hilt. She gave him a nod.

Dimitry took a vol pellet out from his cloak and tapped the back of his hood.

“Yeah?” a sleepy voice asked.

“Do you sense anyone?”

Precious yawned. “I think there are some people upstairs, but their emotions are all over the place. Probably sleeping.”

“Thanks.” Dimitry glanced at Saphiria. “People above, maybe sleeping.”

She nodded. One careful step after another, the glass under her leather boots popped as she crept towards a blood-smeared marble staircase. Saphiria hid in a nearby nook. Like a weathered assassin ready to silence any approaching troublemaker, her indigo eyes discarded all emotion. All except curiosity. Her gaze tracked Dimitry as he approached the jet-black monolith.

His wrist’s emblem thrusting him forward with increasing force the closer he got, Dimitry kicked aside extinguished candles, withering flowers, and broken arrow shafts until he reached the shrine’s base. He examined its surface.

Strange.

Unlike the monolith in Estoria, which had a single monitor, this cache had five. The center one displayed a light-blue bishop, and the two flanking it on either side took on the shape of right hands. He touched one with a fingertip. Nothing. Then he tried his palm. Nothing.

Were they meant for someone else?

“Come out.” Dimitry tapped on his hood and beckoned Saphiria over. “I want both of you to put your hands on the shrine.”

“Yuck,” Precious muttered as she climbed past his ear. “Zeran trash.”

“Are we doing a coming of age ceremony?” Saphiria asked.

“Even if I wasn’t a corrupted creature, I’m three centuries too late for that.”

Dimitry stroked his chin. “Why? Does the shrine do something during a ceremony?”

“Yes,” Saphiria said as she fit her palms into two grooves, one of them mismatching her left hand. “If you’re fourteen years old, you become an adult.”

Dimitry sighed. Her answer wasn’t what he expected to hear. “I see.”

Precious held out her tiny arms. “Mine are way too small.”

“That might not be our only problem,” he said. “I think we need five people, but let’s try anyway. Be ready for anything.” Dimitry relaxed his arm, allowing the knight emblem on his wrist to drift up and align with the monitor displaying a bishop.

Like last time, three-dimensional geometric shapes leaked out of the monolith. They rose into the air and fused to form the characters of an alien language.

Saphiria jumped back. She looked on with bewildered indigo eyes.

“What the—” Precious darted away.

Dimitry raised a hand to signal to his companions that it was safe, then read the message.

‘Knight C27E957, your courage has paved the way to your second cache.’
‘You have yet to attain the hope required to challenge this trial or the relic within.’

Dimitry slowly retracted his hand, unable to decide if he was disappointed or upset. Was his rank of ‘knight’ unworthy of accessing a ‘bishop’ shrine? How could he attain hope? And what did it mean by trial? This cryptic bullshit was getting on his—

The words twisted into new ones.

‘For reaching a cache beyond your tier, you may reattune your imprint.’
‘Choose the class of knowledge you desire your future relics to contain.’
‘May your decision assure your victory.’

‘Board Cartography’

‘Opponent Information’

‘Homeworld Expertise’

Mouth agape, Dimitry took a step back. He didn’t expect there to be more. There wasn’t last time.

Precious drifted closer, poking her golden fingernail into floating holographic characters. “Do Zeran shrines always do this?”

“No.” Saphiria walked behind Dimitry, her cautious, sideways steps crunching the glass beneath her boots. “I’ve never seen those symbols before.”

Dimitry’s hand reached to stroke his chin. As far as he could tell, the monument gave him three options. However, for some reason, one was more vibrant than the others: Opponent Information.

It was sensible to assume he had an opponent given rampant chess references. But who was it? A member of the Church? A gigantic Heathen? An aquatic demon? Or perhaps it was one of those mysterious algae monsters he saw in the relic he received in Estoria.

The monolith mentioned that he could reattune his imprint, meaning that it was already attuned. Is that why one choice stood out? Was his knight emblem configured to receive relics containing ‘Opponent Information’? If so, he already had an orb revealing who his enemy was. Not that he was sure they even existed.

“Dumitry, what is this?”

“One second.”

“One second?” Precious landed on his shoulder and put her hands on her hips. “What does a second do?”

Ignoring the faerie, Dimitry massaged his forehead, considering his options once more. What did ‘Board Cartography’ mean? Would a relic attuned to it give him geographic knowledge? If so, it was useless. He didn’t plan to leave Malten for the foreseeable future.

The last choice, however, intrigued him.

What was ‘Homeworld Expertise’? Did it refer to Earth? If so, what kind of expertise could it possibly contain?

It didn’t matter.

Any skill from Earth was invaluable in this world. Carpentry, agriculture, chemistry, mathematics, astronomy, civil engineering. Each topic contained centuries of pioneering and wisdom that could improve the lives of everyone in Malten, including Dimitry. Hell, even something specific like lens-making or cross-breeding could reforge society.

Humanity could really use the help.

Dimitry came to a decision. “Homewor—”

Before he could finish his sentence, the floating characters faded into nothingness. Then, his knight emblem burned, its color condensing into a darker shade of blue. It no longer pulled towards Amphurt’s shrine.

To ease the bone-searing pain of a sudden metamorphosis, Dimitry shook his wrist.

Saphiria approached, one hesitant step after another. “Are you all right?”

“I hope so.”

“You’re not going to squirm your way out of this one.” Precious tugged on his earlobe. “What was that all about?”

Dimitry shrugged. “Unfortunately, that’s something only time could tell.”

68. Meeting With Demons

His elbows propped over carved wooden handrails, Dimitry took a deep breath.

Earthy and fishy cold mist rushed into his nose from the flowing waters of a widening river. It cradled the ship, gently guiding it downstream past overgrown fields, abandoned settlements, and collapsed fortifications. The occasional heathen, too. Long dead and broken, their stone frames rested on patches of barren earth among otherwise vivacious greenery. The land, however, wasn’t alone in its struggle to recover from the scars of endless conflict.

Shrinking in the distance, the scaffold-clad walls of a small and overpopulated city prepared for an inevitable raid. Although stonemasons sealed most of the gaps and sorceresses reinforced them with green protectia enchantments, would the hasty repairs hold out against a night of repentance more vicious than any before? How about the people hiding beyond them? Even if they survived the assault, how long would they live without ample food?

Dimitry didn’t intend to find out.

He ventured forth to negotiate with aquatic demons to provide his new home with allies and fishing spots. Aside from stockpiling grain and dried meat bought with plague curing blankets, it was the best way to prevent starvation. Reliable sources of fish protein and oils were invaluable for a populace’s health.

However, that wasn’t the only reason he set out for Fishman Island. His now navy-colored emblem tugged towards the sizable chunk of land west of Malten ever since his voyage from Coldust.

There was a shrine there.

A cache that Amphurt’s monolith configured to reward a relic containing ‘Homeworld Expertise’. Knowledge Dimitry hoped could help him resuscitate a kingdom. That was, assuming his rank as knight allowed him to access it and that aquatic demons didn’t drown everyone on board long before he reached his destination.

However, despite the stress resulting from countless unknowns, Dimitry kept a calm expression. If not for himself, then to assuage the fears of uneasy sailors, sorceresses, soldiers, and anyone else unlucky enough to travel to dangerous lands on orders from a superior. The unwilling participants watched him with suspicious and uncertain eyes, their gossiping growing more fearful by the moment. Even Klaire, the queen’s stewardess, hid in the captain’s quarters after providing an uncomfortable briefing.

Dimitry empathized with them. They followed a surgeon who claimed he could negotiate with demons into the maws of death. However, unlike them, he wasn’t afraid. Instead, nervous confidence took hold inside, like that belonging to an unpracticed resident who held a patient’s life in their hands. He couldn’t let fear cloud his judgment. It would make diplomacy more complicated than it already was.

Failure wasn’t an option.

Especially since Dimitry wasn’t the only one struggling to make things right in a field he knew nothing about. Back in Malten, Saphiria followed his lead. She had taken on the challenge of eliminating Amphurt’s plague to prevent the unnecessary deaths of miners, smelters, and other townsfolk in the countryside. Dimitry had given her the tools she needed to accomplish her task. The rest was up to her.

Hopefully, they would both succeed.

“Hey,” a familiar voice said as it approached from behind. It belonged to a girl whose hood hid all but several strands of red-brown curly hair, each flying sideways in freezing winds. Angelika brushed them behind her ear, revealing pink cheeks, and leaned over the handrail beside Dimitry. She grinned. “Doing well, diplomat?”

“You look surprisingly calm.”

“Why?” She pointed back with her thumb. “Did you expect me to piss myself like the rest of them? If an aquatic demon so much as picks up a spear, I’ll shoot the fucker in the head.”

Dimitry turned his gaze towards abandoned crop fields drifting by. “Please don’t do that.”

“Why not? They’re going to try to kill us, so I figured I’d do it first.”

“Today’s goal isn’t to fight, but to make new allies.”

“Allies? I fought them on Malten’s shores.” Angelika looked out over the countryside. “They’re savages.”

“Obviously they’ll behave like savages.” Dimitry took a deep breath to calm his nerves. “They have to if they want to survive a battle against someone like you. But I’ll make sure it doesn’t come down to that.”

“Can you really speak to them?”

“Yes.”

“A week ago, I would’ve laughed at you.” Angelika folded her arms onto the handrail and rested her chin on their stacked surface. “But if you managed to convince Mira to send sorceresses all the way out here, you might be onto something. She loves us like her own children.”

“I wish you’d show me a similar level of confidence,” Dimitry said. “I don’t want you to shoot the very creatures I’m supposed to be negotiating with.”

“I’ll try to behave.” She stood up straight and reached for the voltech rifle strapped to her back. “But I’ll be having this out just in case.”

Dimitry glanced at the strange weapon. Aside from the lack of a trigger and a gunpowder igniting mechanism, it looked like a gun. Could he arm his hospital guards and ambulances with it? “Can anyone besides mages use that thing?”

“Yeah, but it’ll be a waste of vol since most people’s efficiency is so bad. Their bullets won’t go very far or hit hard. It’s also possible that they’ll overload themselves with only a few uses.” Angelika looked at him with incredulous eyes. “What, you still haven’t tried one yet?”

“Never had the chance.”

“Want to?” She shoved her rifle forward and smirked. “Just in case your negotiations don’t go so good?”

An opportunity to learn more about arms wasn’t something Dimitry could pass up, especially ones designed using this world’s cutting edge technology. Not that that meant much. Even if voltech rifles could pierce heathens, they consumed vol, attracting more attention from the very opponent they were supposed to kill.

How nice it would be to have access to real guns.

Settling for second best, Dimitry took the weapon from her outstretched arms. “Now what?”

Angelika reached into her robe, digging for something. “It’s just like casting a spell. Concentrate vol in your palm, then chant ‘propelia’. The seals in the handle will take care of the rest.”

Her hand reappeared holding a dark green vol pellet and a small iron ball. “Oh, by the way, this one is custom-tailored for me. It uses an entire pure. You know, to kill its target and everything hiding behind it. Can never be too sure.” She rolled the metal ball into the voltech rifle’s barrel and placed the vol pellet into Dimitry’s free palm.

“I didn’t expect any less from you.” He absorbed the pellet, guiding its power across his body and into his other hand. “Propelia.”

The blue lines engraved into the weapon’s seals brightened as an iron ball soundlessly burst from the barrel. However, despite the massive amount of kinetic energy guiding the bullet, Dimitry felt no recoil.

Did voltech weaponry violate Newton’s third law?

Ocean waves crashed into the ship’s hull one after another, causing the vessel to tilt side to side. Its restless seesawing knocked an illumina lamp off of a crate. The enchanted skull—perhaps the captain’s idea of a joke—rolled past a row of items destined to become gifts for corrupted creatures.

A woman with bundled light-blue hair walked beside them, her legs trembling as she introduced each item. Klaire stopped in front of three knee-high sculptures. “And t-these were provided by the s-stonemason guild. I hope they’ll be useful in your negotiations with those… things.”

Dimitry held back a smile at the sight of a terrified stewardess. Not that she was to blame. Before long, this ship would reach Fishman Island. The aquatic demons patrolling the mountainous green landmass were unlikely to greet them with offers of tea and biscuits.

They would try to murder everyone aboard.

And Dimitry was the only one who could convince them to stop.

Unlike Klaire, however, he maintained his composure. Anticipation and adrenaline surged through his body, giving him the courage he needed to confront demons and prevent the deaths of dozens. He wanted to jump out of his seat, to end the wait as soon as possible. But he couldn’t. Instead, he distracted himself by listening to the nervous ramblings of an attractive woman. “I see. Tell me more.”

Her leather book held to her chest with both arms, Klaire stepped forward and pointed to a small stack of dark green, rectangular metal bars. “T-these are vol ingots provided by Her Majesty herself. We could b-bargain with them if demons use m-magic like you said they did during the summit.”

Dimitry leaned forward on the crate he sat on, ready to dash out of the cargo hold at any moment. Could aquatic demons cast spells? Although he told Malten’s leaders they might, his only evidence was Precious’s existence. “Is that so?”

“Yes.” She lifted an iron barrel with an attached wooden grip. “T-these are the highest quality voltech rif—” Klaire sighed, dropped the weapon back into place, then used her free hand to fiddle with the metal pen-like object resting on her ear. “Jade Surgeon, would you answer this one’s question?”

He met the woman’s uneasy gaze. “To the best of my ability.”

“Is it true that you quelled an aquatic demon attack before?”

“Yes.”

“And that they can… speak?”

“The ones I spoke to communicated with more grace than most people I’ve met.”

She sat next to him. “I a-apologize if I sound dubious, but—”

Something slammed into the boat’s layered plank hull with a resounding thunk.

Klaire shrieked and fell to the floor.

“Let none reach Waira!” a muffled female’s voice called from the ocean’s depths.

“Yes, Warcaller!” yelled a dozen voices in response.

It began.

Dimitry jumped up. “I’ll answer any other questions you have later. Just stay here and let us handle the rest.”

Klaire huddled between two casks. “Y-yes, Jade Surgeon!”

Shouting and the sound of tense strings snapping back came from the boat’s deck.

“Protectia!”

“Incendia!”

“Propelia!”

Dimitry dashed up the cargo hold’s stairs. He told those morons not to fight back. Their panicked decisions would end any diplomatic relationship before it could begin.

Archers held their crossbows over the ship’s rails, shooting purple, witheria enchanted bolts into the ocean.

Sorceresses reached into pockets and chanted spells.

Spears flew out of the water and onto the deck.

“Everyone!” Dimitry yelled. “Put down your weapons before you get us all killed! That’s an order!”

A sailor stood behind a mounted ballista glanced at the sorceress to his side, conflicted if he should obey the orders of a surgeon.

“Listen to me and we’ll survive!” Dimitry stomped across the deck. “Drop your damn weapons and let me handle the rest.”

Angelika ran up to him, her voltech rifle still strapped to her back. “What should we do?”

“You and the combat mages stay on board and cast defensive spells. Everyone else, go to the cargo hold and wait. Every moment you waste fighting is one less I can use to convince the aquatic demons to stop their assault.”

The banging against the ship’s hull intensified.

Despite growing chaos, most people obeyed Dimitry’s command.

But not everyone.

A crossbowman, oblivious to his orders, continued firing bolts into the ocean.

One of the combat mages rallied beside Dimitry stepped forward. “Propelia.”

The weapon flew out of the soldier’s hand and plunked into water.

“Well done,” Dimitry said. “Now follow—”

A spear flew at him.

Adrenaline burned through his veins, and a damning chill shot down his spine. He couldn’t move. His legs froze. Dimitry was going to die.

“Protectia!”

The spear hit an invisible object and collapsed to the deck with a hollow clunk.

Dimitry looked back to see a girl with curly red-brown hair. “Thank you.”

Angelika grinned. “Stop ogling me and do your damn job, diplomat!”

“Right.” He fought back the urge to shower her with compliments and words of gratitude, making way for the ship’s side instead.

A glance at the ocean revealed a pale face peeking out of green waters. It had the slender features of a female, except for the two knob-sized blue horns protruding from wet gray hair and translucent skin colored pink by underlying tissue.

He fixed his gaze on her round, yellow irises on otherwise black eyes. “I am Dimitry! We’re not here to fight! We’ve come to negotiate peace between your people and ours!”

The aquatic demon submerged, disappearing from sight.

Was she disinterested in what Dimitry had to say? Did he scare her away? Would everyone die as a consequence of his failure?

Among the stressed creaks and thumping of bombarded planks echoed desperate prayers from the cargo hold below, several of them calling for Zera’s guidance. The sorceresses clustered behind Dimitry fidgeted.

The thumping abated, quieter than before.

“Are we saved?” a red-robed woman asked.

“No,” another one responded. “The demons are regrouping to attack in full force.”

Which of the two was right? Dimitry didn’t know. Although he appeared composed to set an example for his temporary subordinates, his legs were on the verge of collapse.

Time passed.

Soon, only hushed tones, the crashing of waves against a weathered ship’s hull, and the relieved sighs of combat mages filled the air.

A head emerged from the water. Unlike the one from before, it had a masculine physique indicating that corrupted creatures expressed sexual dimorphism. Two long, blue horns sticking out from ear-length gray hair, it watched Dimitry with unflinching yellow and black eyes.

Then another aquatic demon.

And another.

Finally, over a dozen translucent pink faces gazed from out of the water’s surface. They watched in silence.

“Are you the Dimitry?” a steady but threatening voice asked. It belonged to a female with white hair.

Dimitry remembered to breathe. Arms folded behind his back, he stepped closer to the ship’s handrails. “Indeed. Do you know of me?”

“How is he making those… sounds?” A sorceress whispered. “Is it truly magic?”

“I didn’t hear him chant a spell. Is he a mumcaster?”

“Silence, both of you. Let the Jade Surgeon focus.”

The aquatic demon swam closer. “One of our brothers held captive on a log vessel spoke of your existence.” She glanced to the side. “Surger!”

A second female approached the first. “Give me your orders, Warcaller.”

“Deliver news of the mudgill delegate’s arrival to the ascendants. If we do not return by evening, we have fallen in glorious battle with his retinue.”

“With haste.” Surger swam towards distant mountainous and green land before diving into aquamarine depths.

“What are they saying?” Angelika asked.

Shelving the thought that aquatic demons had strange names, Dimitry turned to face his guard. A sorceress jumped back at the sight of his face as if he were a corrupted creature himself.

Dimitry ignored the startled woman. “Angelika, go downstairs and warn everyone to avoid attacking our potential allies at all costs. If anyone so much as picks up a weapon, I’ll strangle them myself. Tell Lukas’ representative to release a pigeon informing the queen of our successful encounter with the target. While you’re in the cargo hold, ask the captain if we’re still fit to sail. Our goal is still to dock on Fishman Island by tonight.”

“Got it.” Angelika dashed away.

After taking a slow, deep breath, Dimitry returned his attention to the sea creatures, who bobbed up and down with each ocean wave. “We wish to speak to your Hierarch.”

“On what matters?” Warcaller asked.

“Our leader wishes to end our long and meaningless war, so we both may focus on the real enemy.”

“What enemy do you speak of, mudgill?”

“Rock giants.”

The aquatic demons whispered amongst one another, their recently emotionless faces now filled with what might have been curiosity or bewilderment.

“Where has your discipline gone?!” Warcaller shouted through sharp teeth, ending her troops’ idle chatter in an instant. She turned her attention back to Dimitry. “Is it true you mudgills do not command the rock giants?”

Dimitry shook his head. “We do not. They attack our settlements constantly and with intensified vigor during full moons, unsatisfied until they slaughter my people to the very last. Although we fight bravely, their numbers continue to increase. We fear that it is only a matter of time before they overwhelm us.”

“It is the same for us.” Warcaller’s yellow eyes blinked. “Although our plights align, we demand the release of the brother you hold captive beyond your walls as proof of your sincerity.”

Did she speak about the aquatic demon Dimitry pretended to be during his voyage from Coldust? It would be problematic if she was. He couldn’t return someone that didn’t exist.

Should he reveal that he lied about their comrade’s existence?

No.

Introducing humanity as a species of liars was foolish, and to avoid that, Dimitry displayed the very quality he hoped to hide.

He wore a false and sorrowful countenance. “Your brother fought valiantly amongst us on the night of the last full moon. Unfortunately, many died in our battle against the rock giants. I know not if burial is a custom amongst your people, but it is the treatment we gave your fallen brother.”

“Release him into the ocean.”

“What?”

“When a myrmidon dies, they must return to their birthplace.”

Myrmidon. Is that what they called themselves? Dimitry lowered his head. “Pardon my ignorance.”

“Ignorance does not belong to the mudgills alone.” Warcaller hid her sharp teeth under pale pink lips. “I knew not that your kind could discuss matters peacefully. We too have much to learn.”

“Then we are in agreement.” Dimitry stood over the ship’s carved rails. “Are you willing to take the first step in our mutual education by leading us to your hierarch?”

“Very well. We will guide your log vessel to our shores to speak with the council of ascendants. Surely, you mudgills aren’t so dishonorable as to strike at those whose backs are turned?”

“You have my guarantee, and I wish that we receive the same courtesy.” Dimitry tapped his cloak’s pocket where Precious sat, communicating to her to watch for lies. He hoped her emotion sense worked on aquatic demons, too. “I trust there are no traps waiting for us.”

“Traps? We would never disgrace ourselves so.”

Three weak pinches against his abdomen. The blue-horned creature spoke the truth.

“Your honorable words are enough to persuade me.” Dimitry smiled. “We’re ready to go when you are.”

Warcaller raised her spear. “Brothers and sisters, do not throw down your guard! We head for Waira!”

“To Waira!” a dozen aquatic demons shouted in unison.

Legs still trembling with adrenaline, Dimitry looked back to give orders. Meeting his gaze were soldiers, crewmen, and a stewardess, all with agape mouths and stupefied eyes. They must have climbed out of the cargo hold at some point. How long have they watched him?

Dimitry stood up straight. “Ladies and gentlemen, as a result of your bravery and restraint, the myrmidon have granted us permission to enter their home, Waira. We’ll be following them. Is everyone ready to sail?”

Unlike Warcaller and her gang of aquatic demons, Dimitry’s subordinates didn’t shower him with heartfelt shouts.

Only relieved faces and respectful nods.

69. Negotiating With Demons

An ocean wave crashed against the shore of a frigid beach, its waters rolling over sand to surround the leather boots of two crossbowmen struggling to lift a chest loaded with gifts from a small boat. It took the tiny vessel four trips to deliver Dimitry and his diplomatic party from a distant ship. The one they rode from Malten. Several iron anchors immobilized their transport home to prevent it from drifting away in a rogue current.

If the negotiations went poorly, Dimitry wouldn’t escape.

The myrmidons surrounding him would hunt him down before he could row the small boat back to its larger counterpart. Even if he somehow reached the ship, the time it would take to set sail was plenty to capsize the craft, drowning everyone on board. There was nowhere to go but forward. Dimitry’s life and that of his associates depended on his ability to communicate with a mysterious species.

He wouldn’t let them down.

Warcaller stood idle. Her webbed hand brushed the wet white hair clinging to her face back behind an ear with a blue spike piercing. “Have you mudgills made your preparations yet?”

“Yes,” Dimitry said. “We are ready when you are.”

She pointed her stone spear towards a grassy hill. “The council of ascendants lies not far beyond.”

Dimitry beckoned Klaire, Angelika, and their small group of combat mages and soldiers to follow, then trudged forward.

Her webbed feet slapping moist sand with every step, Warcaller marched alongside her gang of myrmidons. They were tall. Although the females stood at Dimitry’s height, the males flanking him from all sides could have had successful careers as basketball players on Earth. They even had uniforms.

Dressed like scuba divers, their necks’ faintly pink skin vanished under black bodysuits covering everything from their shoulders to their ankles. It wasn’t decorative. Droplets raced down the clothes’ smooth surfaces, indicating they were waterproof. Did myrmidons design them to reduce drag while swimming? If so, they weren’t the mindless savages Angelika described them as. They were intelligent.

When they reached the foot of a hill, Warcaller turned around. “Tell your warriors to stay their weapons. We’ll be entering our dwelling grounds soon.”

Dimitry’s eyebrows furrowed. Surrounding him and his group were robust creatures, each capable of killing several men with their bare hands. Who in their right mind would pick a fight now? A glance back answered his question.

“W-what did it say?” Klaire clutched the book she held to her chest tighter. “Was it angry?”

“She said we’ll be at their home soon and that we should put away our weapons. That means you, Angelika.”

“This is crazy.” With one smooth movement, the curly-haired sorceress slid her gun into its holster. “No one back home’s going to believe this.”

“I still don’t believe it.” Klaire lifted her blue dress to avoid getting it dirty but was too late. Sand and saltwater drenched its flowery bottom portion. “I feel like I’m in an obtuse dream. Or perhaps a nightmare.”

Dimitry continued following Warcaller. “It’d be best if people didn’t find out about myrmidons. They’re not ready. Even if they distrust the Church, learning that aquatic demons aren’t savage beasts despite a lifetime of teachings telling them otherwise would be too much for them to handle. It’s also likely that Zeran informants live in Malten, so the fewer people that know, the better.”

“Yeah yeah.” Angelika groaned. “Mira said something like that, too.”

“Jade Surgeon.”

“Yes, Klaire?”

“Pardon this one’s rudeness, aren’t you afraid that these creatures would attack us at any moment?”

Dimitry gave the woman desperately trying to hide her panic a comforting smile. “I promise we’ll be safe.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because, from what I can tell, myrmidons are creatures that honor bravery. As long as you remain calm, they’ll treat you with respect.”

Angelika shrugged. “I don’t know if I’m just very calm, but maybe they’re showing me too much respect. There’s a guy, I think it’s a guy, who keeps giving me looks.”

A grin spread across Dimitry’s face. “Although we came here for peace, it seems the fortunate amongst us found love.”

“Oh, shut up.”

The suppressed giggling of combat mages reddened Angelika’s cheeks.

Finished teasing his embarrassed guard, Dimitry glanced at the navy blue emblem on his wrist. Its pull strengthened with every step. A cache lay nearby. Although he wanted nothing more than to access it, to claim the relic containing ‘Homeworld Expertise’ within, he would have to escape the myrmidons’ watchful gaze first. Something he could do only after gaining their trust.

He looked up to avoid bringing attention to his glowing knight imprint only to find himself stood atop a hill with a baffling view.

A snowcapped mountain and a wood darkened by gray skies surrounded a village. Like the other settlements on Waira’s coast visible from the ship, hemispheres lay on a level field. However, they weren’t tents like Dimitry thought they were. They were stone domes. Granite, basalt, and even what appeared to be rough quartz ones with fading blue lines cutting across their surfaces, traveling parallel or across one another to form maze-like patterns.

The shells of carapaced devils.

Myrmidons excavated the limbs, heads, and cores of tortoise-like heathens to make houses. They stood apart at irregular distances. Some clustered together to form micro-communities while others remained in solitude among a sea of trees. However, they all had one thing in common.

A crudely hewn stone path connected each structure to a colossal central one. Although blue lines decorated its walls like they did the others, it was crafted from a massive heathen several times wider than the carrier devil that attacked his ship during his journey to Coldust.

Did heathens that size really exist?

Angelika stopped beside Dimitry. “Is that a… fortress devil?”

“Fortress devil?” He asked, dread coursing down his spine. “Are there many of them?”

Klaire pushed up her glasses with two fingers. “There are no records of them appearing near Malten, but before the war, the Church spread word of them striking one down north of Olsten. I don’t know the validity of their claims.”

“Aquatic demons killed that?” Angelika took a step forward. “They may be savages, but they’re damn impressive savages.”

Eyes fixed on the massive structure, Dimitry spoke to Warcaller. “What is the big building in the middle?”

“That is home to this island’s council of ascendants. The hierarch awaits you within.”

Ascendants? Were they the ones who killed the fortress devil? If so, Dimitry needed them as allies. He straightened his gambeson and its overlying cloak to set a good impression for humanity. Even if myrmidons didn’t have similar fashion values, they definitely appreciated order.

A fact Dimitry deduced by walking through their settlement.

Although the narrow streets didn’t have intricate designs like the ones in Malten, their square bricks arranged themselves in patterns. Four rows of granite and an equivalent amount of limestone or slate. Who helped shape them was clear at a glance.

His yellow and black eyes following Dimitry, a male myrmidon sat on a log, carving grooves into a javelin with a tool resembling a chisel. He flashed his sharp teeth from behind what looked like a content grin. Was he taking pride in showing off his craftsmanship to uneducated mudgills, or displaying his discontent at their presence?

Another brother watched from the side of the road. The corpse of a decapitated walrus-like animal in one hand and a knife in the other, he stopped butchering to stare at Dimitry. Then, when he sated his curiosity, he continued to disassemble the dead beast into piles comprising either black hide, blubber, or dissected flesh.

Contrary to expectations, myrmidons didn’t rush forward with rage at the sight of humans—an enemy they fought for at least a century. Even the children stood idle. But that didn’t mean they weren’t prepared. Every citizen had a weapon close at hand, ready to deliver a deadly strike at a moment’s notice.

That was why Dimitry avoided eye contact as much as possible. He didn’t know aquatic demon customs. Although they seemed to value brevity, directness, and honor, culture wasn’t something he could predict based on surface-level impressions. It was best to err on the side of caution.

After trudging past a gauntlet of intrigued stares, Dimitry and his crew followed Warcaller through a fortress devil’s mouth the size of a gatehouse. Intrigued whispers came from the combat sorceresses and soldiers in tow. It was clear why.

Myrmidons modeled the dead heathen’s internal skeleton into furniture. Granite racks protruded from walls, holding spears, javelins, and long, crowbar-like tools. Knee-high tables grew out of a spacious floor. Stone slabs, one supporting a sleeping male resting on leather blankets, filled a corner.

In the structure’s center were seven females with knob-like blue horns. They sat cross-legged on small, black cushions.

Warcaller approached the one in the middle. “Hierarch, we have returned.”

A myrmidon opened her eyes from what appeared to be a meditative trance, her gaze slowly traveling upwards. The beads tying the ends of her neat, white braids gently tapped the fortress devil’s granite floor when her head tilted up. “It is good to see you well, Leylani. May the waves forever guide you home. Are these the mudgills your scout spoke of?”

“It is so. The one with eyes green like a waning moon is the Dimitry our brother spoke of.”

“And the others are of his retinue?”

“Indeed.”

“Stay.” Hierarch cupped her subordinate’s webbed hand between two of her own. “We wish for your school’s council.”

“By your will.” The proud myrmidon and her dozen troops sat on nearby cushions.

Leylani? Was Warcaller just her title?

“Jade Surgeon,” Klaire uttered. “What are they saying?”

“The female aquatic demon in the middle is the one they’ve been referring to hierarch all this time. From what I can tell, she’s like a queen.”

Klaire took a sharp breath and dropped into a kneel. The soldiers responsible for carrying gifts and the combat sorceresses did the same. Angelika exhaled an annoyed grunt before following their example.

The hierarch’s yellow irises met Dimitry’s gaze. “Is this a mudgill greeting?”

“It is how we prostrate ourselves to someone of great respect.”

“Tell them to stop disgracing themselves.”

Dimitry looked back. “The hierarch says you’re all being too polite. Take a seat and try to relax.”

Klaire jumped to her feet, her cheeks burning a deep red color. “Give her my sincerest apologies.” She pulled up the dirtied bottom of her blue dress and sat with grace.

“Finally.” Angelika fell back onto a black cushion. “My legs hurt from standing all day.”

Dimitry massaged his forehead. One was too polite, and the other not at all. Luckily, myrmidons couldn’t understand human speech. He lowered himself into an empty ‘chair’.

“It is strange, mudgill.”

“What is?”

Hierarch folded her arms onto her lap. “After initiating centuries of slaughter through a massacre of our tribes, you come to beg for forgiveness. Do you not find your cowardice pathetic?”

Not the best start to a diplomatic meeting.

To placate the hierarch’s indignance, Dimitry considered blaming the interspecies warfare on the Church, but aquatic demons likely couldn’t tell the difference between a Malten sorceress and a bishop. Damning one human would damn them all. He needed to get a foot in the door before delving into specifics. “I believe there’s been a misunderstanding. We didn’t come here to apologize. We came to end the meaningless bloodshed. War arises when the opposing sides can’t communicate, and our goal is to change that.”

“Indeed. Misunderstandings breed conflict.” She twisted a braid of white hair between two webbed fingers of an overloaded hand and brushed it back behind a pale pink shoulder. “Which is why your presence troubles me. How does a mudgill master our tongue despite our mutual animosity?”

Dimitry couldn’t tell her about the dark hall, nor could he claim his abilities were the work of a spell. Myrmidons didn’t accept him as a wielder of convenient magic like Malten’s residents did. It would raise too much suspicion. But there was a dishonest alternative. Despite being corrupted creatures like Precious, aquatic demons haven’t demonstrated the ability to detect falsehoods during either of Dimitry’s encounters with their race.

Lying was the safest choice. “I learned from one of your kind after he saved me from drowning at sea.”

“You speak of the brother held captive within a log vessel?”

“I do, but he was no captive. Your brother stayed of his own volition to bring an end to our conflict.”

“Our brothers would never beg forgiveness from a foe!” a female myrmidon added. “Not during the coastal wars, and not now!”

“Where is he?” Hierarch displayed her sharp teeth. “Why haven’t you returned him to us?”

“I inquired the same,” Leylani said. “The mudgill claimed our brother fell in glorious combat with rock giants.”

“It’s true,” Dimitry said. “He fought bravely amongst us, but our enemies’ numbers were too great. In my inadequacy, I couldn’t return the kindness he showed to me. It is my greatest shame.”

“If your tales were true,” Hierarch said, “you would have known to honor the valor in our brother’s sacrifice. Instead, you defile his death with pity! Have you no shame as a warrior?”

Dimitry looked deep into her fiery eyes, which burned with rage and repressed sorrow. How many of her people did she see die in war? He wagered his life on the answer being ‘a lot’. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

The myrmidon showered him with offended glares.

Klaire was shaking. “W-why are they looking at us like that?”

“Are all mudgill warriors as disgraceful as you?” Hierarch asked.

“I am no warrior. Among my people, I am known as a surgeon. A healer. I—”

“Then why are you here? Have your warriors become cowards, sending forth even their shamans now that they can no longer cower atop enchanted walls?”

Dimitry suppressed the chattering of his teeth and glanced past the many myrmidon glaring at him, ready to pounce. Here went nothing. “I was… I was sent here precisely because I am not a warrior. Just like yours, ours thirst for battle, even the ones standing by my side. But ask yourselves: what has our meaningless conflict earned us? Would you rather have your brothers and sisters amongst you or the glorious memories of their deaths? We humans have already chosen our answer. Now we await yours.”

Hierarch went silent, as did the females sitting around her. Some yellow eyes glazed over and others glanced down at webbed hands.

The tension in Dimitry’s chest loosened, allowing him a breath. Did his plan work?

“W-what’s happening?” Klaire mumbled. “Will they k-kill us?”

“I hope not.”

“Oh…”

A while passed before an utterance pierced the deafening silence. “Humans?”

“That’s what we call ourselves.”

Hierarch flashed a fearsome scowl. Or was it a wry smile? “How odd that we have waged centuries of war against foes we could not name.”

“I share the sentiment. We didn’t know ‘myrmidon’ until I conversed with your brother.”

“Then your ignorance of the tides is no less than ours of the inner lands.”

Dimitry leaned forward. “That is precisely why we must learn from one another. Something we can only do while our people are at peace.”

“We’ve all fought these humans before,” an ascendant said. “They will plot any scheme to slaughter us. It is my belief they offer empty promises of peace so they may attack when our backs are turned.”

“I am in agreement.”

“I as well.”

Hierarch brushed her braided hair back with a webbed hand, inflamed purple vessels spreading across the surface. “Indeed. We cannot trust the sincerity of your words, Dimitry.”

He examined her palm, which had the characteristic symptoms of overload, and glanced around the room. Only ascendants had similar wounds.

Did they use vol?

A sensible conclusion. Aquatic demons have demonstrated their knowledge of enchantments when referring to Malten’s former heathen barrier, and magic was the best way for people otherwise armed with stone and bone weapons to kill a fortress devil. But if that was the case, why wasn’t Her Royal Majesty aware that aquatic demons could cast spells? Surely, more than a century of war would have revealed the truth. Did myrmidon sorceresses avoid contact with humans, or was vol such a rare resource among them that few could afford to learn spells? Their primitive tools indicated they didn’t have the metallurgical knowledge necessary for its mass production.

Dimitry looked back.

“What are they saying?” Klaire’s lips trembled. “This one can’t help but feel their angry gazes.”

“They want us to prove our sincerity.”

Angelika smirked. “Isn’t us not killing them right now sincere enough? They don’t even have reflectia armor. At this range, I could take out half of them with meltia.”

“You scare me when you say stuff like that.” Dimitry glanced at a crossbowman sitting beside a chest full of diplomatic gifts. “Vol ingot, please.”

After a hasty retrieval, the soldier dropped a heavy and cold green block onto Dimitry’s outstretched palms.

Warcaller’s eyes widened.

The ascendants watched on with poorly disguised awe.

“Is that… a moonstone?”

“Could one so massive exist?!”

Their whispers grew louder.

Moonstones? Was that what they called vol? Dimitry brushed the thought aside and placed the ingot, twice as dense as iron, on the floor in front of him.

Hierarch ran a finger along the ingot’s edge, which glistened with light leaking from a hole in the fortress devil’s roof. “Although we have seen moonstones amongst your dead and the wreckages of log vessels before, it is my first time seeing one so large. It would take us many moons to produce an equivalent amount.”

“Our people pride ourselves in the crafting of moonstones,” Dimitry said. “We have many, some larger than this one.”

“How many seafloor forges do you use in their production?”

Did she refer to hydrothermal vents? “It seems our methods differ. We use smelteries and contraptions known as water wheels to refine metal.”

“Smelteries? Water wheels?” Hierarch looked at the clueless faces of her ascendants.

Dimitry pushed the vol towards her. “Of course, we are willing to trade moonstones and perhaps even craft secrets with our allies. No knowledge is too precious to share in our mission to banish the rock giants from these lands.”

The ascendants deliberated amongst themselves with raised voices.

Hierarch cupped Dimitry’s hands. “You are our guests until we continue these negotiations tomorrow.”

Hoping her gesture implied blossoming trust, Dimitry smiled. Not that he minded waiting. Every moment the ascendants spent talking was one he could use to sneak away and investigate the relic cache. “I’m sure you have much to discuss. Take all the time you need.”

“Then you understand. Leylani, show these humans the fire mountains and our hospitality.”

Warcaller wrenched her gaze away from the dark green ingot and stood tall. “Yes, Hierarch.”

70. Devil Amongst Demons

Howling winds flapped the black curtains serving as doors for a carved carapaced devil’s shell. The heathen corpse contained five floor-level beds, each struggling to keep a weary diplomat warm after a day of spearfishing, visiting acidic lakes resting within yellow, sulfurous craters, and comparing weapons with myrmidon. All activities performed in silence. Although both races were eager to speak to one another despite prolonged hostilities, a surgeon notwithstanding, their only means of communication were grunts and simple gestures.

Something Dimitry aimed to change in the future. However, right now, he had other plans. He lay on a futon-like bed that smelled of pungent fish, thinking of how to reach a nearby shrine despite myrmidon keeping watch outside. They claimed their presence was necessary to defend the settlement against nighttime rock giant raids.

A lie.

Not only were heathen numbers lowest at this time of month, but they would have to navigate through the ocean, where most aquatic demons lived, before they could attack the island. Tonight, the myrmidon watchmen observed their second-biggest enemy—humans. A day of successful negotiations couldn’t erase a century of suspicion and bloodshed.

A prudent decision, but one that didn’t make Dimitry’s task any easier. He needed to escape with his partner in crime—the girl whose curly red-brown hair lay splattered on a squishy pillow across the room.

Angelika was vital to his plans.

Like the shrine in Amphurt, which had spaces for other people’s palms, there was a chance the one on this island did, too. And the trip there wasn’t guaranteed to be safe. No matter what perils they encountered on the way, Angelika would remain calm and ready to respond. As for what reaction she would have to a glowing knight emblem and an activated monolith, however, was still unclear.

But Dimitry trusted her to keep his secrets. If Angelika didn’t reveal his murderous plans before, she wouldn’t mouth off about alien artifacts either. Or at least he hoped she wouldn’t. That was why he told her about tonight’s scouting mission beforehand.

Dimitry pulled off his smooth blanket, then dressed as quietly as he could. He reached for a cloak hanging off a rack carved into the heathen’s corpse and tickled its pocket.

A small hand with golden fingernails waved from within. Precious was ready.

Surprised at the initiative shown by his lazy companion, Dimitry put on the rest of his clothes. He snuck past a snoozing Klaire towards Angelika. Wondering if the combat mage remained dressed to stay warm in winter weather, to prepare for their nighttime mission, or to prevent the only man in the room from getting a peek, Dimitry tugged on her cuffs.

“Go away, Leona,” Angelika mumbled with closed eyes while rolling over.

Still asleep? Desperate times called for desperate measures. Dimitry pinched her nose.

Angelika’s eyes shot open, their startled and murderous gaze traveling towards a man with pale green eyes before relaxing.

Dimitry held a finger to his lips.

Giving him an inconvenienced glare, she clambered out of bed. Angelika pulled the voltech rifle protruding from under her pillow and swiped it into the holster strapped to her back.

Dimitry reached into his pocket for a pure vol pellet, whose smooth surface differentiated it from its crude counterparts, then glanced around the room to confirm that neither Klaire nor the mages were awake. Satisfied with their slumbering visages, he rested his arm on Angelika’s shoulder. “Invisall.”

Two people vanished from sight.

Dimitry walked forward. His boots tapped against a granite floor, their every movement audible amongst the gentle rustling of outside greenery. His plan wouldn’t work. The myrmidon waiting outside would hear him leave, then enter the lodgings to investigate.

A soft hand patted him until it found his wrist and pulled him back.

“Silencia,” Angelika whispered.

His breathing, his clothes’ rustling, and even the thumping of his heart went silent. Being unable to see or hear himself felt surreal, but Angelika’s idea was their best bet for a stealthy escape. Hopefully, they would return before anyone noticed their absence.

A trek past an aquatic demon village and the periphery of a wood was all it took to reach the shrine. Erect at the foot of an ice-capped mountain and enshrouded in dense thickets darkened by nightfall, it stood as tall as a two-story house. Blue wisps slid down its four jet-black slanted sides, dissipating before they touched the ground.

Its most eye-catching feature, however, was a shoulder-height monitor displaying a blue knight. Beside it was another one shaped like a right hand. Could Dimitry activate them with the help of his guard?

“What the…” Angelika edged closer to the monolith. “Why is there Zeran shit on an island full of demons?”

Unlike the Church, which built luxurious marble cathedrals around each cache, myrmidon didn’t show this one the same treatment. Only three spears with edges weathered by time lay crossed at its base. Was it a sign of respect? Hostility? If this shrine lost its light like the one in Estoria did after he retrieved its relic, how would the myrmidon react? Would they shrug it off or blame then murder every human on Waira in retaliation before resuming a century-old war?

Dimitry didn’t know and couldn't ask for permission either. If they said no, the shrine would remain off-limits forever.

Sneaking around was the best option.

A risk worth taking.

The man in the dark hall mentioned that caches were his best hope for survival and, although conspicuous beyond all measure, showed interest in keeping Dimitry alive. There was also the promise of ‘Homeworld Expertise’—knowledge accrued by humanity over millennia.

Would it be enough to save a dying city?

Angelika turned away from the shrine and stomped toward Dimitry. “How did you know this was here?”

He could have said that myrmidons told him the shrine’s location, but lying now was pointless. Not only would it make explaining Angelika’s role in his plans more difficult, but their professional relationship would spiral into a web of lies. Dimitry needed Angelika to trust him, and he wanted to show her the same courtesy. “Before I tell you, you have to promise me something.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Yeah? And what’s that?”

He walked past her. “Everything that you see tonight will be our secret. One that you have to keep from everyone else, including Raina, Mira, and your sisters.”

Angelika didn’t respond. Full of suspicion, her orange eyes followed his every move.

Was she conflicted as to whether Dimitry was trustworthy? He couldn’t blame her. There was much about him that a layman’s understanding of this world couldn’t explain: modified magic, the ability to speak with demons, and now, excessive knowledge of religious monuments. “If it helps, everything we’re doing is to help Malten survive free from the Church.”

“How can you say that when we’re standing in front of a Zeran fucking shrine?”

“Who says it belongs to Zera?”

“Huh?”

Dimitry turned around. “What proof does the Church have that Zera erected them?”

“What are you talking about now?”

“I’m saying that the scriptures aren’t necessarily true. What if someone else built them before humans were even around? What if corrupted creatures did, or perhaps a god no one knows about?”

“Stop. I’m not in the mood for a lecture.” Angelika sighed. “Dimitry, you’re the strangest person I’ve ever met, and nothing you do makes sense. You torture rats with magic to watch them shit themselves, then somehow use the same spells to cure the plague. Then, less than a week later, you drag us out to a nest crawling with savages and somehow convince them not to kill us. I don’t understand it at all. Sometimes, I don’t know if I want to understand, but no matter how dumb your idea sounds, it somehow works out.”

“Does that mean you’ll keep everything you see and hear a secret?”

“Fine.” She leaned back against a tree. “You have my word.”

Precious pinched his abdomen three times to communicate that Angelika spoke the truth, but Dimitry didn’t need her confirmation.

He pulled up the sleeves of his cloak and gambeson to reveal a navy blue emblem on his wrist. “Have you ever seen one of these before?”

“No.” Angelika’s eyes furrowed. “What the hell’s that?”

“It’s a key.”

“A key? For what?”

Dimitry pointed at the shrine. “Do you see the image of a horse’s head?”

“Yeah. It looks like the one on your arm.”

“Mine is the key, and that’s the lock.” He approached the monolith’s base, letting the emblem on his wrist drift up to meet the one displayed by the monitor.

Like in Amphurt and Estoria, the blue wisps drifting along the shrine’s edges coalesced into geometric shapes. They peeled from the jet-black surface and rose into the air to form alien characters.

Angelika swiped the rifle off of her back, slammed an iron ball into its barrel, and aimed ahead.

“Wait.” Dimitry gently pushed down the front of her weapon. “It’s just a message.”

“W-what’s it say?”

‘Knight C27E957, your courage has paved the way to your third cache.’
‘A trial awaits to prepare you and your squire for the tumultuous days ahead.’
‘May the relics within guide you to victory.’

Dimitry stroked his chin. “Apparently, there’s something inside that could help us, but it says we have to go through a trial first.”

“What kind of trial?”

“I have no idea.” He looked at the girl whose orange eyes focused on floating words like a hunter tracked fowl. “It could be anything, maybe even dangerous.”

“You said it could help Malten?”

“I did.”

Angelika rested the wooden underbelly of her voltech rifle over her shoulder. “Then let’s stop wasting time.”

“Are you sure?” Dimitry asked. “For all I know, we might die.”

“The job of a combat mage is to die for their city.” She wore an expression that didn’t fear death, but taunted it to do its best. “If a surgeon like you isn’t scared, then why the fuck would I be?”

Dimitry grinned. “I never said I wasn’t scared.” Taking a deep breath, he realigned his knight imprint with the one on the monolith. Nothing happened. Was the squire’s help necessary as well? “Angelika, put your palm where it tells you to.”

She threw her weapon into her left hand and placed her right onto the shrine’s palm-shaped groove.

The world vanished.

Heavy stomping and the tremor of each step shook the jet-black floor of a massive chamber. Massive, and empty. Aside from expansive walls, a distant ceiling, and a building-sized box in the center, only three things filled its interior: a surgeon, his guard, and whatever made the ground quake.

Dimitry’s head twisted, scouring for the ominous sound’s source. His eyes locked onto the central compartment but saw nothing. Where was he? Was this the cache’s trial? If so, it seemed to have stolen someone from him. He gently pressed down on his cloak’s inner left pocket, which had an uncharacteristic lightness and lack of wriggling.

Precious was missing.

Was she safe?

Was Dimitry?

Angelika aimed down her rifle’s barrel. “Where the…”

“I don’t know.” Dimitry turned his gaze towards an opening panel.

A square-shaped tile with dimensions dwarfing a basketball court peeled off the central compartment and slammed into the floor with a loud clang. It revealed the box’s interior. An arched leg covered in slithering goo stepped out from within. Although the appendage appeared red and vacuous like a hologram, its stomping sent rippling vibrations through the ground as if it were denser than concrete.

“What the fuck is that?”

Dimitry fumbled for a vol pellet with a trembling hand. “I hoped you would know.”

A long neck emerged next, followed by another foot and a shell as big as the lodgings Dimitry snuck out of.

It was a carapaced devil.

Or was it? Pulsating goop slimed over and through its every crevice, giving the appearance of a sentient, systemic yeast infection.

“Propelia!”

An iron ball flew soundlessly out of Angelika’s rifle, cracking the massive beast’s shell. Red liquid leaked out from freshly formed chinks, staining the jet-black floor in its color. The damage didn’t do much. Slime plugged the gaps to stem the bleeding.

Although it had no eyes, Dimitry felt the building-sized monster’s stare when it turned its head towards him. Its simple mouth opened to emit a resounding screech.

“Is this normal for carapaced devils?” he yelled over it, taking a step back.

“Normal?!” Angelika rushed to load her weapon with another iron ball. “This is fucking insane. I don’t know what it is or where we are, but I’m going to kill it!”

The creature climbed out of the central compartment and charged towards them. Its massive stature did nothing to slow it down.

“Come on!” Angelika yelled, running perpendicular to the beast.

Dimitry dashed beside her. “Any ideas on how to kill that thing?”

“Not yet!”

The creature slid when it turned a corner, buying them precious time.

Survival instinct urged Dimitry forward, told him to escape, but there was nowhere to go. Blank walls surrounded them on all sides, and the beast’s footsteps gained speed.

Killing it was the only way to survive. However, to do that, he needed something strong, something that could break the beast’s carapace faster than the slime on its surface could repair the cracks. A voltech rifle wasn’t enough.

Or was it?

Dimitry knew that accelall sped up objects relative to their surroundings. Higher velocities meant stronger applied forces and impacts. Would it empower Angelika’s shots?

Only one way to find out.

He grabbed her hand.

“Now’s not the time!” Angelika blurted.

The stomping grew faster than two humans could outrun.

“Listen to me!” Dimitry said with labored breaths. “Shoot the heathen one more time!”

“We already tried that!”

“Just try again!” Hoping his plan would work, he focused all the vol burning through his circuits into Angelika. “Accelall!”

For a moment, the room around Dimitry swerved and twisted. It was the second time he used a powerful spell that night. Fortunately, testing preservia on rats and magic training aboard a ship prepared him for the strain.

Angelika rushed ahead at inhuman speed, pivoted, and aimed at the target chasing Dimitry. She uttered something high-pitched and unintelligible.

A blast boomed from her rifle and throughout the chamber.

Dimitry clamped his ringing ears shut. Did accelall increase the velocity of her bullets such that they broke the sound barrier? He glanced back.

Slime slithered across the heathen’s shell to plug a grapefruit-sized hole waterfalling red, holographic blood onto a jet-black floor. Before it could plug it, another resounding boom punctured another hole into its body.

Then another.

And another.

Despite the heathen coloring the ground it stomped over red with bodily fluids, its movement and stop-gap repairs only hastened. Angelika, on the other hand, slowed down. Her gun no longer roared as it did moments ago.

Was the heathen stealing accelall’s power?

It barged towards Angelika.

Dimitry gripped two smooth pellets. “Accelall!”

A combination of weakness and blindness resulting from feedback tripped him. When he recovered, the first vision to greet him was a beast charging at Angelika in slow motion. Dimitry had to reach her first. Fumbling for two additional pellets, he rushed towards his guard, grabbed her shoulder, and chanted what he hoped was the second to last spell that night.

“Accelall!”

Lava surged across his circuits and sent pulsating pain throughout his body. Ignoring the strangling sensation, Dimitry pressed his palms to his ears to prepare for what was to come.

Two muffled shots blasted in quick succession, followed by the prolonged rumble of a slowly crumbling weight.

Dimitry’s second bout of blindness abated.

Standing in front of him was a jet-black monolith. Although its sides no longer played host to sliding blue wisps, they revealed something new—a deep recess that a monitor with a knight’s emblem once covered.

Did they pass the trial?

“Dumitry!” a faerie with wide-open gold eyes shouted. Precious darted off of the shrine’s peak and onto Dimitry’s shoulder. “You’re finally back! Are you okay? Where’d you go? It’s freezing out here.”

“A… talking faerie?” Angelika muttered through heavy breaths. “Do we have to kill that too?”

“Don’t,” Dimitry said, dragging his feet forward. “She’s with me.”

“With you? What?”

“I promise I’ll explain everything later.”

Angelika sighed, dropped her rifle, and sat on a felled log. “Whatever. Fuck it. Anything’s possible after that.”

Precious tilted her head to the side, her golden ponytail brushing against Dimitry’s ear. “Did something happen to you and Big Mouth?”

“Yeah. Something happened.” Dimitry retrieved three golf-ball-sized orbs, one larger than the others, from the monolith’s recess. Why were there so many?

“Did it just call me Big Mouth?” Angelika glanced up. “I may be tired, but I have more than enough energy to wring its neck.”

“Big Mouth, why do you have to be so angry?”

“Don’t mind her,” Dimitry said. “Precious only annoys people she likes.”

“And you’ve been hanging out with it all this time?”

“Since before we’ve met.” Dimitry sat beside Angelika, holding a relic that looked like a white quartz golf ball in his hands. Unlike the one he received in Estoria, it didn’t show him a vision. Was it broken?

“What’s that?”

“It’s our reward for overcoming the trial, but I’m not sure what it does.”

Angelika held out her hand.

Dimitry dropped the dense object into her palm, which had slightly inflamed purple vessels just like his. “Remember, you promised not to tell anyone about what happened tonight.”

“Like anyone would believe me.” Angelika lifted the relic to her eye. “Myrmidons, shrines and trials, red glowing heathens, spells that make everything move slow, talking pests. There’s just too much to process.”

“I'm sure you have plenty of questions, and I'll answer them all.” Dimitry stood up and flapped open his cloak, into which Precious promptly flew. “For now, let’s get back before the aquatic demons notice we’re missing.”

71. Discovery

A spacious granite floor carved from a fortress devil’s interior seamlessly transitioned into a knee-high table. Around it sat Dimitry, Klaire, and ascendants—myrmidon mages who doubled as tribal leaders. Although their numbers were few the day Malten’s diplomatic crew arrived, over twenty sat on black cushions, watching as their Hierarch decided on humanity’s fishing rights along Waira’s outskirts.

The discussion didn’t enrapture Dimitry as much as it should. He couldn’t focus. His thoughts returned to the same matter they had throughout a sleepless night.

The thing he fought during the shrine’s trial.

It looked like a carapaced devil, but was it really? If Angelika, a combat mage with years of experience fighting heathens, had never seen one before, could it be a rare subspecies like the fortress devil Dimitry sat in? Unlikely. The slime crawling across the beast’s surface was something else.

Something dangerous.

Was it another manifestation of algae that enveloped peoples’ bodies, turning them into disfigured monsters, or was it a joke propagated by the masters of this world? Maybe they laughed at Dimitry’s expense this entire time. Horrendous visions of creatures that remained hidden, a deadly cage match with a magic stealing heathen, and relics lacking purpose.

Dimitry spent all night trying to coax ‘Homeworld Expertise’ from the three orbs he retrieved from the monolith. All he had to show for it was a headache, more questions, and dry eyes burning from insomnia. They conspired to distract him from negotiations with demons that decided Malten’s ability to sustain itself in the future.

“We will grant you access to waters rich in game in exchange for moonstones,” Hierarch said.

Suppressing his wandering musings, Dimitry turned to his left. “Where are the fishing spots we want?”

Now that hostilities have eased, Klaire leaned forward like a self-assured company executive. Her ordinarily neat light blue hair dangled over a map resting on a knee-high table. She brushed it back behind her ear and pointed at several areas sandwiched between Waira and Malten.

Dimitry met Hierarch’s gaze. “We would appreciate if you allowed our ships access to the areas my associate indicated.”

“My people often see your log vessels breach those waters, but you will take caution near our breeding grounds.” The Hierarch’s finger circled a small area of ocean south-east of Waira. “Otherwise, war will resume.”

Were people net fishing where myrmidon reproduced this entire time? “Forgive us.” Dimitry cupped her overloaded and webbed hand between both of his—a humbling gesture in their culture. “We were not aware. You have my word that my people will never repeat that mistake.”

Warcaller, temporarily serving as a guide and the keeper of human diplomats, folded her arms onto her lap. “Dimitry, would you honor my inquiry?”

“I would be delighted to.”

“Is it true your people sought only to catch fish and not my brothers and sisters? I have seen my brethren entwined and dragged away in your hunting devices before, never for them to return.”

A pang of guilt belonging to humanity at large lodged itself inside Dimitry. He respected myrmidon. Not only did they honor their enemies, they deliberated peace despite generations of conflict. So why did humans treat them like trash? How many innocents died at the hands of the Church, whose scriptures demanded that ‘aquatic demons’ be put to death?

Dimitry could put that to an end. Although telling the truth would complicate negotiations, it was a risk his conscience compelled him to take. “We have no intention of capturing your people, but I believe there is something else you should know.”

“What is it?” Warcaller asked.

“Not all humans are in agreement.”

Hierarch twirled a strain of braided white hair between two fingers. “Elaborate.”

Dimitry pointed at Malten on the map. “Do you see these shaded areas and how they differ in color?”

The ascendants leaned in.

“Are they of import?” Hierarch asked.

“Each one is a different country with a different leader. Although our leader, Her Royal Majesty Amelie Pesce, believes that our people and yours should be at peace, not everyone does.”

“It is the same for us. Not all myrmidon would consider peace with humans either, especially our brethren living at the Border Lands.”

“Border Lands?”

Warcaller closed her eyes, adjusting the blue spike lodged in her earlobe. “It is a land at the end of the world. Although one may see what lies beyond, not even the best diver can cross to the other side.”

Dimitry furrowed his eyes. “Why? Is it dangerous?”

“We know not. None in our tribe have been there. The Border Lands are far from Waira.”

“I see.”

“Finish your point,” Hierarch said.

Dimitry traced the Holy Empire’s coast, Feyt, Ontaria, and pointed to the Coldust peninsula. “My humble advice is for your people to avoid these countries unless you seek war. The humans living there are tricked into thinking your kind are demons and seek to harm you.”

“Demons?” an ascendant asked. “Why would they believe us to be so?”

“Unlike us, they accept the false teachings of the Church, who refer to myrmidon as corrupted creatures and aquatic demons.”

Hierarch closed her eyes as if entering a meditative trance. “Odd.”

“We care not about distant humans.” Another ascendant raised her spear with an overloaded hand. “But if they seek war, let them come!”

“Well spoken, sister!”

“It is as they say,” Hierarch said. “We have no intention to leave our home, but if invaders seek to attack, we have no qualms with fighting to the death.”

“I respect your bravery.” Dimitry smiled. “In that case, allow me to mention one more thing.”

“Speak.”

“Not all log vessels, or ships as we call them, belong to our country. Others may pass along your shores, too.”

“Then how will we know which belongs to your people?” Warcaller Leylani asked.

“The ones brandishing yellow and red flags belong to our diplomats, fishermen, and traders. All others come from different countries and may be dealt with as you see fit.”

“And if our people wish to visit your country to obtain moonstones, among other goods?” Hierarch asked. “How shall we identify ourselves?”

A difficult question. If a myrmidon swam to Malten, a soldier would murder them on sight, reigniting the flames of war once more. Telling the populace that the queen allied with aquatic demons wasn’t an option either. Although the Church’s influence wasn’t as strong as before, many civilians clung to the teachings for guidance. Only dedicated propaganda efforts could get people to accept the truth. “I’m afraid you will have to warn us before visiting.”

Hierarch frowned. “Why should we give you free access to our shores while we require invitations to yours?”

Klaire tugged on Dimitry’s sleeve. “Did we anger her?”

Despite several ascendants baring their teeth, he forced a calm expression. “They want to know why they can’t visit Malten whenever they want.”

“Ah.” Klaire squirmed on a black cushion. “That is problematic.”

“We can’t risk them entering the markets by themselves. If they get caught by civilians, they’ll be killed.”

Klaire flipped through the leather book resting on her lap. Then, she retrieved the metal pen-like object resting on her ear and twirled it between her fingers before scribbling long chains of numbers onto an empty page.

“Dimitry, what is the female drawing?” Warcaller asked.

“She’s doing math… I think.”

Confused whispers emanated from a crowd of myrmidon, who followed the graceful movements of a practiced stewardess’ hand.

Klaire looked up. “Tell them we will send a merchant ship filled with assorted goods and schematics every nine days in exchange for fishing rights. It’ll take longer before we can allow them to visit the city itself.”

Dimitry glanced at her notes to see a list of captain names, crew, and vol numbers. Was all that necessary? “Hierarch, may we—”

“Call me Ailanu.”

Warcaller’s yellow and black eyes opened wide, as did many of the ascendants’.

Feeling as though he received a rare honor, Dimitry continued. “Ailanu, may we send a ship every nine days filled with moonstones and other desirables? Solely to show our appreciation for your hospitality while we prepare our markets for your people.”

“Why? We would not take offense to human customs.”

“Your kindness is already known to me.” Dimitry didn’t want to lie to Ailanu about how Malten’s populace would kill aquatic demons on sight, but he couldn’t tell the full truth, either. “Remember how I mentioned the existence of other countries hostile to myrmidon?”

“Yes.”

Dimitry pointed at two shaded areas above Malten. “Right now, our country is overflowing with refugees from Einheart and Volmer. Rock giants destroyed their homes, so now they crowd ours instead. They are still unwise to the benevolence of your people and might seek to harm your kind.” He cupped Ailanu’s webbed hand. “I humbly request that you give us time to convince them of the error of their ways. If a myrmidon was injured in our home, it would bring me great shame, especially after the hospitality you have shown us.”

“Uniting a people is difficult indeed,” Hierarch Ailanu said, as if from experience. “How many moons must pass before our own could inspect your water wheels and smelteries?”

Feeling pressured by ascendants’ expectant faces, Dimitry gave a number low enough to avoid angering them. “Fourteen.”

“Do not go back on your words, or else—”

“Hierarch!” A male myrmidon rushed through the fortress devil’s entrance. “Pardon my intrusion. I have urgent tidings.”

Ailanu inhaled a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Speak freely, Kelowa.”

“My troop has found the warrior’s altar defiled. Its guiding light shines no longer.”

Dimitry’s shoulders stiffened. Did Kelowa refer to the shrine less than a mile from this village? The one a certain surgeon raided last night?

“Does the Great One neglect us for refusing to fight the humans?” an ascendant asked.

“What if it is a sign that we no longer need to fight?”

“Perhaps a rock giant brood mother seeks to attack!”

“Send someone to check the grand altar!”

“What are they arguing about?” Klaire asked.

“I’m not sure,” Dimitry lied. “Something about an altar losing its light.”

“Are we being blamed for it?”

“I can’t tell.”

The bickering of ascendants echoed across the fortress devil’s walls. Some called for meditation, others war. Although Dimitry considered blaming the altar’s failure on the Church, showing that he knew it existed would only garner suspicion. He sat silently instead.

Ailanu stood up from her chair—carved from a heathen’s stone corpse—and the room went silent. She faced her ascendants and servants. “I have decided. We shall test the faiths. I will send one of our own to the land of the humans, and their presence will reignite war if the Great One wishes it so.”

The myrmidon held up their spears and hollered.

“Do you understand?” Ailanu asked, glancing at Dimitry. “I will entrust one of ours to judge your kind. That is the condition under which your proposed trade will be allowed.”

Although Dimitry nodded, all that went through his mind was ‘shit’. Ailanu wanted Malten to harbor what was essentially a myrmidon ambassador. If a Zeran zealot discovered them, not only would they strike down the aquatic demon and ignite another ceaseless war, but Malten’s indoctrinated populace might turn on the queen, tearing apart the country from the inside. A conflict an ailing city could not withstand.

But not all was gloom. Potential advantages existed as well. The presence of a myrmidon to learn from and converse with could tether both species through language and serve as an outlet for brandishing the queen’s relative wealth and technological prowess.

The difference between poor and serendipitous outcomes lay in execution. Dimitry needed an excuse to keep the myrmidon ambassador locked up and under guard until Malten could accept their existence. A scheme broiling in his mind, he smiled. “We will go one step further.”

“How so?” Ailanu asked.

“To show our commitment to peace, we offer your ambassador the greatest possible care at our disposal: a stay at the castle. There, they will be tended to and treated with utmost courtesy. We vow to employ countless safety protocols and take excellent care of your representative.”

“Be sure to see to it.”

“I most certainly will.”

Ailanu cupped Warcaller’s hand. “Leylani, as one who is closest to ascending and she who has been in contact with humans the longest, I ask that you travel to their lands. I trust you to judge their character before returning to us.”

“It shall be done, Hierarch.”

Gentle waves rocked the tarred and plastered cargo hold of a ship recovering from a hazardous voyage. Aside from creaking planks, washing ocean currents, and the whispering of huddled combat mages, a stewardess’s failed attempts at communicating with Leylani leaked from the captain’s quarters above.

The tranquil cacophony of sounds weighed down on a curly-haired girl’s tired eyes. “So, is that thing supposed to help Malten?” Angelika yawned, stretching her hands behind her back. “It doesn’t seem to be doing much at all.”

Dimitry held a cold and white golf ball-sized object in his palm. No matter how he gripped or rolled it, the relic refused to grant him a vision. Where was the ‘Homeworld Expertise’ he was promised? “For some reason, it’s not working.”

“Not only did we almost die, but I spent like four golds worth of vol in that stupid shrine. I knew Zeran garbage couldn’t be trusted.”

Perhaps Dimitry shouldn't have risked their lives and humanity’s relationship with myrmidon based on a cryptic message from a cache. “I guess I got a little carried away. Sorry about that.”

“Whatever.” Angelika gave him a grin. “At least I got to see that spell.”

“You mean accelall?”

“Is that what it was?”

“Yeah.” Dimitry looked into her orange eyes. “Remember, you can’t tell anyone about it.”

“Right, right.” Her absentminded gaze traveled to the relic in his hand. “But, you know, it was kinda fun.”

“Getting chased by a heathen with a yeast infection?”

“No. Shooting the fuck out of it while it barely moved at all. Where did you learn a spell that made everything slow?”

“It didn’t slow anything down so much as it sped you up.”

Angelika’s eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Dimitry leaned back against the cargo hold wall. How could he explain time manipulation to a girl who never saw The Matrix? He pointed to the voltech rifle resting on her lap. “Did you ever wonder why the spell strengthened your shots?”

“You mean it breaking more of the carapaced devil’s shell than before?”

“Exactly. It only did that because the bullets moved faster too. Faster objects make bigger holes.”

“I kinda get it.” She brushed her curly red-brown hair back to reveal a devilish smirk. “Hey, since I’m your guard, and we’re going to be hanging out a lot, can I expect you to cast accelall on me again? Maybe on the upcoming night of repentance?”

“It depends.” Dimitry frowned. “I only used a few spells last night and nearly passed out because of it.”

“Damn. That sucks.”

It did suck.

If heathens continued to overwhelm Malten with increasing numbers beyond the army’s control, Dimitry was powerless to help. He could cast accelall ten times a day at most before collapsing. Preparing ahead of time by enchanting weapons wasn’t an option either. Not only would excess vol usage attract more heathens and be outrageously expensive, but partially accelerating a person’s body was dangerous. A soldier’s hands would consume oxygen faster than the heart could supply it; their veins and capillaries could burst from surges in blood pressure.

Dimitry glanced at Angelika’s voltech rifle.

This world needed weapons that didn’t rely on magic or decades of training before use. Weapons cheap to mass-produce. Weapons that allowed the conscription of hundreds of refugees into a fearsome militia that crushed heathens underfoot.

Weapons like guns, cannons, and explosives.

At this rate, they were humanity’s sole hope for survival.

Malten’s survival.

Dimitry’s survival.

A flash of heat raged in his palm.

The cold relic burned with energy, dark clouds rolling through its white-quartz-like surface until the golf-ball-sized object turned black. A ravenous hunger yearned within. One that sought to consume Dimitry’s consciousness while injecting a new one in its place.

“Hey, can—” Angelika’s voice transitioned into vacant static. The boat’s gentle churning steadied. Frozen at an incline, a lamp attached to the cargo hold’s ceiling no longer dangled.

Unlike the relic Dimitry received in Estoria, the one resting in his hand didn’t show him visions of algae monsters.

Instead, four differently colored powders lay piled by his feet: yellow, white, black, and a lustrous gray mound. Weapons resembling antique guns like muskets rested on the floor or on crates. A cannon stood against the wall. Carved horns, barrels with rifling, cartridges.

Even if Dimitry could breathe, he would be breathless. Was this the ‘Homeworld Expertise’ promised by the cache? It looked more like an armory. He focused on the mound of lustrous gray powder.

Information flooded into Dimitry’s head as if pulled from long-forgotten recesses.

He knew what it was.

Black powder.

Composed of seventy-five percent potassium nitrate, fifteen percent willow charcoal, and ten percent sulfur, it served as fuel for firearms starting in the late medieval era.

Dimitry turned his attention to the white powder beside it.

Potassium nitrate.

An oxidant mined or produced after a year-long process involving urine, fecal matter, and wood ash.

The vision vanished, and the ship rocked once more.

“—you teach me accelall?” Angelika finished her sentence, vitality returning to her frozen body.

Filled with insuppressible excitement, Dimitry jumped to his feet. He stared at the dark object rolling in his trembling palm. Could he analyze every item in its vision? Did the two other white relics, including the bigger one, grant desirable knowledge in a similar manner? If so, what was the best way to use them?

Angelika looked up. “You good?”

Dimitry showed her the orb. “Notice any difference?”

“It’s… black now.”

He dropped it into her hand. “Anything else?”

“It’s hot and kinda heavy.”

“Looks like it doesn’t work for you.” Dimitry leaned back against a layered plank wall once more, waiting with bated breath for the next vision.

Angelika’s eyebrows furrowed. “Does it do anything useful?”

“It does.”

“Like what?”

“Although it’s hard for me to show you now, I’m sure you’ll enjoy the results.”

72. Medieval Propaganda

The taps and clacks of hard leather boots against granite resounded across the walls of a wide hallway. They came from a surgeon, a stewardess, a myrmidon ambassador, and the two stone-faced court sorceresses guiding them past maids to a distant marble door, which bathed in the blue light of embedded illumina stones.

Her Majesty Amelie Pesce awaited beyond. How would she react when her subjects reported their successful diplomatic negotiations with demons, winning them uncontested fishing spots, potential allies, and the end of a century-long war?

Judging by Klaire’s face, which struggled to suppress its exuberant grin, their feats would net them equivalent rewards. The kind only royalty could grant. Perhaps it was for that reason the woman with disheveled light blue hair strutted forward with her chest held high despite a flowing dress tainted by seawater and sand. Whatever promise the queen had given to persuade her easily startled stewardess, making her embark on a perilous voyage, must have been worth more to Klaire than life itself.

Following her was Leylani, a proud myrmidon Warcaller who couldn’t maintain an upright posture. Her shoes bounced off of each other all the way from Malten’s dock to its castle. Twenty minutes was insufficient for a barefoot species to master footwear. However, she didn’t appear bothered. Her downcast head twisted from side to side as she gawked at human architecture from under a long robe concealing her knob-like blue horns, sharp teeth, and yellow eyes.

Dimitry shared their enthusiasm. However, it wasn’t because he expected monetary recompense or admired a foreign culture’s craftsmanship. His joy originated elsewhere—the relic he had studied all throughout a half-day long voyage. The object resembling a dark quartz golf ball showed him all manner of visions, including the assembly of a flintlock musket, a faceless man firing a cannon, and how to load an arquebus.

Technology he intended to replicate.

In a world crumbling under the pressure of heathens, hot weapons couldn’t arrive at a better time. They were this city’s best hope for survival. Not only could they arm refugees to form a hastily drafted militia with strength exceeding the best knights, guns were cheap. But making and testing them would take time. Time that Malten didn’t have. Less than fourteen days from now, stone beasts would charge at its hastily repaired walls to massacre everyone inside.

That was why Dimitry intended to use his meeting with the queen to his advantage. Her help was the only way he could produce and test firearms before the upcoming night of repentance. Noticing Leylani coming to a halt, he did too.

“Her Majesty awaits inside.” A court sorceress’s hand reached out of a yellow cuff to pull on a marble door’s golden handle, slowly revealing a room filled with silver-trimmed bookcases and a luxurious chandelier.

Two people sat around a round table, drinking tea. One was a queen with wrinkled skin but commanding red eyes. The other, a raven-haired princess who gave Dimitry a confident smile as he walked into the room.

Did her mission go as well as his? Dimitry gave her a reciprocative nod, took several steps forward, and knelt.

“Your Majesty.” Klaire followed suit.

Leylani, however, didn’t. She glanced at Dimitry instead. “Must I display your people’s gesture of prostration as well?”

“It’s customary, but the queen wouldn’t take offense if you didn’t. She’s not one for tradition in small gatherings.”

“Tradition must be respected, even if no one is there to witness it.” The myrmidon dropped to her knees and closed her eyes. Despite her best attempt at kneeling, she resembled a meditating yoga practitioner rather than royalty’s humble guest.

“Dimitry, Klaire, and the ambassador may sit,” Amelie said with an amused tone.

“What does she say?” Leylani asked.

“She invited us to share the table with her.” Dimitry stood up. “Would you like a cushion?”

“Do not trifle yourself with me.” Leylani approached a chair. Her yellow and black eyes studied how Saphiria and Amelie sat before she replicated their postures.

The queen gave Dimitry a subtle smirk as he and Klaire joined them. “Are her mannerisms normal for aquatic demons?”

“If Leylani offends you, Your Majesty, it is not her intention. Her flawed imitations of our gestures are performed out of respect.”

“I see.” The queen poured three cups of tea. “Lukas’ messenger informed me she would come, but I knew not how to prepare. Is there anything she desires?”

Dimitry glanced at Leylani. “Our queen wishes to know if you wish for anything specific to eat or drink.”

“Is it not rude for humans to decline the hospitality of their hosts?” Her webbed hand reached forward for a cup of tea. She gazed into the steaming hot crimson liquid, guzzled it down, and grasped at her throat.

Klaire and Amelie watched with stunned, wide-open eyes.

Dimitry jumped forward, hoping he wouldn’t have to treat esophageal burns in a different species. “Are you all right?!”

Leylani sat up straight. “It is nothing.”

“You’re not supposed to drink it while it’s hot. It’s okay to take your time. The last thing we want is for you to get injured.”

“Your concern is appreciated but unnecessary.”

Dimitry massaged his forehead. His concern was definitely necessary. If Leylani continued to play the part of an overly gracious guest, she would die by the end of the week. He hoped hot tea wouldn’t reignite war with myrmidon. “Only do what you’re comfortable with. Your health is far more important to us than appealing to our customs.”

“Do not worry yourself so.”

Amelie patted her black-streaked gray hair. “Is she well?”

“She’s trying to be polite to establish her race as respectful,” Dimitry said.

The queen chuckled. “I quite like these aquatic demons. Have we truly been hunting their kind all this time?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Klaire said. “However, as I’ve mentioned in the reports, we’ve temporarily entered a truce with them.”

“Do they still see us as suspicious?”

As an exaggerated demonstration for their myrmidon guest, Dimitry reached for a cup of tea, blew on it, and took a small sip. “They sent her here to confirm that we’re trustworthy before agreeing on a permanent solution.”

“What do they wish to see from us?”

Dimitry looked at Leylani. “The queen wishes to know if there is anything she can do to prove her sincerity towards your people.”

“I know not if it is the proof the Hierarch desires, but my desire is to see humans fight bravely on the coming full moon. One’s worth is decided by their valor in battle, and I have yet to see if rock giants are truly your foes.”

Her honesty surprised and concerned Dimitry. In politics, frankness was weakness. It was a sad state of affairs when a race with integrity had to learn to lie to compete with humanity. “She wants to watch us fight on the upcoming night of repentance.”

“Is that all?” Amelie asked.

“There are other concerns, too.” Klaire opened her leather book, retrieved a folded paper underneath its cover, and flattened the creased map onto the table. She pointed to a spot south-east of Waira. “This one believes that our fishing vessels should avoid the myrmidon breeding grounds here to ensure their cooperation.”

“Does that mean it is safe to send out our fishing trawlers now?”

“I believe so, Your Majesty.”

“Then, the problem is solved?”

“No.” Dimitry lowered his cup onto the table with a ceramic clack. “Convincing myrmidon to maintain mutually beneficial relations with us by sending them vol and schematics is the easy part. It’s humans we have to worry about.”

“Indeed.” The queen stood up and walked towards a window with her hands folded behind her back. She absently watched Malten’s darkening streets. “Although many amongst us know the Church’s teachings as drivel, we still cling to it, hoping for a shred of salvation. It won’t be long before some fool tries to harm our guest or one of her kind wandering our shores.”

“Your Majesty.” Klaire brushed her light blue hair back behind her ear. “It is my understanding that Dimitry warned the myrmidon from entering our country for a full year by citing overly religious Einheart and Volmer refugees as potential dangers. The deaths of aquatic demons on our borders are unlikely.”

“A prudent decision, but I fear it won’t be enough.”

Dimitry grinned. “That’s why we have to use every moment wisely.”

Amelie looked back. “Do you have a plan?”

“I have a few ideas.”

“I want to hear them. Klaire, take notes.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” She took the metal pen-like object off her ear and flipped to a blank page in her leather book.

Dimitry leaned forward. “The first thing we should do is dissuade anyone unaware of our myrmidon allies from venturing to the coast to limit potential conflict. Your Majesty could use increased heathen sightings as an excuse and introduce a protection tax as an additional deterrent.

“However, that would only buy us time. We need to slowly acclimate people to the idea of demonic allies. That is why I recommend that only people privy to this information be allowed to sell seafood caught in the ocean. While conducting sales, they’ll occasionally mention how aquatic demons allowed them to fish in peace, or how savages fought off a heathen so they could escape with their bounty.

“Furthermore, we need to spread rumors about the Church’s lies. Lukas’ spies are perfect for the job. Allow them to mingle with patrons in places like taverns where they can share stories about the Church’s attempts to prevent the Gestalt Empire from establishing peace with aquatic demons, who turned out not to be demonic at all. The creatures merely wanted to discuss a possible truce, while Zerans chased them away in an attempt to destroy this kingdom. The key is to gradually introduce the idea so people don’t overreact when the whole truth is revealed.”

Saphiria and Klaire gave him enlightened stares as if propaganda was a novel concept.

“Finally, an alliance cannot proceed by relying on my magic alone. I propose we use Leylani’s presence as an opportunity for those under your command to learn the myrmidon tongue. I saw Klaire attempt to speak it before, and I think her efforts should be encouraged and praised. The more we can understand each other, the less inclined we are towards war.”

Amelie laughed. “Are you truly a surgeon?”

Dimitry sipped his bitter tea. “I am, but I dabble in other things, too.”

“Is that so?” The queen sat down. “Both of you exceeded my expectations. Klaire, you will receive the reward you have been promised.”

“Your generosity humbles me, Your Majesty.”

“As for Dimitry…” Amelie tapped the table with a wrinkled finger. “Is there anything you desire?”

He pushed his cup aside and folded his arms onto the table. Monetary rewards didn’t interest him. It could not purchase what he wanted most, something that came with time and effort—the queen’s trust. With her as a conduit, he could enact large-scale plans that improved the city. “I need nothing of the sort, Your Majesty. Malten is my home now, and I’m merely doing whatever I can to help.”

She leaned forward. “Surely there is something I can offer you?”

Did she insist out of politeness or to conscript his loyalty? The answer was obvious. What ruler wouldn’t throw money at the only person who could communicate with desperately needed allies, cure deadly plagues, among other untold skills? “All I wish is for my opinions to hold weight in your decisions, even if they may seem foolish at first.”

“You haven’t given me a reason to doubt your words yet, Jade Surgeon. Did you have something in mind?”

He did. If his plan worked, not only would it bring hygiene to Malten’s streets, but would produce more black powder explosives than an army of heathens could handle.

What he needed was feces and urine. Lots of it. Whether it came from rats, horses, or people, the relic’s visions taught him it was invaluable for producing potassium nitrate—the oxidant in black powder. However, he didn’t have the authority, manpower, or inventory to collect it. But the queen did.

Dimitry’s gaze fixated on Amelie’s piercing red eyes. “I need two things: a plot of land bordering Malten’s walls and the passing of a certain law.”

“Oh?” Although the queen’s face showed no sign of contemplation, her finger’s tapping hastened. “We can discuss the latter, but if you wish for a title of nobility, it is not something I can grant right now. Especially with those rumors.”

Could only nobles receive land? If so, it was problematic. But that wasn’t what concerned Dimitry the most. “What rumors?”

“Pay them no heed. They’re naught but the idle prattle of displaced nobles from Einheart and Volmer.”

He hoped her words weren’t a sign of things to come. “I’m not interested in nobility. Just land. I need it for a project that will increase our efficacy at combating heathens.”

“Tell me about it in detail. Klaire, continue to take notes.”

A moonless night sky consumed Malten’s metal-reinforced cityscape, enshrouding all but the window of a castle’s first-floor guest room. An illumina lamp shone within. Its light guided a surgeon’s ink-filled quill across yellow paper. With every stroke, the medievalesque implement scratched the strands of its cloth-like canvas, producing a calming sound lost in a faerie’s munching and a princess’s quiet breathing.

They accompanied Dimitry as he blueprinted the v-shaped frizzen spring of a flintlock mechanism beside sketches of its lock plate, tumbler, and bridle. Less than a day ago, every component was nothing more than the mysterious inner workings of early era guns. Now, after absorbing whatever knowledge the activated relic offered, they became familiar old friends.

One vision showed a faceless man assemble a flintlock musket. As each part came together, their dimensions and purpose lodged itself into Dimitry’s memory as if they were there all along.

And yet, despite the wealth of information, new problems arose. Like metal screws. Although the relic advocated the use of intricate screw-cutting lathes to produce them, it neglected to tell him how to build the machine itself. Doubtlessly a bottleneck in a world ill-equipped like this one. Hopefully, Elias the blacksmith could make them by hand so that wasting another relic on machining tools wouldn’t be necessary.

Dimitry’s hand reached for the inkwell to replenish his quill only to discover a wall of long, raven black hair blocking its path.

Saphiria’s focused indigo eyes broke out of their trance. “Sorry.” She pulled back, wafting fragrant berry perfume into the air.

“It’s no problem.”

“What are you drawing?”

Dimitry dropped the quill back onto paper, ready to sketch the mainspring. “Where I come from, it’s called a flintlock.”

“What does it do?”

“Have you ever used a voltech rifle?”

Saphiria shook her head. “But I know how it works.”

“Well, this is similar, but instead of seals and vol, it’s powered by small explosions.”

“Sounths danferous,” Precious said with a mouth full of fent.

Dimitry couldn’t refute the faerie’s words. The first flintlock models could explode, sending the bloody remnants of their user’s fingers in every direction. That was why extensive testing was necessary before he put them to action. “It may be, but if we get it to work, heathens will become a lot easier to deal with.”

“Is it another machine from your home?” Saphiria asked.

“Yes. We used them a long time ago.”

Precious gulped, then pointed a finger at him covered in mushy, bitter-smelling fruit. “You make it sound like you’re really old. Are you sure you’re not some geezer in a youngster’s body?”

“I’ll leave that to your imagination.” Dimitry set down his quill and turned to face Saphiria. He doubted she came here just to watch him doodle, especially with the plague curing mission he entrusted her with during his absence. “So, what happened?”

Saphiria ran a strand of silken black hair through her hand. “I convinced mother to send fifty sets of enchanted bedclothes to Amphurt and twenty more to a town further south along with army detachments to protect them.”

“Did it go well?”

“Bandits tried to steal them, but Valter routed them to a hideout east of Amphurt.”

“Valter the knight?”

She nodded.

Dimitry stroked his chin. He remembered meeting Valter in his hospital, where everyone showered him with praise. Could Saphiria command someone so celebrated, or was it the doing of the queen who merely took her daughter’s opinion into account? In either case, ‘princess’ wasn’t the figurehead title he imagined it to be. She had influence. “Do you think you can cure most of the plague before the night of repentance?”

“I believe so.”

“If you do, we can sell excess enchanted bedclothes to other countries to lower the number of heathens targeting Malten. Would ten days be enough?”

Saphiria smiled. “I won’t let you down.”

The confidence in her indigo eyes surprised Dimitry. Despite her young age and life dragging her through hell, it didn’t take long for Saphiria to recover from her depressive slump. A trait befitting a future ruler. “I’ll leave it in your capable hands, then.”

“Okay.” She stayed silent for a moment. “May I ask for your input on a matter?”

“Of course.”

Saphiria looked down at her hands, which lay folded on the lap of her yellow dress. “I want to rebuild the iron mines and expand the vol mines… they’re only half the size they used to be when I was a child.” She glanced up. “I know you don’t know much about mining, but after hearing what you told mother, I thought I’d ask just in case.”

Dimitry leaned back in his chair. The mines’ limiting factors were a dwindling workforce and low efficiency. If Saphiria handled the former, could he attune a relic to discover technologies like steam engines, pumps, and smelteries to fix the latter? He only had two left. If they were anything like the first, they probably couldn’t return to their initial state after providing a vision. Their activation was irreversible.

But using one here was worth it.

Increased iron and vol production would provide a massive boon to this country.

“Try to persuade Her Majesty to make changes, but don’t finalize anything yet. I might have a few ideas that can help.”

73. World's First Chemistry Lab

Dimitry sat on his castle guest room bed, staring at the black quartz relic cradled in his palm. Learning its secrets was a prospect that once excited him, tempted him to forgo a night of sleep in pursuit of visions that could change the world forever: modernized gunpowder production, cannon shells, and revolvers. From gunsmithing to ammo manufacture, he wanted to know it all. Every nugget of information would help him support the only refuge open to him—Malten.

That was why he gritted his teeth and squeezed the relic like a hand therapy ball. However, no matter how desperately he willed it to enlighten him, Dimitry witnessed the same scenes over and over.

A faceless man firing a cannon. The assembly of a flintlock musket, including knowledge of its components. Someone loading an arquebus. An assortment of outdated guns, carved horns, and barrels with clumsy rifling he couldn’t replicate. Black powder. Piles of charcoal, sulfur, and potassium nitrate.

The relic that promised to contain ‘Homeworld Expertise’ did exactly that, but neglected to specify whose expertise it was.

Dimitry saw a 10-pounder Parrott rifle firing at an American Civil War reenactment.

Dimitry examined and read the plaques describing a disassembled flintlock musket in a museum exhibit.

Dimitry watched an old documentary on the advent of late medieval era black powder and arquebuses.

All experiences he recalled tonight for the first time in over a decade.

His ‘expertise’.

But he still didn’t know how to produce screws or machining tools.

The relic only showed him what he once learned but forgot, explaining why the eerily familiar scenes seemed to emerge from the recesses of his mind. The golf ball-sized orb rolled across Dimitry’s palm and fell onto his blanket with a wool softened thump.

What a waste.

He could have used it to recall the production of antimicrobials, pharmaceuticals, and valuable reagents like potassium cyanide. How much organic chemistry, physics, and microbiology did he lose out on? There was a wealth of forgotten memories to comb through, and yet Dimitry spent one of three relics on something he never studied.

Was its information even accurate? What if his muskets or cannons exploded on use because of his surface-level understanding of their construction? What was the best way to use cache rewards from now on? Could he still renovate Malten’s metal industry?

Dimitry laid down and closed his fatigued eyes, carefully considering each question. His thoughts included nitroglycerin and trinitrotoluene for blast mining and killing heathens, hybrid plants and selective breeding to improve farming yields, optical lenses to build microscopes. All advancements that required years and an industrial base to accomplish.

Trifles magic sidestepped.

Armed with an understanding of relics, ideas brewed in Dimitry’s mind all throughout a sleepless night. Before putting them into action, he had to establish the infrastructure his plans required.

———————————————————————————————————

An early morning chill whistled through the shattered stained glass windows of an abandoned cathedral. At one point, the building was a purveyor of hope for the pious. Now, it did so again for the godforsaken and homeless, whose whispers echoed throughout the inner sanctum.

Sated on pottage and roasted meat resembling mutton, a woman hid her calloused hands under a tattered cloak. Her eyes, full of expectation, watched a surgeon walk over a spotless granite floor. What she desired was clear. The same was true for the broken-toothed man across the room and the twenty other refugees between them. In a country where thousands lived on cold streets or in cramped hovels, they sought the most priceless commodities obtainable: housing, food, and jobs.

Dimitry intended to provide all of those from the start, but the efforts his aspiring employees made in his absence only solidified his decision. He ran his finger along a marble pillar’s plinth to discover a complete lack of dust on its flutings. The carved walls were no different. Neither were the nooks or crannies of countless protrusions on this floor or the others.

With all the mold and rotting fecal matter gone, repurposing this cathedral into a hospital became viable. The partition near the entrance had the features of an emergency room. Not only was it sectioned off from the inner sanctum, but its proximity to the outside allowed it to accept critically ill patients without delay. Then, after stabilization, porters would transfer them to the larger medical unit, which would oversee everything from childbirth to simple wounds.

A possibility due in part to Saphiria’s efforts. Before Dimitry left for Waira, plague victims from the countryside busied him and his staff, crowding every bed and mattress he had. Introducing modified preservia blankets to Amphurt and other nearby settlements fixed that and, combined with low mid-month heathen numbers, made now the perfect time to put the cathedral into service. The goal was to prepare before the night of repentance’s arrival.

A problem of its own.

Dimitry examined the eager faces of his potential employees. With promises of food and payment, they cleaned a massive building, along with its many rooms and four towers, with nothing but dust rags and water sourced from the well outside. Would the primal desire for necessities drive them forever? Was their intention to flee to a safer country once their needs were met? When stone giants charged Malten’s walls, would they abandon their duties?

If so, the results could be disastrous. There was no way to know for sure if his workers would crumble under the pressure of a collapsing city, and Dimitry couldn’t support a hospital full of dying patients on his own.

That was why preventative measures were necessary.

Although underhanded, they would save countless lives.

His gaze traveling from one refugee to the next, Dimitry smiled. The first step was to make them feel needed and irreplaceable. “You have all done a fine job cleaning this cathedral. No matter how hard I’ve looked, I couldn’t find a single piece of dirt anywhere. Never in my life have I had the pleasure to work with anyone so motivated and dedicated. Your efforts have truly won me over.”

One girl in her early twenties gave him a gracious bow, but most waited excitedly for something else.

A reward.

Dimitry had to make them commit. He reached into his pouch for five small silver coins—the wage a poor laborer received in a month. “Five silver marks are the compensation everyone here will receive at the end of today as a sign of my appreciation.”

Their excited chatter rose in volume.

“You can take it with you to buy clothes, food, and anything else you desire. Don’t bother wasting it on work supplies like uniforms. They will be provided to you. In addition, look forward to an enchanted heated bathtub, clean bedding, and two daily meals.”

A man jumped off the floor and rubbed his hands together.

For a homeless person, Dimitry’s offer was irresistible. It was one he would have gladly taken when he arrived in Ravenfall.

“In return, all I ask for is honesty, hard work, and a dedication to saving lives.” He subtly tapped his cloak pocket to ready a faerie hidden within. She would detect lies while Dimitry forced his workers to agree to a butchered version of the Hippocratic Oath. One that would unearth potential deserters and thieves. “Where I come from, a faraway land called America, everyone in medicine swore an oath.”

Precious pinched Dimitry’s abdomen once—the sign that she found today’s first liar.

Him.

Dimitry ignored her. “I ask you all to do the same. Raise your right hands with me.”

Everyone but Milk thrust an arm into the air. The muscular giant slowly glanced around before doing the same.

“Now repeat after me: I intend to care for any patient entrusted to me and will dedicate my best efforts to their wellbeing.”

While the refugees mumbled his line back at him, Dimitry scanned the crowd for anyone refusing to speak. Not that it mattered. Even if they fooled him, they couldn’t do the same to Precious. Her emotion sense detected intention, not truth.

There was no escape.

Three pinches against his abdomen: no one tried to lie.

Satisfied, Dimitry gave his prospective employees a pleased nod. The authenticity of their words didn’t surprise him. Most refugees were once plague patients, and, having had cancer himself, Dimitry knew what it was like to wait for death. Suffering true hopelessness compelled people to prevent it in others.

A woman slowly lowered her hand.

“We’re not done yet,” Dimitry said. “Keep it raised.”

“My apologies, Jade Surgeon.”

“Repeat after me: I will show my coworkers the respect they deserve by never stealing from them or burdening them with my share of the work.”

The refugees repeated his words, then came three more pinches.

Dimitry stroked his chin. He expected to discover someone with deceitful intentions by now. Were his workers truly so honest, or did their united efforts to survive cold and famine give them the cohesion they needed to respect each other’s property? Would their mutual trust only last while they had no possessions?

A man’s foot tapped against the floor, his eyes focused on the coins in Dimitry’s hand.

“Very good. Repeat after me one last time.” Dimitry took a deep breath. This was the line that worried him the most. “I will not abandon my hospital duties on the night of repentance when my coworkers and patients need me the most. I will not let fear get the best of me.”

The refugees mumbled his words, sharing uncertain glances with their neighbors.

Two pinches against Dimitry’s abdomen. They didn’t lie, but spoke with mixed feelings. Five silvers and benefits weren’t enough to win their unfaltering service.

They required further convincing.

“Good job, everyone. You can put down your hands.” Dimitry strolled through a crowd of refugees, giving them the coins he promised. “There are a few more things I want to mention. Besides regular pay, you will also receive bonuses.”

Greedy eyes shot at him from every direction.

The response he hoped for.

“Those who show promise through diligence, understanding, and excellent care will have opportunities to undertake jobs with more responsibility and higher wages. Also, everyone will get an additional three silver marks to spend as they see fit a week after each night of repentance as thanks for their efforts.”

Rambunctious shouting filled the inner sanctum. What were hesitant faces and defensive postures became eager once more. It seemed that everyone would risk living in a city in constant conflict with heathens for the right price.

And Dimitry could afford their wages, too. Whatever he paid them, he would make back several times treating nobles. They would rush to receive treatment from the queen’s private doctor and the man who cured the plague.

Dimitry smiled. He aimed to seal the deal with his next line. “Like all of you, I too fear the heathens. Or more accurately, I did. Yesterday, I had the opportunity to treat Her Majesty herself and overheard something interesting. This city might have a secret weapon that can blast away any devil.”

“Does a weapon like that truly exist?”

“Have you met the princess?!”

Leaning against a wall with his arms crossed over his chest, Milk watched Dimitry with suspicious eyes. Little did the giant man know, he would be among the first in this world to use black powder explosives.

All Dimitry had to do now was make them. Even if his first relic wasn’t as bountiful as he hoped, he could still put its knowledge to good use.

Fur-trimmed cloak snuggling his body, Dimitry stepped out of frigid streets and into a church that was once a hospital. Its interior, filled with patients just this morning, was now nothing more than a hollow husk. The enchanted bedclothes and their purple-skinned residents were gone. Only Dimitry’s employees remained. One carried a crate filled with curtains over his shoulder as he marched towards the domed entrance.

Dimitry stepped aside to let him pass and turned his attention to the vacant granite floor in front of him.

Midday light passing through stained glass windows painted the room and the few chairs and tables resting inside a vivid orange color. Soon, the sparse furniture would be joined by beakers, graduated cylinders, scales, and any other lab equipment one could commission in a medieval city of craftsmen.

Dimitry already ordered glassware. Its measurements wouldn’t be accurate, and the quality of forest glass left much to be desired, but it was a start. He didn’t expect Remora’s first chemistry lab to match one found on Earth.

But it would be enough.

Enough to produce mass quantities of ethanol, soaps, willow bark extract, and, most importantly, black powder.

A single problem remained: would it be in time for the night of repentance?

Stood beside Dimitry was a man with a burn scar on his neck. Clewin’s eyes traveled across the empty floor and walls, studying his familiar yet brand new surroundings. Then, they fixed on three people sitting idle in a corner: two women and a man.

“Can you manage this on your own?” Dimitry asked.

Clewin scratched his short gray hair. “I know you told me I’ll be making medicines and perfumes, but do I really need this much space? The cellar had more than enough for me and Claricia to live and work in.”

“I’m worried it won’t be enough.”

“Really? Back in Volmer, I concocted all manner of potions in a shed.”

“Potions?” Dimitry stroked his chin. “You’ve mentioned them before. Do they do anything interesting?”

“Yeah. They help with things like fatigue, weight loss, and certain… marital problems.”

Although Clewin’s words were reminiscent of magic pill commercials on television, Dimitry couldn’t discount them altogether. If this world had spells, why wouldn’t it have functioning potions? “Interesting. Can you prepare a small variety for me?”

“Sure, but aren’t we going to be busy?”

“Not yet. It’ll be a few days before we have this laboratory set up.”

Clewin pulled back. “Laboratory? You mean like something a king has his alchemists work in?”

“Close.” Dimitry walked forward and ran his hand along a narrow granite table’s coarse surface. “It’s like alchemy, but instead of trying to convert lead to gold, what we’ll be doing will guarantee results.”

“I don’t get it.”

“It’s called chemistry.”

“Chemistry?”

“You’ll see what I mean with time.” Dimitry smiled. “For now, I want to introduce you to some people.” He pointed at the three refugees. “Since your workload will increase, you’ll need apprentices. I picked some people that showed promise. They can all read.”

Clewin looked at them, then froze like one would before giving a presentation. “H-hello.” He bowed. “I… look forward to working with you all.”

“Same here,” a man with a tattered tunic said.

Dirt clumping her hair, a woman bowed back. “Please, be patient with me.”

Clewin turned to face Dimitry, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I don’t mean to complain because you told me that I’ll be getting apprentices ahead of time, but I don’t know where to start.”

“If you’re worried about their appearance, it won’t be a problem by tonight. They’ll have access to clean clothes and hot baths.”

The gray-haired man’s eyes shot open. “H-hot baths?”

His shock didn’t come as a surprise. In this world, abundant warm water was a commodity found only in bathhouses and the homes of nobles. To hear that refugees received the same treatment would astound anyone.

“You will too.” Dimitry lowered himself into a chair. “I had sorceresses come by to enchant the cathedral’s bathtubs this morning. You and your wife are free to use them when you move into your new room. That is, if you don’t mind moving out of the cellar.”

“N-no. That wasn’t what I meant at all.” Clewin glanced at the refugees. “Truth is, I never mentored anyone before, and I’m not sure how to start.”

“All I’m asking is for you to try your best.”

“What should I do? What should I teach them?”

Dimitry pointed at a ceramic cup partially filled with alcohol. “For now, all they should know is how to properly handle glassware and turn ale into ethanol. None of them have experience with vials or distillation, and few know those things better than you.”

“That’s it?”

“No, that’s just the beginning. In the coming months, both you and they will learn chemistry. The first thing I’ll show you is how to produce and process a powder that can kill heathens.”

Clewin’s face twisted with uncharacteristic rage. “Something that can kill heathens?”

Watching a man with the persona of a pacifist display fury puzzled Dimitry. “Will that be a problem?”

“No.” The gray-haired man knelt onto both knees, eliciting sympathetic whispers from his onlooking apprentices. “I vow to do my best, Jade Surgeon.”

Heathens were responsible for most of Malten’s refugees. They raided villages, demolished walls, and killed anyone too slow to flee. To despise them was natural. However, Clewin’s sentiment surpassed Dimitry’s expectations. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but is there a specific reason for your sudden change of heart?”

“Those bastards, they…” He glanced up, eyes red and full of fire. “They took everything from me. My home, my life, and my baby. She wasn’t even a year old.” Clewin’s trembling fist slammed into the granite floor. “Although we try to hide it as best we can, Claricia and I often wonder if we’re better off dead. What good are parents who let their children die before them?!”

A middle-aged woman mirrored Clewin’s fury, doubtlessly another victim to relentless stone giants.

It reminded Dimitry of his time working in an emergency room, confronting grieving relatives after informing them that their loved ones died unfair and unfortunate deaths. Such was a trauma surgeon’s burden. However, in this world, he did not have to remain a mere surgeon.

Instead of hopelessly working to mend fatal injuries, he could prevent them before they happened.

Every honest doctor’s dream.

Dimitry kicked back his chair and stood up. “Soon, the way we fight heathens will change. I hope to introduce a weapon that even the most ordinary man could learn to wield in a manner of weeks. One with many times the lethality of a crossbow and the ability to effortlessly pierce stone armor.

“However, to produce such an armament requires careful preparation and secrecy. It could lead to anarchy when in the wrong hands.” Dimitry’s gaze shifted from Clewin to his apprentices. “Before I agree to teach you all how to produce black powder, you must promise to never speak of it outside these walls. Is that understood?”

“Yes!” several voices chanted in unison.

Three pinches from a faerie awoken by strong and mournful emotions struck Dimitry’s abdomen.

“Very good.” He glanced at the apprentices. “First, learn everything your mentor teaches you, then I will show you the rest.” Dimitry looked down at a kneeling Clewin. “I trust you can handle them and this laboratory on your own for now?”

“You can count on me.”

“I’ll leave it in your capable hands, then.” With an unintentional speech and vow for secrecy complete, Dimitry said his goodbyes and strode out of the church. He needed to source the ingredients for black powder and fast. While he didn’t know whether he could produce flintlocks in time, enchanted explosives were a definite possibility.

74. Sourcing Explosives

Light snowflakes fell from a gray morning sky, fluttering along whistling winds before landing on the stall awnings of a vivacious market square. Counters covered the venue’s engraved stone floor with a merchant standing behind each one. They shouted and clapped to advertise everything from overpriced wild game to iron nails.

However, the most eye-catching were those promoting a recently restocked commodity—fish. They bragged about their low prices and high-quality merchandise, how aquatic demons finally bowed to the queen’s ingenuity and superiority, allowing them to source produce from the best fishing spots beyond Malten’s rivers.

Eager citizens huddled in heavy cloaks stood on long lines. To pass the time, the impatient customers chatted amongst one another in excited but dubious tones. They savored the smell of ample, raw fish, yet couldn’t accept the end of a century-long war ordained by the Church. Rumbling stomachs in a famine-ravaged land forced them to wrestle with an unlikely truth.

Dimitry’s plan came to fruition, and the queen didn’t waste time.

Not even three days elapsed since he negotiated a truce with the myrmidon, and that was all she needed to put his blasphemous ideas into effect. Either Amelie placed her trust in him, or desperation over a crumbling city and its starving populace drove her to extreme measures.

However, Dimitry didn’t come here to gauge the opinions of the public. His boots crunched over a thin layer of snow all the way from Elias’s blacksmith shop—where he delivered schematics for a flintlock musket—towards a tall building across the market.

Malten’s Blue Compass branch.

Although its construction was of carved stone and supportive iron beams like most buildings in Malten, luxurious stained windows and a towering height distinguished it from its peers. The blatant display of wealth wasn’t solely decorative. It sought to intimidate business partners before they passed through the doors, coercing them into one-sided deals that no one would normally agree to.

Dimitry walked into its trap to see a pristine lounge.

Sat on chairs glowing faintly red with incendia enchantments were four people in fox and mink fur cloaks. They wore impatient expressions, squirming in their seats or tapping their thighs. On the wall above them hung expansive maps of oceans, inland rivers, and Remora at large.

“Hello,” a soothing voice called out. It belonged to a receptionist with a beautiful yet emotionally distant face. She stood behind a spotless counter. “Are you here to meet with someone?”

“Yes,” Dimitry said. “I need to speak to Sophie.”

“So does everyone else. She’s busy right now.” The young woman pointed to a vacant chair beside those of the other hopefuls. “I’ll tell you when she’s ready.”

Dimitry glanced back at four people who looked like they’ve been here for hours. Unlike them, he couldn’t afford to sit around. He came here for black powder reagents that would prevent the city’s collapse, and every moment wasted here was one less he could use to process and test them before the night of repentance. “I’m sorry, but would it be possible to see her now? It’s important.”

“Every customer is important, but Sophie has a schedule to keep. You’ll have to wait like everyone else.”

“Is that so?” He pulled back his hood to reveal his identity. “Ask Sophie if she would like to keep her supplier of plague curing enchantments waiting.”

“Jade Surg—” She jumped up. “Allow me a moment of patience!” The receptionist rushed out from behind her counter and up a staircase. It wasn’t long before she stumbled back down with heavy breaths. “Jade Surgeon, you’re just in time for your appointment!”

His appointment? Was that a lie intended to pacify the other customers? Their enraged faces weren’t convinced. Walking by them, Dimitry followed the young woman until he reached an office smelling of sweet citrus.

The receptionist bowed and shut the door behind him.

A long, azure painted fingernail tapped on a desk struggling to uphold two mountains of paperwork. Between them was an aging woman’s face. Wrinkles in the corners of her smile, Sophie’s eyes focused on the only other person in the room. “Jade Surgeon, what a pleasant surprise.” Her brightly colored nail pointed at the cushioned chair across from her. “Care for a seat?”

Dimitry took a deep breath and released it slowly. He came to a serpent’s den to ask its cunning resident for a favor, so playing the part of a gracious guest was in order. “I appreciate the offer.”

“How has business been?”

“Pretty good.” He sat down. “But judging by the wealthy patrons waiting for you downstairs, not as good as yours.”

“Does it surprise you?”

“On the contrary, I wouldn’t expect anything less from you. I’m sure you’re enjoying yourself more than anyone else right now.”

“My, my.” Sophie’s smile widened, deepening her wrinkles. “Despite your youth, it only makes sense for you to be versed in the ways of the world. Merchant and doctor, we both stand to profit from war. But I’m sure you didn’t come here just to chat. What can I do for you?”

Dimitry folded his hands onto her desk. “The first matter I wish to discuss is the grain and dried meat I’ve asked you to purchase for me. Did you store them in granaries and warehouses as promised?”

“I am many things, Jade Surgeon, but I’m no liar. Only fools trade trust for short-term gain. They await you in storage.”

“I want to send someone to collect a portion daily.”

“One of the two dozen people working in your new hospital? Or the four remaining in the church?”

Dimitry’s eyebrows furrowed. He opened the cathedral for business last night, and his chemistry lab underwent renovations. How did she already know how many employees he assigned to each? “I see you’re well informed.”

“Out of every commodity, information is always the most valuable.” She reached for a quill and dipped its sharpened edge into an inkwell. “Who do you intend to send for collection?”

“A giant man named Milk. You’ll know him when you see him.”

Sophie scribbled the name and a brief description in foreign but easily discernible characters. “Anything else?”

Dimitry came here to buy black powder reagents, one of which was potassium nitrate. The queen didn’t know if a sizable source existed in Malten, and producing the chemical manually required many months. Even with the help of accelall, the reagent was unlikely to precipitate before heathens attacked the city. Sophie was his best hope of acquiring some in time.

However, learning of her informant network gave him second thoughts. Would she eventually learn of potassium nitrate’s importance? Even if she did, it was useless without understanding how to create and use black powder—a process that would take years to fully unearth with only scraps of information.

“I need saltpeter.”

“Interesting.” She leaned in. “Why would a surgeon need food preservatives?”

“It’s not just a food preservative. It has medicinal uses, too.”

“What kind of uses?”

Dimitry preferred not to lie, but giving her a false lead would delay her from discovering his true intentions. “Saltpeter keeps wounds fresh. They’re harder to treat if they get old and dry.”

“Interesting.” Sophie leaned back. “I only have one cartfull in Malten.”

Cartfull? He heard the term used as a unit of measurement during the queen’s summit. “Approximately how much would a cartfull weigh?”

She tapped her azure fingernail against the desk. “This heavy.” Her wide smile resurfaced, reaching her cheekbones. “I’m sure it’ll last your patients a long time, but I’m afraid I can’t give it away.”

Precious pinched Dimitry’s abdomen thrice: the merchant didn’t lie.

“Why’s that?”

Sophie stood up and pulled a curtain aside to reveal a window overlooking a busy market square. “Do you see them down there, lining up for whatever little food this country can provide? When aquatic demons return, and imports from Ontaria and Feyt diminish once more, what do you think nobles will want most?” She glanced back at him. “Food preservatives. Salt and saltpeter.”

Judging by her words, potassium nitrate was a rare commodity in this world. If people knew how to produce it, Sophie wouldn’t speak of it with as much affection as she did. The knowledge allayed Dimitry’s fears of black powder technology leaking to undesirables like the Church.

However, its value harmed Dimitry as much as it helped him. He needed saltpeter now. There was only one thing he could offer that would convince Sophie to hand it over.

Modified preservia blankets.

Time, vol supply, and enchantresses limited how many he could produce, but with the plague’s grasp on Malten waning, selling the remnants wasn’t an issue. The opposite was true. By giving them to Sophie in exchange for potassium nitrate, he could prevent unnecessary deaths from infection in foreign cities and reduce the number of heathens attracted to their enchantments.

“I see what you mean,” Dimitry said, “but I think I have an enticing offer.”

She shut the curtain and sat down. “I’m listening.”

“Over the past few days, I’ve enchanted sixty plague curing blankets for you, right?”

“That’s correct, Jade Surgeon.”

“If I’m not mistaken, they’re earning you endless sums of money in some foreign country as we speak.”

Excitement burned into her eyes and disappeared just as fast. “No. You’re not mistaken.”

“What if I said I can give you fifty more?”

“When?”

“By the end of this week,” Dimitry said.

“You mean the ones that have been lying around for days? What of their enchantments?”

“I guarantee they’ll work fine, even if they take a little longer to take effect.”

Sophie’s tapping hastened. “Are you sure?”

“Just as it is true for merchants, lying is a fool’s errand for us as well. Dead patients don’t return for medicine or checkups.”

She twisted one long and slender leg over her other, studying Dimitry as if searching for chinks in his armor. Her eyes glazed over as if in deep thought. Then she pulled back, turned in her seat, and flipped through a stack of papers. After writing something down, she set her notes aside. A wide smile returned to her face. “Where would you like it delivered?”

Relief flooded Dimitry’s body. If her indecision was an act, it was a good one. “Have someone bring it to the church where we first met. Someone there will be ready to accept it.”

“Very well. Anything else I can do for you, Jade Surgeon?”

“There is. Do you have any sulfur?”

“Sulfur?”

Dimitry stroked his chin. “It’s a yellow rock or powder that smells like rotting eggs.”

“Ah.” Sophie crossed her arms over her chest. “Although the Church no longer officially exists in Malten, we make it a rule not to carry holy sands.”

“Can you explain?”

“I’m sure you have the best intentions, Jade Surgeon, but some things are best left unsaid.” She rose. “Just remember one thing: even if you think they aren’t watching, they are. Be careful of what you say to who.” She strode towards the door to open it. “You know where to find me if you ever need something less… dangerous.”

In a parlor on the castle’s third floor, a luxurious chandelier hung over a round table that played host to a single person—Dimitry. Aside from the clacking of his ceramic cup and saucer, he sat in silence.

Stood against the wall was a yellow-robed woman. The court sorceress’ eyes followed his every movement from the shadow cast by her hood. However, unlike the day he arrived in this city, her gaze didn’t bear hostility or suspicion. Only caution. She watched him while he awaited Leylani’s and the queen’s arrival.

Although Dimitry preferred not to contact Her Royal Majesty of his own initiative, he had to after his transaction with Sophie. The merchant’s words unnerved him, sent shivers down his spine like a realistic nightmare made manifest by a wretched twist of fate. But what concerned him wasn’t a lack of ‘holy sands’ necessary for black powder production.

The Church did.

If what Sophie said was true, Zeran informants observed Malten as the city made pacts with demons, saw the return of their enslaved princess, and housed the ‘disappearing man’ who assaulted a bishop to free Saphiria. All forms of sacrilege and potential excuses for their reappearance. Last time the Church interfered in politics, it demolished a mighty empire. Would a small, impoverished kingdom be next, or would the capture of a defenseless surgeon for questioning and God-ordained punishment suffice?

Dimitry didn’t intend to find out.

The first step was to identify who was leaking information. Was it the common man wandering the streets, wealthy merchants and craftsmen, or did the Church corrupt the very upper echelons of society? Perhaps the queen herself? Unlikely. Although she sold out her country to the Church before, the chance she would do so again after losing her family to them and agreeing to deal with demons was low.

Consulting with her was safe.

And, to save time and fix his sulfur shortage, he requested Leylani’s simultaneous presence. When she guided him around Waira, they passed acid lakes surrounded by sulfurous rocks. Unfortunately, the relic told him of sulfur’s use in black powder after he left. That meant he would have to do something disrespectful: beg an ambassador to return home to gather a resource immediately after arriving in another country. But there was no choice. Neither the queen nor Sophie could supply the chemical. He needed to convince Leylani of its importance.

At the sound of a door’s twisting handle, Dimitry stood.

Amelie marched into the room, followed by a stewardess with light-blue hair, a heavily cloaked myrmidon, and a court sorceress.

Dimitry knelt. “Your Majesty.”

“Skip the pleasantries.” The queen fell into a chair. “I have little time.”

After everyone sat around the table, Dimitry did, too. “Do you remember the weapons I said could kill heathens more efficiently than any crossbow?”

Her piercing red eyes urged him to hurry. “Rifles that don’t use vol.”

“That’s correct. I gave Elias the plans for their production earlier, but a problem remains.”

“What problem?”

“Although I obtained willow charcoal with your help and saltpeter with that of a merchant, I still need holy sands to produce black powder.”

Her eyes furrowed. “Holy sands? I recall you asking for ‘sulfur’ when we discussed the matter previously.”

“They’re the same thing. It’s a dialectical difference from the village I come from.”

“Is your intention to baptize heathens?”

Dimitry struggled to digest her words. “No. There are much better uses for it than that.”

“I’ll trust you’re right.” Amelie leaned in, resting her chin on her hand as if in contemplation. “What is my part in all of this?”

“I know our first merchant vessel to Waira leaves at the end of the week, but I need it to depart as soon as possible. Myrmidon lands are the only place I know where we can gather sulfur in time. Black powder requires extensive preparation before use in combat.”

“Are you sure you saw holy sands on an island populated by demons?”

“There’s no doubt.”

“I see.” The queen glanced at her stewardess. “How soon can we get a ship out?”

Klaire dropped her leather-bound book onto the table, then flipped to a page near the end. “This one believes that if we postpone tomorrow’s fishing trawler, we can free a captain to set sail on the same day.”

“Do as he asked.”

“Yes, your majesty.” Klaire retrieved the metal pen-like object off of her ear and began to scribble.

Amelie slumped back in her chair. “That is our side handled.”

All that remained was for Dimitry to convince Leylani to temporarily abandon her post as ambassador, and the best incentives he had were guns and explosives. By arming her people with superior weaponry in exchange for sulfur, he would lessen the number of heathens reaching Malten and establish a codependent trade route vital to both nations. There was no danger of lash back either. If negotiations broke down in the future, myrmidon didn’t have the infrastructure or resources to produce and transport ammunition offshore. They couldn’t use guns against humanity.

A flawless plan.

He glanced at the myrmidon sitting in silence. “Would your people be interested in weapons that can easily kill rock giants from far away?”

“If you speak of your voltech rifles, we have no use for them,” Leylani said. “The ascendants requested only moonstones.”

“I refer to weapons that don’t require moonstones. Although they can only be used on land, even warriors without the ability to cast spells can wield them. Yours included.”

She fiddled with the blue spike lodged in her pale pink earlobe. “Do such things exist?”

“They do, but I need your people’s help to make them.”

“How so?”

“Do you remember the acid lakes you showed us?”

“You speak of the rancid pools? Although beautiful, their waters burn skin. Do you imply they would do the same for rock giants?”

“Close.” He held out his hands as if holding a small boulder. “What I need are those big yellow rocks around it. If your people can collect some for me, I will show you a weapon stronger than any spear on the next full moon. Naturally, myrmidon would be among the first to have it. There’s a ship filled with goods leaving for Waira tomorrow, and I hope you can board it to deliver my request.”

Her round eyes, like topaz-colored pearls swerving across a black canvas, studied his face. “Your intent isn’t to banish me from your home?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Why do you not go yourself?”

“Because I’m needed here to produce those very same weapons. As no other human can relay my message, that only leaves you.” Dimitry cupped her soft and cold hand. “I promise you’ll return within two days of departure.”

She didn’t respond immediately. “Very well. I’ll forward your request to the Hierarch.”

Dimitry gave Leylani a smile. “Your kindness will not go unnoticed.” He shifted his gaze towards Amelie. “The ambassador agreed to my request.”

The queen stood up. “Is that everything?”

“No. There’s another matter of far more import.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “The Church.”

Klaire’s eyes opened wide.

Amelie motioned a court sorceress to stand against the door, then sat back down. “Explain.”

“First, allow me to ask everyone in this room a question. I promise to explain afterward.”

“Speak fast, Jade Surgeon.”

Dimitry tapped his cloak’s inner pocket to warn the faerie within to watch for lies. “Who here works for the Church as a spy, informant, or something else of a similar nature?”

Two yellow-robed women shot confused glances at one another. “We are eternally loyal to her highness.”

Klaire blinked as if unsure of how to respond. “T-this one doesn’t.”

“I look forward to your explanation,” Amelie said.

Precious pinched Dimitry’s abdomen three times.

No one lied.

He looked around the room. “I have mentioned my strange magic before. It allows me to speak to demons and make any target invisible. However, I have another spell—one that grants me the ability to detect lies. I am pleased to say that everyone here spoke the truth.”

The queen jumped forward, her bundled white-streaked black hair coming loose. “Do you jest?!”

“It is a skill Saphiria and I relied on to escape Ravenfall. You can ask her for confirmation.”

“I-is that so?” She took a deep breath, patted the sides of her red and gold mantle, then sat back in her chair. “Why do you share this news with us so suddenly?”

“Because I fear the Church is watching us, and I have a plan to blind them.”

75. Spies Hunting Spies

Overlooking an enlarged basketball court-shaped hall from a balcony, a minstrel strummed a guitar-like instrument. His ceaseless song, full of forced levity, competed with the clamor of ceramics and lively conversation emanating from an array of segregated tables below. The most decorated one played host to royalty and high-ranking nobles, including Malten’s queen and her indigo-eyed daughter.

Less influential guests and castle residents sat at increasingly longer tables, their plates emptier than their lords’. They didn’t seem to mind. Even if the most powerful had the largest selection of fish and meats available to them, no one here went hungry or thirsty. Wealth disparity and citywide famine didn’t spoil this party.

However, unlike the rampant wine consumption and full-bellied laughter suggested, the purpose of tonight’s banquet wasn’t to bring jollity to the ruling class. A truth apparent to anyone who knew about the castle’s locked front gate. About the heavily monitored hallways. About the spies rummaging through guest rooms, searching unattended belongings for anything that indicated Church informants taking residence inside.

Dimitry was no different. Stood against a wall, he observed attendees through the grill-like holes in his helmet’s visor. The intention was to allow him to detect liars while keeping his own identity a secret. Only the queen’s most trusted subordinates could differentiate him from the other fully armored personnel lining the hall.

A necessary precaution.

As a person who arrived in the city less than two weeks ago but was overly familiar with the princess and wielded more influence than any court surgeon should, Dimitry was the target of many people’s suspicion. And rightfully so. They didn’t even know about the corrupted creature hiding under his helmet.

Her wings reverberating like tiny wind chimes, Precious tugged on Dimitry’s earlobe. “Come on!”

“Can you stop screeching into my ear?”

“Can you get me some grapes?”

“No.”

“Then I won’t stop screeching into your ear.”

Dimitry sighed. Although the Church wasn’t a group he admired, he couldn’t help but agree with their stance on faeries. “For the last time, after this is over, I’ll get you all the fruit your little heart desires.”

“But they’re right there!” Her tiny and golden fingernail pointed through a gap in his visor. “Look!”

“If I get too close to Amelie’s table and someone hears you, you’ll be put to death, and I’ll be locked away in a dungeon. Not to mention how suspicious it’ll be for a knight to grab food from his master’s plate. Is a grape worth dying for?”

“You worry too much, Dumitry. You’re basically best buds with the queen. It’ll be fine.”

“I know you’re excited about your first royal banquet, but we’re not here as guests.”

Precious leaned back against his cheek. “Like I care about some stupid dinner party.” Her voice befitting a spoiled child, she scanned a room full of vibrant chatter with longing, golden irises.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“Do you want to join them?”

“Me? No way.” She tugged on his nose. “I just want grapes.”

“Are you sure?”

“I can smell your pity, you oaf. Save it for your patients.”

Dimitry grinned. For someone who was supposedly three hundred years old, the faerie didn’t hide her feelings very well. “Want to make a deal?”

“What are you on about now?”

“If you help me capture every Church informant here, I promise you’ll be able to travel the castle freely one day. That includes permission to attend banquets.”

Precious didn’t respond immediately. “You’re not lying, which means you’re just a hopeful idiot.”

“Am I? I convinced the queen to acknowledge Leylani, so what makes you so much different? Aside from your big mouth and lack of grace.”

“Fish lady walks around in a long robe all day. Most people here don’t even know she exists. If they did, they’d kill her faster than she could gurgle in protest.”

“For now.” Dimitry looked at the incredulous faerie grasping a strand of his dirty blonde hair in a tiny hand. “It’ll take time, but people will come around. Especially once they learn that ‘corrupted creatures’ aren’t as evil as the Church makes them out to be.”

She glanced through his visor once more, dragging her eyes past celebrating, wine-intoxicated nobles. “Really?”

“With your help, it’s more than a possibility. What do you say?”

“Fine.”

“And you’ll do it without complaining?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

Perhaps Dimitry expected too much from her. His attention returned to the festivities only to discover a wrinkled finger beckoning him closer.

It belonged to an aging queen sat beside a dozen other influential men and women wearing bright colors and delicate furs. In front of them, a gilded granite table overflowed with plates carrying everything from honey glazed pork belly to grilled fish. A feast fit for nobles. For royalty.

Every step eliciting iron clattering from his surprisingly light armor, Dimitry strode forward. He nodded at Saphiria—the princess that helped him dress and hide a faerie under his helmet—and knelt beside Amelie Pesce’s chair. “How may I be of service, Your Majesty?”

She dabbed her mouth with a white handkerchief and lowered it, revealing alcohol-reddened cheeks and a deceiving smile. “This is the knight I spoke of.”

Although the party-goers were eager to display courtesy with elaborate mannerisms when the banquet began, nobles now watched Dimitry with amused faces as if waiting for him to perform a trick.

All part of the plan.

Relaxed nobles were easier to question for ties to the Church.

“A single knight quelled the aquatic demons?” A man with furrowed brows asked. “May I ask how?”

“Richter was there,” the queen said.

The portly marquis dropped his spoon into a porcelain bowl and grumbled. “He cut through a dozen of them while cantering past javelins and spears. When the beasts lost their will to fight, Olbrecht here spared their leader.”

“Wow!” a girl exclaimed. Although the same age as the raven-haired princess sitting across from her, she didn’t have the same reticent charm. “Dad, did anyone in the Einritter ever do that before?”

“They will when you rebuild them and our home.”

A woman wearing a long and flowery dress rested her chin on her hand. “I’ve heard the rumors, but to think they were true…”

“You need not doubt them.” Amelie patted the tail of a giant, grilled fish. “For the first time in nearly a decade, sturgeon graces our halls once more.”

“I thought you imported it from Ontaria.”

“Demons truly avoid your ships?”

“A toast to the queen who conquered the ocean!”

More than a dozen wine glasses full of scarlet liquid clinked.

Precious’s golden hair tickled Dimitry’s ear when she leaned in to whisper. “That’s not how I remember it happening, Knight Olbrecht.”

Out of respect for the myrmidon, Dimitry wanted to jump to his feet and correct Richter’s fabricated story.

He resisted the urge.

The marquis’s lie was born from necessity. Claiming that humanity’s superiority resulted in the aquatic demons’ passiveness stroked the listener’s ego and was more plausible than the truth. Few would believe that a shaky truce emerged from negotiations with a species whose speech comprised unintelligible gurgles. Only once people accepted corrupted creatures as benevolent could Dimitry introduce them as allies. Until then, he would bear the guilt of undermining a respectful race.

Having drunk his fill of booze, a man previously composed edged forward. “If I return to Volmer to relay the news, would my men be able to fish in those same waters?”

“No,” Amelie said. “The demons see none but us as their conquerors. However, there may be another way to win their respect.”

“Another way?”

“I would say more, but I don’t wish to insult my honorable guests with sacrilegious speech.”

All visible signs of intoxication gone in an instant, a man in a bright green mantle eyed his neighbors with calculating gazes. The woman across from him and several others sat around the table did the same. They whispered. Before long, every high-ranking noble and member of foreign royalty nodded in agreement.

“Amelie, although I respect the teachings, Ontaria and Feyt send too few supplies to keep Volmer fed. If you truly have a method to pacify aquatic demons, I wish to learn them.”

“We, too, are in agreement.”

“My sorceresses saw Her Royal Majesty’s ships return to port unharmed. I believed it was due to a vastly superior army, but Her Majesty has gone far beyond our expectations.”

“Does everyone wish to know?” Amelie asked.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I do.”

“Very well.” The queen gave Dimitry a knowing glance before continuing. “I share this knowledge for the benefit of us all, but before I do, I require a verbal commitment from everyone.”

The trap was set.

Dimitry dragged his eyes away from the holes in his visor, then glanced at his faerie companion. “Ready?” he whispered.

“Yep,” Precious said. “Watch for anyone lying, right?”

“Right.” He stood up.

A man leaned forward, his tunic’s puffy collar nearly dipping into the sauce slathered onto his plate. “What kind of commitment?”

“The words I will speak are heretical.” Amelie grimaced. “Anyone who wishes to hear them must promise they won’t report my sacrilege to the Church. That they’re not a spy. I’ve become paranoid in my old age, you see.”

As if discovering an abusable loophole, the woman wearing a flowery dress smirked. “You have my word.”

“And mine.”

“I sense someone scheming something on the other side of the table,” Precious whispered.

Were they a Church informant? Careful to avoid the attention of entranced nobles, Dimitry followed her guidance.

“I am no spy, Your Majesty.”

“Me neither.”

After a volley of agreeing words, the last noble spoke. “Nor am I.”

“That one!” Precious jumped into Dimitry’s visor, her green wings tickling his nose. “The one in a gaudy brown dress!”

Dimitry subtly pointed to the man beside him and held up a finger to indicate the discovery of one suspect.

A court sorceress watching from across the room nodded in response before glancing at Richter.

The portly marquis tapped the queen’s lower arm and glanced back at Dimitry. “Olbrecht, you’re no longer needed here. Return to your duties.”

“Yes, Your Lordship.” Iron armor rattling all the way, Dimitry headed to the next table.

They found one Church spy.

Were there others?

After countless hours spent ‘interviewing’ Amelie’s guests and staff, morning must have already come. It was impossible to know for sure. There were no windows. Only enchanted stones lit the castle’s dungeon, their dim lights revealing long and narrow walkways with iron-barred cells on both sides. While most were empty, the ones that weren’t imprisoned everyone from thieves to counterfeiters.

Dimitry didn’t dare look at their hopeless faces, mired in dirt and remnants of pottage. Their rooms, smelling of blood and vomit. Their digits, inflamed and black with frostbite. Dysentery, malnutrition, and impending death.

Sights he could do without.

Prisons were a necessary vice in every culture, but those in a medieval society under siege by famine, winter, and stone giants were the worst of all. How many prisoners wilted away here for crimes they committed to survive?

Was the queen to blame for their suffering?

Probably not.

A cold-hearted ruler would kill lawbreakers to avoid the expense and effort of feeding them. Amelie kept hers alive despite dwindling resources.

Regardless, discomfort welled within Dimitry. It was one thing to watch people struggle for survival on an operating table—they had a fighting chance. The inmates here wouldn’t live to see spring. And now, thanks to Dimitry’s efforts, three additional prisoners lived in this dungeon: a Malten baroness, a traveling minstrel, and a former earl of Einheart. Although they were Church informants, none of them deserved to die here. No one did.

The sound of clanking metal echoed across poorly hewn walls. It came from a portly man in glowing steel armor. “Hey, you,” Marquis Richter groaned. “Where did you learn your truth magic?”

Dimitry met his gaze. “I learned it from a book, Your Lordship.”

“Where is it?”

“At home.”

“Go get it.”

“Unfortunately, the home I speak of is in another country far away from here.”

Richter frowned. “Can’t you teach my men without it?”

Dimitry did his best to ignore a prisoner’s faltering whimpers. “Your Lordship, may I ask why you’ve taken a sudden interest in my magic?”

“Because it works.” The man too overweight to be wearing a knight’s garbs paced back and forth. “Both the troubadour and Emery admitted to spying for the Church, and we’ve found evidence in their belongings.”

An excruciating scream echoed from the dungeon depths.

“And, from the sound of things, we’ll probably get a third confession soon.” Richter stopped. “Well? Can you teach them or not?”

Dragging his eyes away from an inmate whose thin rags couldn’t conceal his protruding ribcage, Dimitry leaned back against a wall. The ‘magic’ the marquis referred to was Precious’s ability to sense emotion. Although Richter and most of the queen’s close associates had contact with Leylani, it was still too early for Dimitry to reveal the corrupted creature hiding under his cloak.

But he would eventually.

Introducing Precious to the nobles would not only grant her the freedom she needed to roam the castle on her own, but it was a step in Dimitry’s plan. One that brewed in his mind ever since he visited Malten’s countryside.

Taming wild faeries.

Mobile and intelligent, they made for perfect messengers. Or was it just a foolish thought? If it were an easy task, someone would have trained them long ago despite the Church’s teachings. But it was worth a try. Especially since their lie detection ability proved desirable to the marquis—a bargaining chip Dimitry intended to trade for Richter’s assistance in his plant crossbreeding project.

Judging by the conversation Dimitry overheard when the portly man visited his hospital, Richter knew more about farming than anyone else in Malten. His help was invaluable for improving harvests.

An urgent issue.

If the famine continued, most of this city’s residents would die. The bony criminals in these dungeon cells didn’t deserve to starve for their transgressions, considering that stealing to assuage hunger was the reason most of them wound up here.

Dimitry looked up from his leather boots. “Your Lordship, as much as I would like to help you, there’s something else consuming most of my time right now.”

“Your cathedral?”

“It’s related. Did you know that poor nutrition retards wound healing?”

“What’s your point?”

“Most of my patients don’t get enough to eat.”

“You mean those putrid refugees? Why should I care?”

“Because I might have a solution.” Dimitry took a deep breath. “I think I can make fields grow bigger and heartier plants.”

The marquis’s eyes opened wide. Then, as if finally understanding the punchline to an unintentional joke, he bellowed a patronizing laugh. “A surgeon tending to crops? Stick to what you’re good at.”

“Like Your Lordship implies, I know little about agriculture.”

“Little? You know nothing.”

“I don’t disagree.” Hiding his contempt, Dimitry maintained a calm expression. “But while I don’t have knowledge, I have something no one else in this world does.”

“What’s that?”

“A spell that may increase yields.”

“Hrm.” Richter rolled his neck. “More powerful magic?”

“Yes, Your Lordship. However, magic alone isn’t enough to solve my problem. That is why I humbly request your expertise.”

“With what?”

“I want to improve the quality of seeds used in fields across Malten.”

“Impossible! My ancestors have been growing the same crops for generations. What can you possibly do?”

“Perhaps nothing, but I am the type to dedicate myself to foolish efforts.”

Another tortured scream rolled through the dungeon.

A devious smirk spread across Richter’s face. “How about this? I’ll give you the help you need. Then, when you realize you’ve been wasting my time, you will teach my men your truth magic.”

“You have my word.”

“Good. What did you want from me?”

“I need seeds for spring and summer crops that grow well in Malten’s soil.”

“Wheat and samul?”

Samul? Dimitry heard of it before. It was a type of bean. “Yes, Your Lordship. I hope for as many varieties of both as possible. Big breeds, different colors, those that survive cold weather, grow faster than others, survive drough—”

The marquis frowned. “That’s it?”

“Just one more thing. Can you place a farmer under my care with experience growing both plants? I don’t mind paying them.”

“Dimitry,” a monotonous voice echoed from where screams did moments ago. “Come here.”

“I’ll handle their wage.” Richter waved Dimitry away. “Just remember your promise to me when you fail. Now go see what that useless spymaster wants.”

“Yes, Your Lordship.” Pleased to end his negotiations with a dismissive noble, Dimitry strode past downtrodden prisoners.

His destination was a cell isolated from the rest of the dungeon in both proximity and design. A chandelier hung over a floor more spacious than any cottage’s. Inside was a nightstand, a dresser, and a four-poster bed upholding a shivering Einheart earl with chained hands and legs.

Looking down at him was a short man missing a finger. Lukas shoved his pinky-less hand into his pocket when Dimitry entered the cell. “I need to know if Sire Fritz is telling the truth.”

Dimitry approached the huddled earl. Despite screaming for hours, a quick examination of his body showed no injuries. His traumatized eyes and slinking posture, however, indicated otherwise. “Was torture necessary?”

“He didn’t want to speak. Every moment counts when dealing with the Church.”

“What if the other nobles found out we kidnapped him?”

“We made sure they won’t.” Lukas glanced back, his face cold and emotionless. “Assuming you don’t tell them.”

A chill shot down Dimitry’s spine. “Let’s get this over with.”

Lukas sat next to his victim. “Sire Fritz, when was the last time you reported to the pontiff?”

“I-I don’t get to speak to her.”

“Then who?”

“I c-can’t—If he finds out, he’ll kill my daughter.”

“He?”

The earl remained silent.

Lukas retrieved a vol pellet and grabbed the captive’s forehead with his pinky-less hand. “Are you sure you don’t want to—”

“Wait!” Sire Fritz was hyperventilating. “H-his name is Asmoden.”

“The cardinal?”

“Please don’t tell anyone. I beg you. They’ll really murder Enneleyn… please.”

After three pinches against his abdomen from a faerie trembling with subdued laughter, Dimitry stepped forward. “Sire Fritz is telling the truth.” Full of pity, he looked down at the earl. “Do you know where they’re keeping your daughter?”

“Purin Stronghold.” Tearful fury welled within the earl’s eyes. “I saw her there before the night of repentance. Those bastards dressed her in a gray robe as if she were some kind of ceremonial priestess.”

“What kind of information did Cardinal Asmoden want in return for her safety?” Lukas asked.

“He demanded to know if I saw anything strange.”

“Did you do what he asked?”

“I-I only sent a messenger with news of the princess’s arrival so far. I was to send another at the end of the week—”

“So nothing regarding corrupted creatures?” Dimitry asked.

“No… but it’s only a matter of time before the Church finds out.”

Lukas rubbed his hands. “Are you saying there are other informants?”

“There’s no doubt.”

“I thought I caught all the ones in the castle,” Dimitry said. “Or did I miss someone?”

“That’s not it.” The earl watched his shaking palms with glazed over eyes. “I don’t know who they are, where they live, or what they do, but I know they exist.”

Getting rid of the Church proved more annoying than Dimitry hoped. He turned to exit the cell but stopped midway. “Lukas.”

“Yes?”

“Is it possible to keep sending messengers to Purin Stronghold as if they came from the earl himself?”

“Why?” The prisoner asked with wide-open eyes.

“To feed the cardinal conflicting information.” Lukas paused. “If done poorly, we’ll only make our intervention obvious.”

“But we caught every informant here,” Dimitry said. “If we delivered falsified intelligence on behalf of all of them, the Church will have no choice but to accept our lies as true.”

“Asmoden isn’t someone who would trust three spies to keep tabs on an entire country.”

Dimitry massaged his temples. Hopefully, this Asmoden wouldn’t become a problem. “Are you saying he has other informants?”

“It’s safe to assume that countless people loyal to him wander Malten’s streets, and I don’t have the manpower to find them all. Your idea would only work in the short-term.”

“We should try anyway. Falsifying contact with the Church will avoid suspicion and guarantee Sire Fritz’s daughter’s safety long enough to figure out what to do next.”

“M-my daughter?” the earl uttered. “If it’ll keep her alive, I’ll help in any way I can.”

Lukas’s emotionless eyes traveled from Dimitry to Sire Fritz. After muttering something to himself, he nodded. “Very well. I’ll be needing both of you again.”

76. Explosives Inept Doctor

Dimitry kept this morning’s shipment a secret. Given the nature of its contents, he had no choice.

The Church was a continental force capable of crushing empires and likely had spies lurking among the populace. If they discovered the sacrosanct yellow rocks, the ones that were heretical for him to own, Dimitry would attract unwanted attention. Especially once religious authorities learned that demons harvested them.

The thought of six crates of sulfur leading to a kingdom’s downfall was strange. And yet, Sophie’s fearful response and the queen’s warning left Dimitry unwilling to tempt fate. Limiting who knew about the controversial chemical was imperative to Malten’s survival. His survival.

Among the privileged few in the know were the staff of this world’s first chemistry lab. Midday light pouring through orange stained glass windows illuminated their forward-leaning postures as they fiddled with medievalesque equivalents to cutting edge equipment: uneven green beakers, pestles, mortars, and forceps.

A gray-haired man lifted a yellow stone smelling faintly of rotten eggs and dropped it into a balance scale’s pan. The seesaw shaped weighing device tilted too far to the left. Clewin added too much sulfur. “How exact do I have to be?”

“As exact as possible.” Dimitry dragged a ceramic pestle across a matching mortar’s walls, powdering any charcoal caught between the two. “Remember, seventy-five percent potassium nitrate, fifteen percent charcoal, and ten percent sulfur.”

One of Clewin’s three apprentices looked up, her expression puzzled and in awe at basic math.

Her mentor wasn’t as impressed. Clewin’s eyes furrowed. “And this is supposed to kill heathens?”

“If we do it right, it is.”

“I don’t mean to doubt your methods, but I never heard of holy sands killing anything before.”

“That’s because sulfur isn’t just holy sand.” Dimitry tapped the side of the mortar to loosen charcoal stuck to the walls. “It's a chemical with far more exciting uses than baptizing newborns or whatever the Church does with it.”

Clewin cut chunks from the sulfurous rock until the balance scale’s beam aligned with the table’s edge. “What kind of uses?”

“Rifles, cannons, and bombs.”

“Bombs? How do you mean?”

Were people in this world unaware of explosive weapons? Dimitry lowered his pestle. “As soon as we combine all three powders, you’ll see what I’m talking about. Is everyone ready?”

“Is the potasem saltpeter good enough?” An apprentice slid a bowl full of white dust across the table. “I don’t think I can crush it any more.”

Dimitry dipped a finger into the bowl to discover a soft sensation mimicking fine chalk. Although a few potassium nitrate crystal fragments remained, he couldn’t expect perfect results without equipment capable of milling on a microscopic level. “Looks good. How about the sulfur?”

“I have it, Jade Surgeon.” A woman wearing a brown apron cradled a small plate as she scuttered through the former church. “I hope it meets your expectations.”

So did he.

“Thank you.” Dimitry placed all three chemicals into a neat row. At last, he had every ingredient necessary to make black powder. However, now that he did, Dimitry didn’t know how to proceed.

His time in university chemistry labs told him that most exothermic reactions required activation energy before they could start, but what did that entail? Would the mixture explode if combined without appropriate procedures or equipment? If shaken? Only when placed near an open flame?

The closest Dimitry got to handling black powder was when he dabbled with fireworks on New Year’s eve. Since they were illegal in his city, he launched only small rockets. How he wished to have experimented more back then. A lack of understanding meant that caution was the best way forward. There was no point in risking his own or his employees’ safety. “Everyone step back. This could be dangerous.”

Caution in his eye, Clewin nodded. “B-be careful.” He stepped back until he bumped into the room’s far side wall.

The apprentices did the same.

Holding his breath, Dimitry poured crushed sulfur and potassium nitrate into the ceramic pestle containing the charcoal he ground earlier.

While some powder drifted into the air, it didn’t explode.

So far, so good.

Dimitry swirled the mixture until it became uniform.

Still no explosion.

Although having intact fingers relieved him, Dimitry’s brows furrowed. The powder’s appearance was strange. He brought it closer to his face.

Clewin approached with hesitant steps. “You all right?” Not receiving a response, he glanced inside the pestle. “Is it supposed to look like that?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You called it black powder, right?”

“Yeah.”

“It looks kinda gray to me.”

Dimitry placed the mixture onto the table. Despite following the vision’s formula precisely, the black powder he made was more gray than black. Why? Did this world’s chemistry differ from Earth’s? A possibility, but a conclusion best saved for when all other explanations failed.

The presence of impurities was more plausible. Although sulfur and potassium nitrate’s lack of discoloration indicated purity, Malten’s charcoal burners stacked many additives onto wood before setting it all alight. There could be countless contaminants in their product. But did it matter? Would the gray color decrease efficacy? There was only one way to find out. “Let’s go to the roof, I want to test—”

The sound of grinding tools and crunching powder.

Dimitry’s heart skipped a beat. His head twisted to see a horrifying sight.

An apprentice pounding at the black powder mixture.

“Don’t!” Dimitry grabbed her pestle and mortar before an untimely explosion turned her face into a modern art exhibit.

She bowed. “S-sorry, Jade Surgeon.”

“It could have blown up in your hands. Never grind black powder after all the components are mixed. Understand?”

“My apologies.”

“Be more careful. I can fix a cut, but I can’t replace your limbs.”

“Is it really that dangerous?” Clewin asked.

“I hope so.” Dimitry pointed to a small, wooden container he purchased from a local blacksmith. “Get the tinderbox, and we’ll find out.”

The gray-haired man grabbed the medieval matches, then, with three apprentices in tow, followed him up a set of spiral stairs.

Winter’s gale chilled Dimitry when he reached the former church’s weather exposed roof. Beyond the lavish, decorative arches overlooking Malten’s streets, iron-reinforced buildings sandwiched frozen roads supporting figures huddled in loose rags and people whose skin was no longer purple. Although their plague vanished, starvation, homelessness, and frostbitten extremities remained.

Dimitry couldn’t afford to house and feed everyone. He could, however, help keep heathens from trampling them before spring arrived. Or at least he hoped he could. If his discolored black powder failed to work, neither explosives nor flintlocks would be a possibility. This city would have to survive on limited soldiers and a dwindling vol supply.

He licked his thumb and raised it, leaving it prey to a drifting cold. The frail wind made for suitable testing conditions. Dimitry crouched and tilted the mortar in his hand to pour a thin line of black powder onto the granite floor.

Clewin massaged the burn scar on his neck. “What should I do?”

“Start a fire at one end to light the trail.”

“Is that safe?”

“Good to see you being cautious.” Dimitry stood. “Normally, you wouldn’t want even a spark near explosives because it could set all of them off, but it’s fine when there’s this little. We have to test it somehow.”

Clewin paused, nodded, and gripped a horseshoe-shaped piece of steel in one hand and a flint rock in the other. He struck them several times before falling sparks lit a cloth fragment on fire. After placing it beside the black powder trail, he jumped back.

The apprentices looked on with wide-open eyes as scant white smoke smelling of spent fireworks rose from the burning mixture.

Dimitry’s eyes fixated on the fire crawling along a line of gray-tinted black powder. He watched it with bated breath. However, unlike the others, his focus didn’t originate from child-like astonishment. It came from the nagging desperation building in his abdomen. Fear that the substance wouldn’t be powerful enough. That producing gunpowder wasn’t as simple as he thought. If he failed, this night of repentance would be just as bad as the month prior.

Several excruciating seconds passed before the flame reached the end of the trail. The black powder burnt, smoldered.

But it did so slowly.

From the perspective of this world’s residents, the ‘weapon’ must have been a knick-knack that provided momentary entertainment. An expensive toy that served no purpose.

And their assessment would have been accurate.

Dimitry knelt beside the exhausted flames and ran his finger through a residue that shouldn’t have existed. The black powder in the relic’s vision combusted almost instantly and without leaving much remnants. His did not. What did he do wrong? Was it an error on his part? Were the chemicals contaminated?

His questions had no answers. All he knew was, the black powder he made was useless.

The worst-case scenario.

Without the ability to ignite rapidly, it couldn’t propel an iron pellet nor generate enough pressure required for explosives.

Dimitry’s boot tapped restlessly against the ground. Could he correct the faults before massive stone contraptions raided the city at the end of the month?

Clewin straightened his wind-ruffled gray hair. “That was interesting, but how are we supposed to use this on heathens? Do we set them on fire?”

“I’ll show you later.” Dimitry maintained a calm expression despite growing doubts. “For now, I want you four to keep grinding chemicals as finely as you can. Don’t mix them until I tell you to. Black powder ignites only after its components are combined.”

“R-right.”

Haste in his step, Dimitry strode down the former church’s stairs.

There was much to do and little time.

The muffled banter of recently housed and employed hospital staff echoed from the downstairs cathedral dormitory. It leaked from the floor to bring unfitting liveliness to a quiet office containing a brainstorming surgeon and his grooming faerie companion. Precious ran a cloth down her green wings, their gentle chiming nearly inaudible amongst distant chatter and winter winds whistling through the cracks of boarded windows.

But the frigid frost didn’t bother Dimitry. His racing thoughts wrestled with a more urgent problem. Elbows resting on his granite desk’s surface, his eyes fixated on the golf ball-sized relic in front of him. He had spent all afternoon studying its five repeating visions, hoping to solve the black powder problem.

His only lead came from the scene of a faceless man loading and shooting an arquebus. They used two types of gunpowder: a chunky variety to propel the lead pellet within the weapon’s barrel, and a finer derivative as priming powder.

Neither resembled the product Dimitry produced. They burned instantly, in a cloud of white smoke, and their granulated forms hinted at an unknown process between mixing powdered reagents and using them in weaponry.

What was the missing step?

Or were there multiple missing steps?

And what purpose did they serve?

How the hell was he supposed to figure it out?

Dimitry rested his forehead against the cold desk’s surface. Although he had a background in chemistry, working in several laboratories before landing a spot in medical school, there was no way for him to reverse engineer a manufacturing process refined over hundreds of years.

Was there?

Precious yawned. “Dumitry, you need to relax a little.”

“I am relaxed.”

“Are you seriously trying to lie to me?”

“Yes.” Dimitry leaned back in his chair and glanced inside a padded blanket drawer containing a lounging faerie. “It’d work better if you stopped reading my emotions.”

“Couldn’t even if I wanted to.” Precious looked up, revealing golden irises peeking from under blonde bangs. “You know what your problem is?”

Dimitry sighed. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“Sticking your nose in other people’s business.”

“It’s strange hearing that from a creature that can’t stay out of my head.”

Precious paced inside the drawer with her hands behind her back like a tiny, lecturing professor. “You’re a doctor, right?”

“Right.”

“You’re good at poking people with sharp sticks and doing…and doing whatever it is you do. Right?”

“Close enough.”

Precious stopped walking. “So why are you getting involved in politics and diplomacy and weapons now, too? You’ve been staring at that stupid relic all evening, and it’s just making you panic. Just admit you’re not good at everything.”

“I thought you enjoyed seeing people panic.”

“Not the ones that feed me. You know how hard it’ll be to find another human if you go off the deep end? Let me tell you: really hard.”

A grin spread across Dimitry’s face. “Is that your way of saying you’re worried about me?”

“You wish.” Precious wrapped her shivering arms around her torso before huddling in a drawer corner. “And look, I lost my warm spot because of you. Can’t you do something about the cold?”

“I’ll get around to it someday.” Dimitry leaned back in his chair and looked up at a granite ceiling. Negotiating with demons, hunting Church spies, developing firearms he knew little about. Maybe Dimitry was reaching beyond his station. Perhaps one day, he would climb a tree he couldn’t get down from, leaving him trapped in a ruse of his own devising.

And yet, he couldn’t afford to do nothing. The night of repentance drew closer by the day, the hour, the minute, the second, and if the result of last month was anything to go by, this city wouldn’t survive unscathed. What if the walls completely crumbled this time? Would heathens trample everyone beneath their feet?

How many would die?

His expertise as a surgeon did nothing to help people once they passed. But he did have something else. Something no one other person in this world did—a modern education. Centuries of contemporary thought and tribulations in history. Although Dimitry wasn’t an expert in much besides medicine, his fragmented memories could help him survive in the last bastion of humanity willing to take him in.

That was why he couldn’t sit idle.

A gentle knocking against the former study’s door. “Mr. Dimitry?”

It was his head nurse.

“Watch your head,” Dimitry whispered to Precious.

“Wai—”

He slammed her drawer shut and stood. “Lili, you can come in.”

The nurse rushed into his office. The pink ribbon tying her red hair into a ponytail rested over her brown apron—attire unsuitable to her profession. Dimitry would have to get his employees proper uniforms one of these days.

“Mr. Dimitry, there’s a man who says he feels like someone is slicing his belly open from the inside.”

Guess that meant Dimitry’s brief break was over. This time, it was a patient with a vague symptom. The cause could have been anything from diverticulitis to kidney stones. Dimitry strode past her and through the doorway. “Did he complain about anything else?”

Hands curled to her chest, Lili trailed behind him. “He said some people had to carry him here because of the pain.”

“Why? Does it hurt so much that he can’t move?”

“I don’t know. He said the pain got worse when walking. His wife is with him now.”

Dimitry ran down one of the former cathedral’s towers. “Did they say exactly where it hurts?”

“I—I didn’t ask. It sounded excruciating, so I came to get you as soon as possible. My apologies, Mr. Dimitry.”

“You made the right call. Like I say, if you have a patient you can’t treat on your own, come to me. Medicine isn’t something you should learn through trial and error.”

“I’ll watch carefully.”

“Good girl.”

“Girl?”

An inquisitive glare dug into Dimitry’s back. He glanced over his shoulder to see a pretty, freckle-faced girl with furrowed eyebrows—one who appeared to be the same age as him. Although he transferred into this world with a youthful body, it did little to alter his tendencies to speak like someone in their mid-thirties. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

Lili smiled. “Be more careful next time, Mr. Dimitry. You reminded me of my father for a moment.”

“A good man, I hope.”

“Stubborn, but kind.”

Her words reminded Dimitry of his own father. Was he still there? In that rickety house overlooking the suburbs from a street corner? Those creaky floorboards. The speakers echoing mindless shooting and explosions as his dad watched television from his favorite living room sofa.

“Mr. Dimitry?”

Just as Lili’s words put Dimitry into a reminiscing trance, they also pulled him out of it.

“Come on, let’s go.” He marched through the cathedral’s bottom floor, past giant marble arches, and two rows of recycled beds. His untrained porters and housekeepers chatted away in small groups beside granite walls. The only qualities his hospital shared with a proper one were busy nurses, freezing air, and lingering death.

Dimitry entered his makeshift emergency room and approached the only man clutching his abdomen. The first step was to establish friendly relations with the patient and their family. He smiled before opening with his standard greeting.

“Hello. My name is Dimitry Stukov, and I’m the surgeon here. I believe you’ve already met my nurse, Lili Jung. How should I refer to you two?”

“J-Jade Surgeon,” said a woman hovering over the patient. “Clemet was just sitting and—”

“That’s not what he asked,” the man interrupted her. “My name is Clemet, and Phye here is my wife. She gets like this when she’s worried.”

Although Phye went silent, she continued to fidget in place.

Her panic didn’t help the situation. Dimitry dragged a chair forward. “Can you sit down and take a few deep breaths for me? I promise we’ll take excellent care of your husband.”

Phye hesitantly complied.

“Clemet,” Dimitry said, “Lili told me you had pain in your belly. Can you point to where it hurts?”

His finger moved towards the bottom right of his stomach. “It doesn’t hurt so much right now, but if I get up, it feels like I’m getting stabbed.”

“When did it start?”

“It got really bad last night. I couldn’t sleep at all.”

“But is that when it started?”

“I-I’m not sure.” Clemet’s hand moved towards the center of his swollen belly. “It kind of hurt here yesterday, but it wasn’t so bad.”

“Can you describe how it felt before it became bad?”

“Maybe like… a dull aching?”

The first thing that came to Dimitry’s mind was appendicitis—a common complaint he heard while working in the emergency room. Patients initially experienced vague pain near their belly button, which then worsened as it shifted towards their abdomen’s lower right quadrant. Every symptom matched Clemet’s exactly. If the diagnosis was correct, vertical movement should aggravate the discomfort.

“Clemet, can you jump up and down for me?”

“Jade Surgeon, I… I think I would die.”

“That painful?” Dimitry placed the back of his hand on the patient’s forehead. It was hot. They had a fever—evidence of a bacterial infection. If it resulted in an inflamed appendix, bowel obstruction was more than a possibility. “Do you have trouble passing gas?”

“W-what?”

“Is it hard to fart?”

Cheeks red, Clemet glanced at his wife. “Maybe a little.”

Dimitry nodded. “There’s no need to feel embarrassed, it’s a common problem. How about diarrhea or constipation? Anything like that?”

“I… I couldn’t go at all this morning.”

“Did you vomit? Do you feel nauseous?”

“I don’t think so.”

Severe pain, despite a lack of nausea, eliminated gastroenteritis. The location of the discomfort made diverticulitis unlikely. However, it was too early to assume the culprit was appendicitis.

Lili stepped closer. “What do you think, Mr. Dimitry?”

“I’m not completely sure yet, but Clemet’s appendix might rupture.”

“Appendix?” she asked.

“It’s a little pouch attached to the intestines.”

“M-my appendix?” Clemet asked.

“Yes,” Dimitry said. “I’m going to press down on it. Tell me if the pain gets better or worse. Ready?”

Clemet tensed as if in anticipation of intolerable pain. When Dimitry jabbed deep into the patient’s abdomen, their eyes slowly opened. “It hurt when you pushed down, but the pain is gone now. Am I… am I cured?”

“Unfortunately not.” Dimitry kept his finger pressed into the man’s abdomen. “Lili, this spot is called McBurney’s point and is where the appendix is usually found. If the pain gets better when I push down on it but worsens when I quickly let go, it means his appendix is inflamed. That’s what is called a positive Blumberg sign. Remember those words.”

“What are McBurney and Blumberg?” She asked. “Are those organs, too?”

Dimitry held back a laugh. “No, they’re genius surgeons from where I come from. I’ll tell you more about it later. For now, just know that a positive Blumberg sign means that the patient’s appendix is more likely to be infected. Clemet, get ready.” Dimitry quickly retracted his finger.

The patient groaned and grasped their belly.

“Clemet!” Phye jumped from her seat. “Are you okay?”

“It felt like someone cut into me with a hot knife.”

“Try not to worry too much, Phye. We’re a step closer to fixing your husband’s illness.”

Lili studied Dimitry. Her eager eyes, like those of a child overwhelmed by the mysterious workings of a space shuttle launch, demanded an explanation. “What now?”

Dimitry sighed. He would have liked to get a blood test, CAT scan, or at least a pelvic ultrasonography done to support his diagnosis, but this world didn’t have such luxuries. Resorting to simpler methods was all he could do. “Next, we’ll look for the psoas and obturator signs. Clemet, I’ll be moving your leg. Tell me if there’s any pain.”

“Y-Yes, Jade Surgeon.”

After several pained groans, Dimitry confirmed his initial diagnosis. The patient had an inflamed appendix that could burst at any moment. Although removing the organ was the standard treatment, it was also one he preferred to avoid. Open surgery was a death sentence in this world. That was why Dimitry opted for a more expensive, yet equally effective option. He retrieved an aquamarine vol pellet from a pouch.

“Magic?” Phye uttered. “Will that really…”

Lili held the woman’s hand. “It’ll be fine, Mrs. Phye. The Jade Surgeon does this often.”

“Clemet, I want to cast a spell on your belly. It won’t hurt, and your pain will improve soon. If you had a normal infection, I would have you lay down on an enchanted blanket, but your condition requires immediate treatment. If I don’t do this now, there’s a good chance your appendix would burst before tomorrow. It’ll be too late for me to do anything after that.”

“Please.” Clemet’s breathing grew ragged. “Make it quick.”

Dimitry placed his palm against the man’s lower right abdomen. He channeled the energy surging into his body through his other hand, imagining bacterial DNA denaturing via intense heat. “Preservia.”

Phye watched her husband with worried eyes. “Is… is that it?”

“Yes. He’ll be fine soon.” Dimitry rinsed his hands in a bowl of alcohol and water. “The infection is gone, but it’ll take time for his appendix to shrink to normal size. We’ll keep Clemet in the hospital until we’re sure he’s ready to leave. Probably around morning. You can stay with him until then if you’d like. We also serve food in case you’re hungry. However, don’t let your husband have any. It’ll put extra pressure on his stomach.”

The woman pulled a pouch out from under her dress and fished inside. The jangling of coins came from within. “How much do we owe you? We can’t do much more than a gold.”

“It’ll be three silvers at most. A lady named Claricia will come to collect it before you leave. For now, let Clemet rest. He needs it.”

“Thank you!”

“You’re very welcome.” Dimitry nodded, then walked towards his office.

Lili bowed to her patient before catching up with him. “You never told me about the appendix.”

“There’s a lot I didn’t tell you about. When it comes to medicine, there’s always more to learn. It’ll take time. Lots and lots of time.”

“Can you draw me a diagram like last time?”

Although Dimitry intended to brood over black powder some more, he couldn’t deny Lili’s request after seeing the spring in her step, the curiosity gleaming in her eyes. She was his most promising nurse. Her insatiable thirst for knowledge was greater than any pre-med student that shadowed him on Earth, and her ability to grasp concepts as good as any resident. “Let’s go do that now.”

Two pairs of boots tapped against the cathedral’s polished granite floor, their resulting clacks echoing through a vast, empty hall on the second floor. Before long, Dimitry’s footsteps rung alone.

He looked back.

Lili stood in place, fiddling with the pink bow on her ponytail.

“Are you all right?”

“Mr. Dimitry…”

The sight of a confident girl hesitating to speak stopped Dimitry in his tracks. “What is it?”

“Can you teach me your magic?” She met his gaze. “If it helps, I learned illumina from my father’s adviser. I know you’re always busy, but…”

Unlike Lili’s previous request, this one was tough to oblige. Dimitry’s spells relied on scientific principles. Demonstrable truths people in this world explained away by relying on celestial arrangements and holy declarations. Even for someone as bright as her, it would take a long time to untangle her dated education.

And yet, a sorceress nurse would be helpful to have around.

Dimitry smiled. “I promise to tutor you someday. For now, learn from me as much science as you can.”

77. Thaumaturgical Greenhouse

Black powder.

The words lingered in the periphery of Dimitry’s mind whenever he treated a patient, trained his employees, or lay in bed. Now was no different. He stood in his office, staring at the line of grayish dust on his granite desk.

It was the latest variation of black powder and the product of over a dozen trials.

Dimitry didn’t prepare it alone. When surgeon work kept him too busy to visit the lab personally, he sent Clewin instructions on how to alternate black powder’s formula. The goal was to discover a better preparation of chemicals resulting in faster ignition rates and less residual matter. Slow-burning powder produced weak explosives, and if it left excessive residue, weapons would clog, reducing their accuracy and power.

So they experimented.

The first change came after Clewin observed that crushed potassium nitrate grew larger the longer it rested on a counter. Dimitry realized it was because the chemical absorbed moisture from the air. On a molecular level, water blocked nearby compounds from interacting, leading to sluggish reactions. A counterproductive process resulting in weaker explosions. He began roasting potassium nitrate on an incendia enchanted towel to evaporate excess water before weighing and mixing it into black powder.

Seeing some improvement, they altered the formula. Instead of willow charcoal, Dimitry tried using oak charcoal or that of lomn, a twisting tree native to this world. Neither produced better results. Undeterred, his next step was to juggle the ratios of every ingredient. Slightly increased sulfur content seemed to help, but the change was too minuscule to confirm without timekeeping devices for comparing reaction speeds.

This world’s unreliable measurements compounded the problem. For example, a heng could weigh as little as an acorn, or as much as a large rock. When Dimitry found the time, he would make his hospital and chemistry lab operate on the metric system. But that was a problem for later.

He had a more pressing matter: the black powder on his desk.

It was the second delivery from the lab this evening and the amalgam of every improvement Dimitry and Clewin made over the past two days, with the recent addition of grinding sulfur and charcoal in the same mortar. Without potassium nitrate to act as an oxidizer, the chemicals couldn’t explode in a chemist’s hands no matter how hard they crushed the contents.

Dimitry hoped the integrated blend would make the black powder burn faster and without leaving excess residue. That this batch would be the one that changed the way people fought heathens forever. The way they mined ore. Blasted tunnels.

He took a deep breath, lowered a flint rock to the desk, and struck it with a horseshoe-shaped piece of steel.

Sparks fell onto the black powder trail, setting it alight. The flame wafted warm white smoke smelling of spent fireworks into the air as it fizzed across the desk, depositing dark grime along the way. Then, after several seconds, the fire died out. Although quicker and more luminescent than previous trials, this batch was nowhere near as combustive as the black powder in the relic’s vision.

Dimitry dropped into his chair.

Progress came, but it came slowly.

Judging by one of yesterday’s batches, where he ignited a sealed ceramic jug filled with black powder, this blend wouldn’t have the power necessary to make a bomb capable of breaching a heathen’s stone armor, nor did it have the cleanliness required to charge a flintlock. The excessive residue would take too long to clean between shots. With firing rates reduced so much, even crossbows were better and cheaper.

Where did he go wrong?

Did impurities remain in the mixture, preventing potassium nitrate, sulfur, and charcoal from reacting? Unlikely. Dimitry set aside the cleanest chemicals for this sample, removing every stone and foreign speck before Clewin pulverized them. It couldn’t have resulted from poor mixing either. The apprentice who delivered it said they shook the jar all morning.

Dimitry thought of only one explanation for his failures: granulation. It was the biggest difference between his black powder and the ones in his vision. The next test he designed would seek to reproduce those chunky black fragments.

“You know,” said the faerie lounging on Dimitry’s shoulder, her feet kicking back and forth, “most people would have given up by now. I respect the effort, but did you ever consider getting a new hobby?”

“Are you trying to motivate me, or annoy me?”

“I’m just saying you’d make a good incense maker.” Precious lifted her head and sniffed. “I didn’t like the smell at first, but it’s kinda grown on me.”

“Wait until you see the real deal. When I’m finished with it, I’m sure you’ll like the sound, too.”

“What kind of sound?”

“Like a really loud pop.”

“Why does it pop?”

“It doesn’t always pop.” Dimitry sealed the pouch containing remnant experimental black powder. “Only if you put the powder inside a small container and set it on fire. Then it explodes.”

“Explodes?” Her legs kicked more excitedly than before. “What can it explode?”

“Trees, rocks, people… probably heathens.”

“What?!”

“Yep, sends all kinds of stuff flying with a really, really loud sound.”

Precious pulled up to Dimitry’s face, her chiming green wings tickling his cheek. “Show me!”

Entertained by her childlike enthusiasm, Dimitry swiped his hand across the smooth surface of his granite desk, sweeping burnt residue onto the floor. “I just need some time to figure out exactly how it works. You’ll like what you see when I’m finished. Guarantee it.”

“What are you waiting for? Finish it already!”

If only progress came that easily.

Impatient knocking slammed against the office door.

“Dimitry!” a muffled feminine voice called. It was Angelika. “There’s some guy here who says he really needs to see you!”

“Just a moment,” Dimitry said.

Precious slid down his uniform. She glanced up with gleaming, golden irises. “Remember. Explosions.” With those words, she dove into his pocket.

For such a gentle-looking creature, she sure loved watching things go to shit. Dimitry brushed black specks from his clothes. “You can bring them in now, Angelika.”

A girl whose curly red-brown hair drooped from under a crimson robe’s hood stomped into the room. “Did I interrupt your conversation with that thing?”

“No. Precious wasn’t saying anything important. Like always.”

Small fingers pinched him through his uniform’s pocket.

“Right.” Angelika pointed back with her thumb. “Anyway, do you know this guy? He just showed up and started begging me to take him to you.”

A lanky man in a ruffled and dirty brown tunic shuffled behind her. Legs shaking, perhaps after a tense encounter with an impatient combat sorceress, he carried a worn sack over his shoulder.

“I don’t think I do.” Dimitry stepped forward. “Hello. Have we met before?”

“A-are you Sir Dimitry?”

Being called ‘sir’ in a groveling tone made Dimitry feel as if he were an ill-tempered slave driver. “That’s me. Can I help you somehow?”

The man dropped to his knees. “Your Lordship Richter sent me, sir!”

Dimitry stood with furrowed eyes before realizing that this must have been the person Marquis Richter promised to send for the plant crossbreeding project. Only a few days had passed since their discussion. Although dismissive, nobles worked quickly. “There’s no need to kneel. I’m not someone so important.”

“Yessir!” The man grasped Dimitry’s outstretched hand with one covered in embedded dirt, calluses, and scars, then pulled himself to his feet. “Thank you, sir.”

“What’s your name?”

“Jesco, sir.”

“Judging by your hands and who sent you, I assume you have experience as a farmer?”

“My whole life, sir.”

Dimitry nodded at Angelika to signal that the visitor was welcome. “Can you tell Claricia to see me on your way out?”

“Yeah, fine.” She waved as she strode out of the room. “If you have anything else for me to do other than stand out in the cold, don’t hesitate to let me know.”

“If it gets too cold, you can take a break and stand watch inside the cathedral. I don’t want you to get sick.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Thanks for your hard work.”

Angelika glanced back, a grin on her face. “You got it, sir Dimitry sir.” The door slammed shut as her crimson robe’s silhouette disappeared into an unlit hallway.

Hiding his amusement at his bodyguard’s sarcastic quip, Dimitry pulled out a chair. “Jesco, care for a seat? It’s not very comfortable, but you look like you’re exhausted after what I can only assume was a long journey.”

The man took several hesitant steps forward. He wore an expression of disbelief. “M-may I really, sir?”

Was Jesco from a place where chairs were a commodity? “Help yourself. And please, don’t call me sir. Just Dimitry is fine.”

“Yessi—” His eyes opened wide as if they committed a grave error. “Y-yes.” He lowered himself into the cushionless furniture’s hard and rigid embrace.

Dimitry sat at his desk. “Did Richter tell you why I asked you to come here?”

“He said a surgeon wanted me to grow something, and to come back when he gives up. Kinda strange, though. I didn’t see no plant pots or fields nowhere.”

So Richter expected Dimitry’s crop hybridization project to fail? Not that that was surprising. Anyone would express disbelief when told a doctor could create plants with better harvests. As far as the Marquis knew, crops changed over dozens of generations with only minor improvements after careful selective breeding.

How wrong he was.

But Richter wasn’t to blame. People living in a scientifically illiterate world couldn’t have discovered genetic hybridization, or in all likelihood, the intricacies of plant sexual reproduction. Both were aspects vital to industrial level food production. Aspects Dimitry could easily apply.

Except another problem remained. Dimitry’s theoretical knowhow did nothing to remedy his agricultural ignorance. He had never walked through a wheat field, let alone tended to one. Such was the folly of urban life.

That was where Jesco came in.

Dimitry folded his hands onto the desk. “I was told that samul and wheat were the most popular crops in this kingdom. Is that correct?”

Jesco hastily nodded. “That’s most of what you’re gonna find. Some lords make people grow fent and reyum, but yeah. Samul and wheat.”

It was strange how this world had crops both foreign and identical to Earth’s. “And you’ve handled all of them?”

“N-no. Mostly just samul and wheat. I did grow herbs for the village herbalist, though. Groundboar too.”

“And how much land did you manage?”

“Huh?”

“How big is your farm?”

Jesco stared at his dirt-caked boots. The emerging wrinkles on his suntanned forehead belied his actual age, which couldn’t have been over twenty. “Maybe like three fels. Thing is, it’s not my farm. Me and my dad and some of my neighbors borrow it from His Lordship Richter.”

Dimitry didn’t know how big a fel was but chose not to display his ignorance. He couldn’t afford to appear clueless, and he already learned what he wanted to know—Jesco was a small-time sharecropper. That was good enough for Dimitry’s purposes.

“Would you be able to handle a crop field as large as this room?”

The man’s eyes shot around the office. “W-what?”

“I’ll be making samul and wheat fields no larger than this room. And I want you to be in charge of them.”

“My sorriest apology, sir Dimitry.” He bowed. “I can’t understand.”

“Have you ever heard of a greenhouse?”

“No, sir.”

“Indoor garden?”

“N-no…”

Perhaps the technology to create those structures didn’t exist yet. And, even if it did, a sharecropping farmer wouldn’t have the luxury to experience them. “Think of it as a farm inside of a building that can grow plants.”

Jesco’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “But there’s not enough windows here! They’re even boarded up!”

“We won’t need windows.” Dimitry pushed away from his desk and stood. He pointed at the ceiling. “I’ll be using illumina to replace light from the sun. Incendia to imitate its warmth. That way, no matter the season or temperature, we can grow plants indoors.”

“M-magic? I don’t know if… something that expensive.” His face displayed the horror of watching someone shred stacks of hundred-dollar bills. “… just for a few beans and grains?”

“Our goal isn’t to make food. We’ll be making something else. Something that’ll change the way your friends and family back home farm forever.”

Jesco gulped. “What’s that?”

“We’ll be making new plants. Breeds of wheat and samul that are hardier, grow faster, and produce more grain and beans than any other. All of that in this very cathedral.”

Like a sane man agreeing with the whims of a maniac to avoid enraging them, Jesco nodded. “T-that’s good. That’s good.”

“I’m sure it’s a difficult thing to accept right now, but over the coming months, you and I will change agriculture forever.”

“Anything you say, Dimitry sir.”

Dimitry’s visionary speech ended when he realized that crossbreeding crops without a variety of seeds was impossible. He sat in his pressure ulcer-inducing chair and leaned forward. “By the way, did Richter tell you to give me anything?”

“Yessir.” Jesco dug inside his bag. “He gave me all kinds of seeds. A lot of them are useless, though. No one would ever grow them unless it’s for festivals or something.” The man sorted over a dozen pouches onto the granite desk.

Some contained shrunken black beans. Another had plump red ones. Long, white seeds. And a strange bag amongst them had a thick, pink paste.

When Dimitry dipped his finger into it, it clung to his skin like adhesive slime. “What’s this?”

Jesco looked up. “That’s, that’s…” He snatched it away. “S-sorry, I shouldn’t—”

“May I?” a monotone voice called from outside.

Dimitry watched as the man hid his secretive slime. To avoid a scene and to prevent Jesco from running away in shame, he swallowed his curiosity. “Perfect timing, Claricia. It’s open.”

A woman with silken dark-blue hair and a somber expression walked into the room. If what Clewin said was true, no one could fault his wife for her gloomy disposition. Losing a child would tear anyone with grief. Despite her circumstances, Claricia performed well as a stock manager for the hospital and the laboratory. She would know if something as inconsequential as a blanket went missing.

Dimitry turned his attention to Jesco. “Since you’re away from home, I was wondering if you had anywhere to stay.”

He took a handful of copper marks out of his tunic. “I was thinking of buying a few nights at an inn, then helping out to earn a spot in their barn.”

“Richter doesn’t pay you?”

“He does, but I give it to my wife and kids. Times are tough.”

Shocked and impressed that someone so young could be a caring father, Dimitry helped pack the man’s belongings. “Hold on to the seeds and beans for now. And don’t worry about that… pink stuff. As long as it isn’t dangerous, you could do whatever you want with it.”

“T-thank you.”

“Claricia, would you arrange for Jesco to have his own room and bed? Preferably close to the altar room on the second floor.”

She shook her head. “There aren’t any beds. The only spares we have are straw mattresses.”

Dimitry frowned. He expected difficulty in furnishing a cathedral during a crisis and famine, but lacking beds in a hospital was unthinkable. “Is a straw mattress okay with you?”

“An entire room?” Jesco dropped his traveling sack. “Just for me?”

A rusted iron bolt held the door shut. Granite walls, supporting collapsing bookcases and slanted shelves, kept the secrets of a dusty room hidden from prying eyes. Only the waxing green crescent peeking through boarded windows saw the shifty surgeon and the golf-ball-like object he held.

Dimitry stood in an abandoned chamber on the cathedral’s third floor, relic in his palm. It was cold now, but if his experience on the boat from Waira was anything to go by, it wouldn’t be for long. The alien item would burn over once he demanded it retrieve long-forgotten agricultural knowledge from the recesses of his mind.

What would he rediscover?

Like hollow husks hinting at greater wisdom, only fragmented kernels of plant biology he once studied rattled in his mind. That and his experience growing cacti on his condominium’s window sill, many of which died from negligent care, was all that remained.

If Dimitry wanted to revolutionize agriculture, he would need to know more.

And he had to use that knowledge soon.

Heathens invaded this kingdom’s fields, pushing northern borders back, the land available to farmers diminishing. Their harvests weren’t enough to feed a country overrun with hungry refugees.

Malten would have crumbled already if it wasn’t for southern countries sending food aid—support not born of generosity. They did it to sustain a barrier between demonic invaders and themselves: This kingdom was a sacrificial lamb whose dying breaths provided them time to raise defenses and an army.

And if they deemed Malten no longer efficient to maintain? If they discontinued their aid? Countless civilians would die, friends’ lives would be lost, and Dimitry would become homeless once more.

It was time to act.

However, now that Richter sent an associate, now that everything went as Dimitry planned despite doubts over whether he would get the Marquis’ help, he was unsure of what knowledge to request.

Too broad a query and the relic would present useless information. Too narrow, and it would be incomplete. Last time, he inadvertently asked for guns and cannons but saw visions of rifled barrels and bullet casings—neither of which he could ever hope to reproduce. The limit was five unique visions per orb. Each had to pay dividends.

When a stiff wind carrying winter’s biting frost whistled through boarded windows, Dimitry shuddered. He wondered how much glass panes would cost. The cold was getting unbearable.

Heart rate escalating, he refocused onto the relic. Asking for general knowledge about ‘agriculture’ was pointless. Dimitry occasionally read about modern gadgets that improved yields by a few percent or something similarly insignificant. Neither solar-powered cameras nor visions about tractors were useful. Just wasteful. Only major strides reproducible in a technologically bankrupt world would help—discoveries that changed farming forever despite poor infrastructure.

At the same time, Dimitry forgot almost everything he learned about plants. What did he need to know? What information could Jesco provide in place of the relic? Although this world had familiar produce like wheat, knowledge specific to Earth crops wouldn’t help cultivate vital foods like samul.

His request had to be specific.

Calculated.

Dimitry leaned back against a hard and freezing wall. He stood there, thinking. Postulating. Fretting.

A moon twisted across a starry night sky beyond the crevices of shattered stained glass and misaligned planks. Time dripped by. It melted into an uncertain abyss between midnight and dawn before he came to a decision.

Dimitry exhaled a misty breath, tightening his grip around the relic, hoping his choice would be the correct one. Then, to a vacant room, he spoke. “Arable crop sexual reproduction and essential advancements in pre-electric agriculture.”

Dark clouds burnt through the white-quartz ball, heat erupting through its cold surface. The orb blackened. A ravenous hunger shot from within and surged into Dimitry’s arm. When it reached his brain, the world stopped.

The stiff wind grew still. The granite wall against his back lost its slick rigidity and body-warmed heat. The stars no longer twinkled.

Roses sprung from the speckled stone floor. Then, as if victims to the precise and unseen blade of an assassin, their organs scattered along an insensible breeze.

Dimitry focused on a drifting flower.

The petals vanished to reveal an underlying ovary, the carpel rising from its top, the stamens jutting from the sides. Anatomy and functionality forgotten long ago made themselves known to Dimitry. How anthers produced pollen and how the stigma received it. How greenery often reproduced asexually through apomixis or self-fertilization unless they received pollen from another. How seeds stored fat for use while germinating.

All were facts he once learned through biology textbooks. As if he had just pulled a coffee-fueled all-nighter in one of his former university’s library booths, they held firm. The information was clear in his mind. Dimitry might have gasped if his lungs could move.

The vision ended, and winter’s chill returned to hound his exposed neck. Heat lingering in the relic warmed his otherwise cold palm.

That was exactly what he needed.

What he hoped to see.

Dimitry slid down the wall until he fell to the floor. There he sat, breathing ragged breaths as a crescent moon moved across a star-filled sky, waiting eagerly for the next vision to arrive.

Seven fields formed a circle, each one growing produce belonging to a different family of plants. Crop rotation. A vital development Dimitry learned about in an anthropology course. By alternating plants based on their size and the nutrients they absorb from or add to the soil, fields could grow crops yearly while preventing pests from taking hold. Not only did that improve harvests, but it also allowed farmers to raise feed for livestock.

Then, a diagram depicting the Haber process, including the conditions required to produce liquid ammonia—a fertilizer that revolutionized farming. The details were limited to what an undergraduate organic chemistry textbook required students to know. Not that Dimitry expected to reproduce it in his lifetime. As far as he knew, neither magic nor medieval technology could create two hundred atmospheres of pressure.

A warped scene of a faceless man transplanting pollen from one flower to another. It came from an Internet video about cultivating the world’s hottest pepper.

The last vision comprised four pistons and gas pipes forming a circle, conferring details about the Carnot Cycle. Dimitry remembered struggling with the topic in his physical chemistry class, and the relic’s fuzzy details reflected that. It wasn’t a significant loss. Though the Carnot cycle formed the theoretical basis for perfectly efficient engines and refrigeration, the concept was too inefficient for practical use. Dimitry would need vast resources and many months if not years of development to do something productive with the knowledge. A project best saved for when he had the manpower and money.

By the time dawn’s early light filtered onto Dimitry from a brightening sky, the relic began to repeat itself. It imparted five unique visions—just like the previous one. Although not all the information was useful, learning about crop rotation and the ability to manipulate plant reproduction satisfied Dimitry.

They would change this world forever.

If Dimitry could figure out how to put it into practice.

78. Convincing A Sorceress

Dimitry’s eyelids weighed heavily. They wanted to drop, to release the fatigue that came with managing a hospital, trudging through endless black powder modifications, and designing an enchantment-reinforced greenhouse. However, the fierce wind forced them open. His eyes regained alertness with every gale.

The winter shocked him into wakefulness just as he had hoped. There was always a time to rest, but it wasn’t now. It wouldn’t come for a while. That was why whenever the urge to sleep crept up on him, Dimitry stood outside the former cathedral’s double doors.

Beside him was a scarred giant who braved the deteriorating weather in only a thin shirt and cotton pants. Milk didn’t speak much. In fact, he never spoke at all. Like a bastion of silent vigilance, he stood still, his piercing gaze vetting prospective criminals seeking to deface the hospital.

Dimitry believed his presence explained the lack of aggressive patients. They were problematic in real hospitals. Whether they suffered from psychiatric disorders, overdosed on drugs, or crumbled under the duress of hospitalization, Dimitry dealt with them all. There was even a time when a gang member punched him in the gut while he extracted bullets from their leg.

A problem no more.

Milk’s eyes telegraphed calmly suppressed murder. And when he was off duty, Angelika held his post. From the perspective of an outsider, the impatient frown she wore was one of immense displeasure. Who would risk angering a pissed off sorceress capable of disemboweling people with spells or shooting them in the face with a magic-powered rifle?

A battle-starved combat sorceress and the hulking mound of muscle working the other shift were why this hospital remained safe.

Dimitry glanced at Milk. He wanted to spark a conversation with the mysterious giant, to learn where his scars came from and if he had a history of giving them to others. But what if Milk despised small talk? What if he suffered from brain trauma, leaving him a mute incapable of voicing pleasantries? Perhaps it was best to avoid offending someone who looked like they could fold people into accordions like a cartoon character.

Instead, they watched the same scenery in mutual silence.

Snow-capped buildings of stone and metal trapped streets full of melting slush and frozen dirt alleys. Lining the narrow passageways between them were ramshackle tents made from decaying wood and torn clothes. One housed a shivering couple. They sat beneath an old blanket Dimitry had handed out a day prior.

He wanted to do more. To provide them food, shelter, perhaps a job, but Dimitry didn’t have the resources. No one did. The dungeon he recently discovered beneath the cathedral was already full with people taking refuge under remnant incendia blankets, while letting people stay in the hospital itself was not only a health hazard but also impossible to manage. How many could he house? What if they looted his supplies? Would they attack patients and employees?

“Jade Surgeon!” said an approaching voice.

Dimitry’s head shot up.

A man with scaly, purplish skin and drenched clothes jogged closer. It was Larz—one of Dimitry’s former patients. They visited the cathedral for the first time two days ago for a plague cure, then twice more the following day to treat open wounds on their legs. Hopefully, they weren’t injured again.

“How are you?”

“Not good.” Larz held up a bleeding arm. “I need some help.”

Dimitry shook his head and leaned in to examine the wound. It resembled a cut a self-harming patient would have, except it wasn’t neat. Almost as if a rock’s jagged edge made it. Just like the last two times. Once was understandable, twice could have been a freak coincidence, but three identical injuries in a row wasn’t an accident. Was Larz hurting himself?

“How did it happen?” Dimitry asked.

“How?” Larz paused. “Someone attacked me.”

“What did they attack you with?”

“A knife.”

“And they managed to slice straight down your arm?” Dimitry sighed. “Last time, they did the same to your legs.”

“It happened last night.” Larz’s heel bounced restlessly. “I couldn’t see them coming… and I was sleeping.”

Dimitry suspected he was a liar, but now, he confirmed it. “You’re still bleeding, you don’t have hemophilia, and it’s already midday. Your wound would have clotted by now if you were telling the truth.”

“I don’t have what? Look. Just help me out.”

“Only if you tell me exactly what happened. I prefer not to have repeat patients when I can avoid it.”

“Why the fuck does it matt—” Larz glanced at the stone-faced Milk. “Jade Surgeon, are you the guy everyone says you are or not?”

On Earth, it was common for patients to be deceptive. They had every reason to be. When doctors could prescribe their coveted and otherwise illegal stimulant or painkiller, why wouldn’t they? Larz wasn’t much different. He likely craved the free food patients received after treatment.

Dimitry knew from personal experience that starvation and homelessness drove people to extremes. “Are you injuring yourself for free meals?”

“No! Why would I do that?”

“We both know why.” Dimitry pointed at an alley full of downtrodden travelers. “No one has it easy, and everyone has problems. But at least they’re not killing themselves for food.”

Larz spat into a mound of icy slush. “What do you know about having problems?”

“There was a time I was homeless, too.”

“And then you stole a cathedral from the Church! We’re stuck in the shit because of heretics like you.”

Dimitry knew better than to continue the conversation. Arguing with an idiot only provoked them further, and he didn’t want to help a liar abuse medical resources he reserved for the ailing. He headed towards the hospital entrance. “Take care of yourself and try to keep your wound clean.”

Larz stomped behind him. “Give me—”

Milk shot forward to constrict Larz’s neck and outstretched hand. After a one-sided struggle, a wooden shard fell to the ground, the fresh blood on its surface dyeing the surrounding snow red.

Frozen in place, Dimitry stared at the crude weapon and looked down at himself. He wasn’t bleeding.

But Milk was.

Shallow cut traversing the wrist, his muscular arm curled around Larz’s neck, whose limbs now hung like a masterless marionette’s. Milk had taken a hit in Dimitry’s place.

Dimitry wouldn’t have survived a stabbing. Noticing he forgot to breathe, he gasped for air. “Thanks.”

Milk nodded almost imperceptibly. Or perhaps not at all.

Dimitry pressed two fingers against Larz’s neck. A slow yet steady pulse indicated he was unconscious. Was it desperation or stupidity that drove him to assault Dimitry with a wooden spike? Probably both. Regardless, he was a danger to prospective patients if they let him stay here. “Milk, can you leave him somewhere without snow? Then come back so I can treat your wound.”

The giant carried Larz through a snowy alley towards some unknown destination.

A nearby ragged man watched everything from under a makeshift tent with bloodshot, alarmed eyes. Hungry eyes. Would he and the other homeless next to him adopt Larz’s self-destructive approach for getting food? The answer depended on how long they starved. From inciting violence to instigating theft, famine was a calamity waiting to happen. Malten could implode from the inside before heathens razed it from the outside.

Dimitry couldn’t stand idle. Despite being in the early stages of planning, he would begin his crop hybridization project.

Something he didn’t have the resources to do.

But thankfully, the queen did.

Icy winds pierced the fibers of Dimitry’s cloak as he thumped through Malten’s crowded streets. Buildings of stone and iron supports towered over him from both sides, the roads between them packed with slushing snow. A light slurry sank under his boots with every step.

Winter grew fierce.

Dimitry, however, wouldn’t have to brave its barrage for long. When he returned to the cathedral, sensation would return to his fingers and toes. His numb nose would sense smells once more. Although his hospital’s windows invited howling gales through shattered crevices, he had a warm bed to sleep in.

That was more than the people camping around him could say.

One was a man sat under a rusted metal awning. Creases and dirt sullied his once pristine merchant robes. Despite the ghosts of wealth his clothes portrayed, he shared the same fate as those nearby, lodging in nearby alleys and roads.

A woman shivered across from him, toddler under one arm and a weathered traveling sack cradled in the other. She glanced up at passersby, who sought only to divert their gaze.

Similarly downtrodden refugees crowded all of Malten. They were the product of ravaging heathens and an empire purportedly abandoned by God. There were many today. More would arrive tomorrow.

Pity at his surroundings spurring him on, Dimitry’s pace quickened. Every wasted moment delayed his crop cross-breeding project. Enhanced seeds couldn’t arrive soon enough.

He hadn’t planned the specifics yet, nor did he know how long it would take to hybridize wheat or samul, but he aimed to take the first step immediately—assembling a magic-fueled greenhouse within one of the abandoned cathedral’s rooms. For that reason, he plowed towards the castle district.

That was where the Sorceresses Guild and the mages who would bring his idea to fruition worked. Usually, whenever Dimitry needed an enchantment, he would visit Angelika’s family, but this time, Raina and Leona wouldn’t be enough.

This project was too ambitious for two enchantresses to handle alone. From an illumina ceiling and incendia warmed soil beds to accelall trellis supporting and hastening the growth of beanstalks, they would require over a week to weave every enchantment. The magic’s strength would wane by the time they finished the entire room, leaving the side they started on with weak effects. An outcome that would cause uneven plant growth.

A guard’s aggressive shouting drowned out a crowd of hushed tones. He pushed away refugees squatting beside the castle district’s gates with the shaft of his spear, paving a path for well-dressed civilians to pass.

Dimitry among them.

When an armored soldier met his gaze, he raised his halberd. “Jade Surgeon.”

Thankful for the privileges that came with being the queen’s personal doctor, Dimitry strode past him.

His destination rose from the skyline like a towering cheesecake made of carved stone. Despite its grandiose stature, the Sorceresses Guild had fewer decorations and displays of wealth than the surrounding nobles’ houses and stores. Only a few windows decorated the top floors.

Dimitry never had a reason to visit the guild before. However, now that he needed the queen’s resources, it was inevitable. Her Majesty told him that if he ever required magical aide, he should discuss the matter with her royal adviser and the most influential sorceress in Malten, Mira Bright. She would decide if his ideas were worth pursuing.

An exiting court sorceress bumped Dimitry’s shoulder as he stepped into the guild.

He glanced back, expecting to exchange words of courtesy, but she already left. Wondering if her gesture was born from malevolence or a busy schedule, Dimitry trod across a dense yet soft carpet made of some robust gelatin. It squished under his every step until he reached a counter with a woman sat behind it.

Gaze downward, she sifted through a mound of mismatched vol, stacking pellets by unknown criteria. “What?”

“I have a request for Mira Bright,” Dimitry said. “Is she in?”

The woman continued working without meeting his gaze. “The guildmaster’s busy preparing for the night of repentance. We’ll start taking requests again early next month.”

“It’s urgent.”

“I don’t care if you need a roof lifted or if a gargoyle is ravaging your estate. It’ll have to wait.”

Unsure if her words were serious or figures of speech, he pulled off his hood to expedite the process. “The queen herself told me to contact Mira if I ever needed her help. And I do. Now.”

“Queen?” The sorceress’s face shot up as she leaned forward, her squinting onyx pupils coming into view under a glowing chandelier. “Jade Surgeon?” She jumped to her feet. “I’ll take you there personally.”

Although Dimitry heard the moniker daily, others calling him Jade Surgeon never became less strange. He couldn’t deny the privileges it won him, however. “I’d appreciate it.”

She dashed ahead of him, beckoned him forward, and marched alongside a curved wall.

The halls they passed resembled less a trader’s guild and more of a barracks. Voltech rifles, spell-channeling canisters, and even a strange cannon stood within a faintly lit storage compartment.

“My father speaks highly of you.”

The suddenness of her words brought a furrow to Dimitry’s brow. “Your father?” He followed her into a central tower housing a spiral staircase.

“He was a consulate wizard once. When I was a girl, he filled my head with stories about everything from the Holy Empire’s radiant fields to the icy Sundock wastes and their dungeon ruins. There was nothing he didn’t know. But last week, those plague-curing bedclothes you had in your clinic put excitement back into the old man’s step.”

“I’m guessing your father was a patient, then. Is he doing well?”

She glanced back, a subtle grin on her face. “As well as a nostalgic rambler could, I suppose.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“By the way, is it true what the enchantresses say?”

“What do they say?”

“That the beds in your clinic are enchanted with a strange type of preservia.”

Dimitry hesitated to answer. Information was a commodity, a bargaining chip, and something that could turn on him if he carelessly dispensed it. He responded with a half-truth. “Something like that.”

“So, it really is possible.” The sorceress looked down at her boots as they climbed the stairs. When she reached the top floor, her finger pointed towards a room whose open door hinted at an internal library. “The guildmaster’s inside.”

“Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure.” She turned only to stop midway. “Also, if you ever consider taking pupils other than Angelika, you can always find me at the request counter. Just because I’m older than her doesn’t make me any less eager to learn. Got it?”

The disharmony between her piercing onyx eyes and self-qualifying tone coaxed a chuckle from Dimitry. Did she think he was teaching others modified magic? “I don’t know if I’d consider Angelika my pupil, but I’ll give your words some thought.”

“A man who speaks sense—very good. I’ll be waiting.” Her crimson robe vanished from sight as she strutted back down the stairs.

Weighing the costs and benefits of training people to use modified spells, Dimitry walked down the hall and past a rushing sorceress before knocking on the guildmaster’s door.

“Enter, my darling,” Mira’s rich voice called from within.

Dimitry wasn’t her darling but figured it was better to secure a conversation with her before revealing his identity. Not that he thought she would deny him. It was a precautionary measure.

He walked into a chamber full of bookshelves, lecterns displaying wooden carvings with blue lines across their surface, and a desk upholding parchment stacks.

Voluminous hazelnut locks drooped onto scattered documents. “If it’s another one of Count Armand’s couriers, tell them I can’t afford to send—” Mira glanced up. Her tired yet alert eyes widened. “My apologies, Jade Surgeon. I thought you were one of my girls.”

“Sorry to intrude when you’re so busy.”

“Nonsense.” She pointed at the chair across from her desk. “Pardon the mess.”

Dimitry navigated past a mound of tomes, then sat onto the sinking cushion. It didn’t hurt his ass like the granite chairs in his hospital. When he had the time and money, he would get a few of these for the office.

“Normally, I would have someone bring you a cup of tea and wafers, but it is as you say: my girls are rushing to make preparations for the night of repentance.” Mira frowned. “We can’t repeat last month’s blunder.”

Did she speak about the shattered harbor and broken walls that greeted Dimitry when he first arrived in Malten? The work of heathens. If Mira and her sorceresses weren’t enough to defend against them, the situation was dire.

Dimitry had to speed his black powder project along to help in the defense. However, even if they survived invading giants, starvation would kill them afterward. Something he aimed to prevent with his greenhouse. “The snacks will have to wait until later. I have an urgent request.”

She propped her chin unto her hand. “You also have my full attention.”

“I need a team of enchantresses to visit the cathedral as soon as possible.”

“You have my head enchantress at your beck and call. Mrs. Raina is the best there is, and she would gladly bring Leona along if you asked. They could make half-a-dozen plague-curing bedclothes daily without risking overload. Isn’t that enough?”

“Unfortunately, that isn’t the case. I’m working on something more ambitious than before.”

“Oh?” Mira straightened the cuffs of her gold-embroidered crimson robes. “I must admit, I’m curious as to what the Jade Surgeon has planned this time.”

Dimitry plucked a yellow bean from his pocket and placed it onto the desk.

“Samul?”

He nodded. “I have a plan to make crops like samul grow faster, and with larger harvests. Enough to feed this entire country despite limited soil. But it won’t be cheap. I’ll need to fill an entire room with powerful enchantments so that plants can grow indoors.”

Mira sighed, her face full of disappointment. “That is your ambitious idea?”

“Excuse me?”

“There isn’t a countess who hasn’t dreamed of having a garden in her parlor. Honestly, I expected to hear something more exciting. Even if I coated Malten’s castle in illumina and hastia enchantments at the cost of thousands of gold marks, growing grain even in the chambermaids’ quarters, that would do nothing to feed this country. A sophisticated man such as yourself should surely understand that much.”

She mentioned hastia. Did the spell help plants grow? Dimitry saw Saphiria cast it back in Ravenfall to run faster, but never expected it to have other uses. He would look into it after he secured the Sorceresses Guild’s support. “I think you misunderstand.”

“Then explain.”

“The only reason I need an indoor garden is because it’s too dark and cold for crops to grow outside. However, by the time conditions become good enough for farming, it’ll be too late.”

“Too late for what?”

“Too late for spring.” Dimitry pushed the samul kernel towards her. “My goal isn’t to produce a crate of beans. It’s to develop an entirely new breed that would mature faster, hardier, and larger fruits wherever it’s sown. I won’t be growing a room full of enhanced crops, but a country’s worth. I want to have these new seeds ready by spring to avoid another year of famine. Does that sound like a countess’s dream to you?”

She leaned back in her chair and stared. Then, after glaring into Dimitry’s eyes as if to scour his soul, Mira stood. Her gold and crimson robe trailed behind her as she paced the room. “Is that another spell? Just like invisall? How much magic is there that I am ignorant of?”

“Magic? That’s part of it.” Dimitry smiled. “But only as an asset to something far more powerful. A phenomenon that studies all of life and allows it to be bent at the whim of man.”

Her breathing audible and torn, Mira stopped. Her face moved not an inch. “What phenomenon?”

“Biology.”

“If I gave you vol, would you demonstrate it for me?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“And yet you, a boy, mastered it?”

For a woman in her late thirties to call him a boy elicited mixed feelings from Dimitry. Although thankful for the youthful vigor this world gave him, he missed the guise of dependability and wisdom conveyed by his aged and rugged features. “No one masters biology. It’s an ever-growing field of understanding expanded by all involved. Myself included.”

“Am I to believe it can feed an entire kingdom?”

With an understanding of cross-breeding, genetic hybridization, and accelall to expedite both processes, Dimitry was confident he could make some improvements to wheat and samul before spring. “If we start immediately, yes.”

“Her majesty trusts me with her vol expenditures.” Mira studied him with an unfaltering glare. “As of several days ago, even a knight goes through great lengths to purchase a handful. Of course, I wouldn’t dare lump you with wealthy fools who would waste it on a heated latrine, but I must be certain you know what you’re doing. Vol is better spent on barriers and weapons than idle fantasies.”

“Have I ever disappointed you or the queen before? I’ve cured the plague and established peace with aquatic demons like I promised I would. Now I say I can end the famine.”

“I am well aware of your accomplishments.” She dropped into her chair and ran a hand through her hazelnut hair. “If any passing mage told me what you have said just prior, I would have already cast them out into the streets. You have to understand the burden I carry on my shoulders.”

The burden wasn’t hers alone. Malten was the last refuge open to Dimitry, and many of its people were his patients. He didn’t want it to collapse any less than she did. “I have nothing to gain from lying to you. I’d lose everything I worked to build.”

“Indeed.” Mira folded her hands onto the table. “You never did strike me as the conniving kind, and I’ve met my fair share.”

Dimitry folded his arms. “So? Do we have a deal?”

“That depends.” The wrinkles in the corners of her lips creased when she grinned. “How well does it pay to be a doctor?”

Did she expect him to fund a project that benefited the entire country? Dimitry had only a smidgen over a hundred gold marks, most of which would go towards hospital renovations. “Surely there’s another way we can make this work?”

She laughed. “It was a jest. Lighten up, Jade Surgeon.”

A wave of relief washed over Dimitry. He didn’t find her joke funny.

“We have an agreement.” Mira’s finger tapped the back of his hand. “Just worry about fulfilling your end of the bargain. My girls are busy, but I’ll make sure they visit your hospital by the end of the week.”

An entire week? Dimitry’s project needed all the time it could get. If spring arrived before he produced enough hybridized seeds, it would all have been for nothing. “Can’t it be any sooner?”

“I’m afraid not. We have to enchant the city walls before the heathen raids begin.”

Dimitry couldn’t argue with her reasoning. Heathens terrified him more than hunger. “I see. In that case, I’ll be eagerly waiting.”

“As will I.” Her smirk pushed wrinkles further into her cheek. “I look forward to seeing what you do and an explanation when there is time. Perhaps over tea and wafers?”

He glanced at some intriguing arcane scribbles on her desk. “I’d be delighted to. There’s a lot we can teach each other.” He stood. “But for now, I’m sure there’s plenty for both of us to do. Have a pleasant evening.”

“You too.” She waved by wiggling an open hand’s fingers. “Don’t be a stranger.”

79. False Church

Hospital porters pushed an oak bed frame towards the cathedral’s inner sanctum. Melting snow coated their hard leather boots, whose soles squeaked against a smooth granite floor. Every step forceful, every grunt full of vigor, they battled whistling winds invading through broken windows.

Dimitry’s employees were laborious. They were motivated. But they also lacked training.

Not a single porter knew how to turn over a bed-ridden patient to prevent pressure ulcers from forming, nor did they understand the importance of sterilizing surgical equipment and surfaces. It would be several weeks before Dimitry’s lessons imparted the basics they needed to perform their roles.

Until then, Dimitry mobilized their labor into anything that hastened the assembly of a proper hospital. He didn’t care whether they moved furniture or hauled supplies. Anything was better than having idle staff. In a time of scarcity, they were the worst type of resource—wasted resources.

As Dimitry strode past his porters, he smiled to motivate their efforts.

One man waved, and another bowed.

Although he checked up on his employees whenever there was time, they weren’t why Dimitry traveled through the inner sanctum. His destination was a chamber just beyond. The second largest room on the cathedral’s first floor, and its most powerful.

The kitchen.

At one point, it served as the Church’s primary weapon for tethering believers to Zera’s teachings. Their ‘generosity’ in Ravenfall showed as much. By distributing food during morning mass, the desperate poor had no choice but to attend sermons. People initially there for sustenance grew dependent on the Church for emotional support. Then, once they became devout followers, attendees demonstrated their devotion by joining Zera’s army or donating children to serve in their stead.

It was a devious system.

Devious and effective. To this day, Malten’s believers defended the Church despite living in abandonment for eight years. Removing its influence was impossible. That was why Dimitry wouldn’t try. Instead, he would use it to his advantage. Why fight against religious zealots when they were the most motivated to dedicate their lives to a cause?

If Dimitry convinced the populace that he inherited the Church’s mission to feed the ailing and provide Zera’s light, he could transform the scriptures and beliefs. It was possible. People knew him as the Jade Surgeon who cured the plague, he ran a miraculous cathedral, and just like the Church before him, Dimitry would soon distribute food to the populace.

Doing so accomplished multiple goals. The most important among them was feeding the needy. There was no excuse for letting people die from starvation when Dimitry had the means to prevent it. He had accumulated over a hundred gold marks worth of grain and dried meat from when he sold modified preservia blankets to Sophie. She kept his supplies stored within her granaries and larders. Supplies Dimitry intended to distribute. Just like idle workers, uneaten food was a wasted resource. He just hoped he had enough to feed the poor until his crop hybridization project showed results.

However, even if it didn’t, Dimitry’s new position as a religious authority provided other means for gathering food. He could slowly enhance the myrmidon’s despised image as corrupted creatures, allowing them to trade with and visit the city. Fish imports would increase. No longer afraid of aquatic demons, fishermen could take to the western shores, providing jobs and sustenance to a famine-ridden kingdom. If oceans on Earth supplied sprawling metropolises with enough food, feeding an overcrowded city of forty thousand was an afterthought.

All the while, the real Church’s influence would plummet. The informants they planted throughout Malten wouldn’t have the pull necessary to manipulate the struggling masses to take arms against aquatic demons. Why would the poor fight Dimitry if they relied on his handouts to survive? Conversely, they would become the cheapest professional workforce in existence. Starving laborers, craftsmen, and farmers lived in the streets.

With Dimitry being their sole source of food, he could assign them simple tasks in exchange for a meal. An important one would be the collection of urine and feces for nitrate production—the bottleneck limiting black powder manufacturing. Charcoal was simple to make, the myrmidon could harvest all the sulfur he needed, but potassium nitrate was an expensive commodity. It was cheaper to trade food for human waste and use it in nitrate extraction than buying the chemical from a merchant.

Although requesting hundreds of people to turn in urine and feces would attract scrutiny, Dimitry could frame his demands as a means for cleaning the streets. Still, he wondered if all the excretory matter in Malten was enough to synthesize the nitrate required for black powder production.

His tests rapidly consumed reagents, and the results were consistently weak. Every bomb he detonated was a heartrending disappointment. At this rate, Dimitry would need ridiculous explosive quantities to pierce a heathen’s armor.

The relic hinted that granulation solved his impotent weaponry. It was the only visible difference distinguishing what he made from the rapidly burning black powder he saw in his vision. However, converting black powder into chunks proved harder than he imagined.

Dimitry inhaled deeply. Perhaps flintlocks and explosives were an inefficient endeavor. A warm cloud smelling of freshly baked black bread and burnt wood rushed into his nose, waking him from his musings. He stood in a spacious kitchen whose wall adjoined a massive oven.

A chimney traveled from the clay structure’s top and into the ceiling, carrying most of the hot smoke towards the roof. Some seeped through a small barred window only for a frigid breeze to whisk it away. Aside from the oven, not much else remained. Racks and shelves lay bare, the tools they carried stolen by looters long ago. Fire pits which haven’t seen burning charcoal in nearly a decade bolted their granite grills into the corners.

Two ladies worked in the room’s far end.

One was a little girl whose teal-tipped hair danced as she cranked the handle of a rotary grinding stone. Despite lacking the strength needed to operate the grain milling device at full capacity, she made up for it with enthusiasm. Nelly was the orphan Dimitry had treated for frostbite when he first explored the cathedral.

Beside her stood a woman who was Nelly’s acting mother and the hospital’s chef. She hovered over a nearby oak table, her deft hands filtering ground flour through several circular sieves. Every movement shook her amethyst engraved silver earrings. Perhaps alerted at Dimitry’s approaching footsteps, Valerie glanced back. “It’ll be ready soon, surgeon!”

“I can’t wait,” he lied. Although the smell of fresh bread tempted Dimitry, hunger didn’t bring him here. He wanted to know if Valerie could prepare enough food to feed hundreds of starving refugees.

A barrel still half-full with grain, remnants from yesterday, indicated otherwise. Her slow consumption of resources hinted at lacking food production.

Dimitry avoided bringing up the topic directly. “Just wondering, are you comfortable here? Is there anything you need?”

“Don’t worry about me.” Valerie giggled as she reached over to pinch the little girl’s cheek. “Nelly is everything I need.”

Nelly didn’t respond. Her monotonous grain grinding task kept her entranced.

Dimitry felt uncomfortable having a child no older than ten perform manual labor, but she seemed content enough. “Glad to see you two getting along.”

“Of course.” Valerie tapped the sieve in her hands, causing flour to sprinkle from its mesh. “That’s because when we’re together, we’re unstoppable! Right?”

“Yeah!” Nelly shouted.

Thrilled at having someone willingly mind and entertain a child in his stead, Dimitry could only smile. He enjoyed talking with kids, but having to look after one without a bottle of whiskey in hand drove him insane.

His gaze traveled from Nelly to the five loaves on the counter beside her. He hoped that wasn’t this kitchen’s peak food production. “Valerie, how much bread do you think you can make a day?”

“Why? Should I make more?”

“Would you be able to if you tried?”

She dipped a jug into a cauldron of water lying by her boots. “I don’t know. It depends on what kind of bread you want. White would take me all day to separate the germs from the husks, while horsebread is much easier to prepare.”

Dimitry didn’t need something as luxurious as white bread to feed the homeless and wasn’t interested in horse food. Or maybe he just misunderstood Valerie. Keeping up with a former miller’s medievalesque baking terminology while his closest experience to cooking was ordering takeout proved difficult. “If you were to guess, what is the most bread you can make a day? I don’t care about the quality as long as it’s edible.”

“Horsebread, then. Maybe twenty loaves a day?”

That wasn’t anywhere near enough. “Does it take that long to make?”

“No. Baking is fast.” Valerie pointed at the device Nelly operated. “We spend most of our time churning the hand quern.”

Dimitry examined the device. As Nelly rotated the crank, dust flew from its sides. They reminded him of black powder. Could he use a similar tool to grind chemicals? Perhaps his explosive experiments failed because a pestle and mortar didn’t have the precision necessary to reduce reagents to a fine enough size.

Unlikely. As Dimitry’s situation grew more desperate, his ideas grew wilder. This one, like most others he had, was useless.

Forcing his attention back to bread, he approached the hand quern. “Excuse me, Nelly.”

The little girl stepped back.

He glanced inside the pressure cooker-sized tool. Only three handfuls of grain fit inside its crowded interior and most of the product remained half-ground despite Nelly operating it since before he entered the kitchen. An inefficient use of labor.

Dimitry would ask the queen to have Malten’s millers grind grain for him. With the kingdom lacking food, mills doubtlessly stood idle. He wouldn’t have much trouble getting it done for free. His goal of feeding the poor benefited Her Majesty Amelie as much as it did him—the homeless would eventually resort to violence if they starved.

“If the grain was pre-ground, how many loaves of horsebread could you make every day?”

Valerie’s flour-coated hand fiddled with her amethyst engraved silver earrings. “Easily over a hundred. I won’t even need much more firewood. At the moment, I have to rewarm the oven every time I bake, but if I kept it hot, I could make bread all day.”

“That’s good news. How many people does each loaf of horsebread feed?”

“Back when I lived in Volmer, each one lasted a family of six for breakfast and supper. But they ate other food, too. Our wealthier customers didn’t even eat the horsebread—they sliced it into trenchers. So it varies.”

Dimitry ate from trenchers at a castle banquet. It was a massive slice of bread people used instead of plates, then threw away after eating. A waste of calories. He doubted a house-less refugee would imitate the process. “Assuming everyone ate their horsebread entirely, would you be able to feed at least a thousand people every day?”

“Me?” Valerie’s hands dropped the lump of dough they molded. “A… thousand?”

“Can you do it?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Jade Surgeon.”

“I want you to feed the homeless.” Dimitry approached the kitchen’s only barred window, which overlooked a narrow road. “Right now, there are hundreds, maybe thousands, starving on the streets. It’s our duty to help them now that the Church is gone.”

“People can’t survive on bread.”

“I understand that. That’s why I will eventually have fish delivered here as well.”

“Fish?” Her gaze traveled across the barren room. “I-I don’t have the tools to cook fish. I’d need cauldrons, pots, pans—”

“I’ll get you whatever you need.” Dimitry turned to face Valerie. “Naturally, I don’t expect you to do everything by yourself, that’s why you’ll have assistants to help you. They’ll do whatever you need them to do. Of course, you’ll have to train them first.”

“I don’t know if I can train anyone.”

“You taught Nelly to prepare grain just fine.”

Valerie ran an outstretched hand through the girl’s teal-tipped hair. “That’s because she’s Nelly.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to teach an adult?”

“It’s not that,” she mumbled. “When it’s just Nelly and me here, I feel comfortable. But ordering other people around… I just can’t do it. That’s something my husband always handled.”

“Why not just try?” Dimitry asked. “If you find it too difficult, I’ll figure out another way to get it done. But I’ll need time. Right now, you’re my best hope for feeding the homeless. They’ll die if we don’t do something soon.”

Valerie’s shoulders, now devoid of strength, dropped. “Sorry. I can’t.”

Her closed posture, her stifled voice, her trembling arms.

Was Valerie anxious?

Dimitry knew the feeling well. As a surgeon, it was often his job to guide anesthesiologists, surgical techs, nurses, and medical students through a procedure. His mistakes were always on display. Whenever a nerve was accidentally cut, a patient bled out, an x-ray he ordered remained undone, it was his fault. The overwhelming dread that came with potential failure resulting from his carelessness disappeared only after years of experience.

Although Valerie’s role wouldn’t entail deadly mistakes, her hesitation was similar. Assuming a leadership role wasn’t easy.

“Are you afraid you can’t do the job your husband once did?” he asked.

Absently molding a dough ball, she nodded.

“Fear is the normal response, and it was the one I felt when I decided to become a surgeon. But what if I didn’t take that first step? How many would the plague have killed if I never made that decision?”

“Not everyone can do what you did.”

“And not everyone can do what you can.”

Valerie looked up. “What if I can’t?”

“What if you can?”

Her eyes flitted across the room, then locked back onto Dimitry’s. Valerie’s irises pleaded for mercy.

Dimitry gave her none. Although he extracted no joy from guilting a woman into facing her fears, this was a hospital. Saving lives at a personal cost was what they did.

She glanced away. “Can you get me that temse?”

His eyes furrowed at the unfamiliar word. “This thing?” Dimitry pulled a circular sieve from an otherwise empty rack.

Valerie snatched it from him. “I’ll do it, but I won’t promise that I’ll be any good at it.”

“Your best efforts are all I want.”

“And that’s all you’ll get.”

Despite her sharp words, Dimitry was proud of Valerie. Many crumbled under the pressure of anxiety. She didn’t. Marching into the terrifying unknown was an undertaking too difficult for most people.

And Dimitry was no different. He fished a pouch containing the latest variation of black powder from under his cloak. Or would calling it his latest failure be more accurate?

After a defeated sigh, Dimitry’s gaze traveled from the pouch, to the raw balls of dough, to the temse in Valerie’s hand, then back to his pouch.

He froze at a sudden realization.

What if the process for black powder granulation resembled dough rolling? Dimitry could use water to bind the dark-gray mixture together as if it were flour and then press it through a net. The result would produce clumps similar to those in the relic’s vision.

It was yet another silly idea.

But maybe this one could work.

Dimitry rushed towards the kitchen exit.

“Do you want to take a loaf with you?” Valerie called as he reached the room’s threshold. “They’re still fresh!”

He stopped. “I’ll have some later. For now, can you tell me where you bought those temses?”

Round and flat sieves of varying mesh sizes resting under his armpit, Dimitry barged into the chemistry lab. His lungs heaved after a rapid trip to the market. Anxious wisps fluttered in his abdomen, impelling him forward as they burst with the excitement of long lost hope found once more.

He was ready to run more trials.

However, what met his gaze weren’t the backs of busy employees pulverizing chemicals, but four people staring at a rock surrounded by shards of glass. His chemists silently endured winter’s evening gale, which howled through a shattered stained window’s remnants.

Transparent orange fragments crunched under Dimitry’s boots when he stepped forward. “What happened here?”

“Dimitry!” Clewin glanced back. “Did you see anyone throwing rocks outside?”

“I didn’t. When did this happen?”

“Just before you came in.”

Dimitry furrowed his brow. “Why would someone deface the lab?”

“Don’t know.” Clewin scratched at his gray hair. “Maybe it was an accident?”

“What if someone just doesn’t like churches?” an apprentice muttered.

“Probably some kids playing,” another responded. “Wasn’t shit else to do when I lived out there.”

Although having to pay for another window repair at the hands of a mysterious assailant troubled Dimitry, he didn’t let it show. “We’ll figure it out later. For now, I want to make another batch of black powder.”

Clewin sighed. “What’s it this time? Are you going to make us press it under a hammer again?”

The demoralized chemist in training referred to a previous experiment intended to replicate granulation—one failure among many.

Dimitry felt this trial would be different. “No. It’s something new.” He threw his cloak over a vacant chair and dropped his sieve temses onto a granite table. “Would someone bring me some alcohol from the cellar?”

A woman in a brown apron grabbed a pair of keys before dashing towards the church’s domed entrance. “I’ll get it.”

“Much appreciated. Clewin, mix me a small batch of the best black powder we’ve made so far.”

“The high sulfur one?”

“It’ll do.”

The gray-haired man massaged the burn scar on his neck with his palm and hunched over a table. He weighed powdered charcoal, sulfur, and potassium nitrate by eye before correcting his approximations with a zeroed balance scale. Clewin’s time spent mixing chemicals might not have produced a useful product, but it gave him a platform to exercise the basic skills necessary for any chemist. His self-assured movements demonstrated that fact. “So, what are we doing different this time?”

Dimitry leaned back against an icy wall. “We’re going to wet black powder to get it to clump up, then run it through a sieve.”

“A sieve? How’s that supposed to help us?”

“I think it’ll create the chunks we need for granulation.”

“That again?” Clewin shrugged. “We’ve been trying everything we could think of for days now. Are you sure this black powder stuff isn’t a waste of time?”

Dimitry wasn’t confident in his ability to recreate functional explosives. However, to let his insecurity show would only demoralize his employees. “We’re making progress. It’ll only be a short while until our efforts pay off.”

“If you say so. Honestly, I don’t even understand why granulation would help. All the powder does is make warm smoke. Why would making the pieces bigger help?”

Clewin’s question was one Dimitry pondered over the past couple of days. His brainstorming resulted in only one explanation.

“The black powder we have now is a very fine sand. When we keep it inside a jar or pile it on the floor, the grains are so densely packed that they block the hot air from the initial combustion from reaching deep inside. That means the internal grains can’t heat up enough to ignite. Currently, only the black powder exposed to the surface can burn. That’s why the reaction is so slow and weak. Does that make sense?”

“Maybe a little.”

“If we granulate the black powder into chunks, it’ll leave pockets for hot air to flow through no matter how it’s stacked. The combustion reaction can take place everywhere at once instead of only on the surface. That’s what makes it powerful.”

“I’m not sure I get it.”

“That’s fine.” Dimitry smiled. “It’s something you will come to understand.”

The apprentice dashed back into the former church. “I’ve got it, Jade Surgeon.” She placed a small jug nearby.

“Thank you.” He wafted the solution’s vapors towards his nose. The liquid reeked of concentrated alcohol—perfect for Dimitry’s purposes. Unlike the water Valerie added to flour, ethanol had a lower boiling point, which meant it would evaporate faster and expedite black powder’s drying process.

“Done.” Clewin pushed a cup, whose ceramic base rumbled as it slid across the granite table. “Now what?”

“Watch carefully.” Careful not to drown it in excessive liquid, Dimitry slowly poured alcohol into the black powder Clewin prepared. Every onyx-colored grain melded together.

Dimitry grabbed the clumped product and molded it as if it were a ball of dough. The clay conformed to the shape of his hands. Then, like one would shred provolone against a cheese grater, Dimitry pressed the black powder orb into a temse sieve.

The tool’s horsehair mesh tore the black clay into small chunks. Unlike the uniform pieces in the relic’s vision, some granules were large and round, while others small and spiky. Clewin collected every fragment and allowed them to dry on a warm incendia blanket.

Before long, two piles of explosives rested on a table. The first was the powder from Dimitry’s pouch, and the other comprised nonuniform black granules.

Would the new product burn faster?

Would it allow the production of bombs and flintlocks?

Would he finally achieve success after countless tests and trials?

Dimitry’s heart beat faster. Excitement and anxiety bubbled within his abdomen, bursting as they rose into his chest. Although he maintained a calm expression, he couldn’t stop his heel from restlessly tapping the floor. “Clewin, light the powder first.”

“Got it.” Flint and steel in his hands, the gray-haired man produced sparks, which fell onto a pile of black powder.

White smoke smelling of spent fireworks filled the air. Then, after smoldering for several seconds, the fire petered out. Despite this variation of black powder burning faster and cleaner than the initial trials, it showed the same disappointing performance as always. There wasn’t enough power to create an ineffective weapon.

But it was the result Dimitry expected. The powder wasn’t the star of this show. His breathing growing ragged, he ushered forth another command. “Now the granules.”

“Right.” Clewin ran the flint across the steel rod’s surface.

A falling spark shot towards the granulated black powder. When it grazed the surface, the entire mound combusted into light and smoke.

Clewin jumped back.

The apprentices looked on with wide-open eyes.

A grin spread across Dimitry’s face. It was the relief of a man who found an oasis in a boundless desert. The satisfaction of a doomsayer who predicted the apocalypse amongst countless naysayers. Salvation in a war-torn land.

Dimitry’s granulated black powder wasn’t as powerful as the one in the relic’s vision, but it was strong enough for explosives. And there were still many improvements to make.

Clewin scratched the back of his gray-haired head. “That was fun, but how is it supposed to kill a heathen?”

“You’ll see soon.” Dimitry grabbed his cloak with a shaky hand. “Until then, I want you to repeat the process I showed you until you turn all the black powder you prepared into granules.” He pointed at the stack of sieves with varied meshes. “Afterward, separate them by size using the temses. Send a messenger when you’re finished.”

80. Flying Devils

An engorged moon drifted across the sky. Its scarce light illuminated the backs of otherwise gloomy clouds, painting the streets a muffled teal color. Although the damn snow finally stopped, that did nothing to mute the icy winds. They howled across a discombobulated nighttime cityscape.

Angelika sniffled through a numb nose and squeezed her fingers to reinvigorate them with warmth. It didn’t work. The cold permeated most of her body despite the incendia undershirt she got from Leona. Her straight-laced elder sister’s gift helped some, but did nothing to keep her legs warm. She bounced restlessly to keep them from freezing off.

How did her life turn out this way?

Less than a month ago, Angelika would spend most of her days hunting bandits and invading heathens. Her goal was to rise through the Sorceresses Guild’s ranks until she became a head channeler. To lead a squadron into battle, to hear the boom of a voltech cannon at her command. That was all she cared about—following in dad’s footsteps. She was only twelve when he died, but her memories of Adal pushed her forward.

Or they used to.

Now she was standing around, defending a shitty Zeran building. Dimitry asked her to stay extra vigilant after someone attacked his church. Shoving her shivering hands into her pockets, Angelika straightened her hunched back. She scanned the street once more in search of anyone seeking to deface the cathedral.

The only person who stood out was a woman who sat against a baker shop’s chiseled wall. She glanced out from under a thin and ruffled hood. Her pathetic eyes glared.

Angelika stared back, frowning.

Misery and despair contaminated the woman’s gaze. It begged for mercy. A helping hand.

Unable to bear the compounding sympathy and guilt, Angelika turned away. What would she do if she was in that woman’s position? Without money, there wasn’t a way to buy vol. And without vol, Angelika would be just as helpless. Maybe that was how Dimitry felt when he treated the poor for free.

Wait.

Why was Angelika sympathizing with a stupid refugee? It wasn’t like she invaded their home! They should be thankful the queen allowed them into Malten in the first place.

Shrieks and shouting echoed from a distant street.

Angelika’s head shot to the side.

A running man stumbled. “F-flying devils. Flying devils!”

Numbness instantly left Angelika’s body, only for a thumping heart and fiery blood to take its place. Flying devils? That meant a fucking carrier devil floated nearby. Had the heathen raids started already? Mom was still outside Malten, enchanting the city walls. Was Raina safe?

Now wasn’t the time for worry.

She grabbed some icy vol from her pocket. Then, in one smooth motion, Angelika pulled the voltech rifle off of her back and loaded it with an iron pellet. Aiming at the sky, she waited with steadied breath.

Angelika hoped the new seal her baby sister carved for her weapon worked well. She smirked. What a dumb thought. Although Emilia was a weirdo, she was also a damned genius. Her seals were always perfect.

Two assholes with long, sharp wings covered in jagged spikes soared over a wide road. The glowing blue heathen circuits covering their bodies distinguished them from a dark green sky. One flying devil spread its feathers: it prepared to fling them at everyone below.

Angelika absorbed the vol and effortlessly guided its power through her body. She focused half of it into her palm and reserved the rest within her upper back’s cores.

“Propelia.”

An iron pellet soundlessly darted out of her rifle to hit a flying devil’s slim torso, snapping the fucker into two. Half of its body crashed onto a roof, the other into the side of an inn.

She looked around. Happy that nobody got hurt, Angelika mumbled to herself. “Smooth as always, Emilia. Love you.”

The surviving heathen circled overhead after the death of its demonic comrade.

Although people panicked and rushed and shoved one another in an attempt to flee, the streets and alleys surrounding the cathedral remained packed.

“Move your asses!” Angelika slammed another iron pellet into her rifle. “If you don’t get out of the way, you’re going to get hurt!”

The second devil began to spread its feathers.

“Too late, asshole.” She pulled the vol’s remnant energy into her palm. “Propelia.”

Another hit.

A wing snapped from the heathen’s torso, sending the beast swerving as it plummeted towards the ground.

Unfortunately, its wounds weren’t fatal.

Angelika clicked her teeth. Idleness rusted her skills. Hoping the fall’s impact would kill the fucker, she dashed down the street to make sure. Bright blue dots of heathen’s blood guided her past a road now devoid of civilians and refugees.

Every droplet formed a trail that turned into an adjacent alley and back behind the cathedral. A flying devil’s corpse pooling in its own fluids lay at the end. Plunged into its chest was a dagger. However, unlike a knife a stinking refugee might have, this one had a purple sapphire engraved into its gleaming silver hilt.

Nearby, a cloaked figure hovered over a dog.

Angelika appreciated her own handiwork and glanced at the idiot who didn’t know to run away from danger. “Hey, you. You alright?”

The cloaked figure didn’t respond. Instead, they poured water from a canteen onto the hound’s wounds, smelling of melting flesh and fur. Burns traveled from the massive canine’s neck to its front left leg. Similarly scorching heathen’s blood covered the idiot’s clothes. Judging by the quality of her dagger, she was a wealthy merchant or some noble. But who exactly was she?

“Forget the damn dog.” Angelika stomped closer. “Worry about yourself.”

The cloaked figure looked up. It was a woman whose concerned indigo eyes glimmered in the pale moonlight. She held out her arms, which cradled the wounded beast. “Help her.”

Angelika stepped back. As a sorceress, Angelika attended many banquets before, yet never met a noble so stupid as to attack a heathen to save an animal’s life. They even expected her to hold the mangy beast. “I’m not touching that.”

Dog whimpering in her arms, the woman paced the alley leading to the hospital’s entrance. Was she really trying to get it treated?

“Hey!” Angelika said. “They only see people there.”

The woman continued her silent march.

“Damn it.” Angelika caught up to grab her shoulder. “I just told you, we don’t care about your pet.”

Long, raven black hair flowed from under the woman’s hood, twirling around her when she glanced back. Her powerful gaze held firm. “Dimitry does.” She brushed off Angelika’s hand before walking away.

Why did the woman know Dimitry by name? Was she a friend or something? Based on her looks and luxurious dagger, she could have even been one of his ‘premium’ plague cure patients. The twenty-five gold mark fee was something even mom would struggle to afford.

Angelika decided it was better not to correct the woman. That was Dimitry’s problem. Instead, she would follow her into the cathedral as an excuse to warm up. Her legs were freezing.

Winter’s relentless gale squeaked through boards covering a broken, stained glass window. They carried a frigid chill into a desolate room containing only granite furniture, an illumina enchanted rock, and a puppy. The poor thing lay in a corner by herself. Fresh bandages covered her neck and leg.

From a chair in the chamber’s center, Saphiria couldn’t bear looking into her round and terrified eyes. They remained that way from before Dimitry’s treatment and since she woke up. Dimitry put the pup to sleep to keep it from running in fear, only for her to wake up in a place she didn’t recognize.

Saphiria patted her lap to coax her forward.

But the pup didn’t come. She was scared, lost, and hesitant to walk forward.

Just like Saphiria.

People visited the castle daily to solicit her hand in marriage. Whether the sons of local dukes or countesses from Ontaria, they sought to gain control over the country’s assets by winning the heiress’ heart with sweet words and expensive gifts. Although mother didn’t verbally pressure Saphiria into making a choice, Amelie’s expectant glares prodded her. They prodded her to marry and to relearn what it meant to be a princess. To study and to pull this kingdom from the brink of ruin.

But Saphiria couldn’t despite her best attempts. She might have been a promising heiress at one point, yet life as a slave left her unable to trust. The guilt she carried from dozens of assassinations stifled her outgoing nature. A decade of people treating her like a disposable tool stole her confidence.

And father’s death… the pain of his loss only hit her recently. She realized that Ferdinand would never again show her the mines or take her on a merchant voyage.

It wasn’t that she didn’t know he died. Of course she knew. But no matter how many times others reminded Saphiria of his passing, her heart couldn’t understand logic or truth. It didn’t register. That was until tonight when the vacant numbness suddenly vanished, leaving only despair. For the first time since she returned to Malten, Saphiria truly felt.

She felt alone.

Just like the puppy.

Saphiria patted her lap once more.

Ears tucked against the sides of her head, the pup remained curled in the corner of the room.

How odd for a hunting dog to wander the streets alone. She definitely had an owner. With the exorbitant price of their care, the difficulty of training, and the prestige required for ownership permits, no one would let a hunting dog leave their home unless they didn’t want her anymore.

Saphiria looked into her sad eyes. “Did someone important to you abandon you as well?”

The pup released a longing whimper.

“That sounds difficult. It’s not much, but my lap is warmer than the floor. You can rest here if you’d like.”

She raised her head.

“And I could use the company.”

With slow and hesitant steps, the pup approached.

“I know it’s difficult, but we have to move forward, no matter how hard it is.” Although Saphiria’s words were brave, she wasn’t sure if she believed them anymore.

The pup sniffed her hand and dropped its head onto her lap.

“Good girl.” Saphiria stroked the animal’s soft fur with her thumb, careful to avoid the fresh bandages on its neck.

Although thankful that Dimitry treated the pup in time, it wasn’t her intention to burden him with more work. Out of every person in the kingdom, she doubted anyone labored as much as him. The miracles he performed. The people he saved. Revolutionary ideas more numerous than stars in a night sky. Nobles at banquets prattled about Dimitry’s luck and demonic powers, but the time Saphiria spent with him since their escape from Ravenfall told her the truth.

Dimitry knew things others could scarcely imagine.

That was why Saphiria wandered outside the cathedral, debating whether she should pass through its doors. The question she asked herself: Was she worth his time? It was time he would doubtlessly spend helping Malten in a way she never could despite being its princess. His potential wasted on a foolish girl’s selfish wish to make the world less lonely for a fleeting moment. To share feelings she wasn’t comfortable sharing with anyone else.

And yet, the answer to her nagging question was obvious. Saphiria would have swallowed her desires and turned back towards the castle if it wasn’t for the injured pup.

Two sets of footsteps thumped down an adjacent hallway, followed by the croaking of a heavy granite door.

A doctor with pale green eyes and dirty blonde hair rushed into the room. “Sorry for the wait. Someone else was hurt by heathens.”

Saphiria should have been the one apologizing. “It’s no trouble.”

Trailing behind him was a sorceress whose curly red-brown hair poured from underneath a crimson robe’s hood. The one from earlier. She glanced at Saphiria and bowed more awkwardly than Mira or any of her court sorceresses. “Hey. I’m sorry for what I said back there—didn’t know who you were. My bad.”

“It’s fine,” Saphiria said to end the sorceress’s prostrating speech.

“That’s Angelika.” Dimitry bolted the door shut. “You can speak freely around her.”

Saphiria heard that name at a court summit. If she remembered correctly, it belonged to the guard mother ordered to spy on Dimitry with no one except the sorceress guildmaster knowing. Was Angelika genuinely trustworthy? No. Dimitry was too trusting for his own good. People betrayed others at the first opportunity. Saphiria didn’t know much, but she knew that for sure.

“By the way.” Angelika walked closer, reaching into her robe’s vol pouch. “Figured you might want this back.” Her hand resurfaced, holding father’s silver dagger. “I cleaned the heathen’s blood off of it for you.”

Saphiria’s heart stopped. How could she leave Ferdinand’s memento lying on the street? She wanted to die. Careful not to disturb the puppy resting its head on her lap, she reached forward. “I’m in your debt.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Angelika dropped into a chair, a smirk on her face. “Just never thought I’d see the fabled princess kill a heathen with her own hands. Leona’s not gonna believe this.”

“Like always.” Dimitry looked at her. “Everything that happens in this room remains a secret.”

The sorceress waved her hand. “Yeah, yeah.”

Dimitry straightened his ruffled red and gold uniform, which now had several drops of stale blood splattered onto it, and sat.

A faerie with golden hair clambered out of his neckline and climbed down his shirt like a clumsy mountaineer. Her green wings chimed when she fell to the table. Precious strutted along its surface, nodding at people as she passed them. “Dumitry. Depressed Princess On The Verge of Collapse. Random Mutt. Loud Mouth. You’re all probably wondering why I called you here.”

“Shut up.” Angelika swept her away with a flick of her wrist. “No one cares about what you have to say.”

“Wow. So angry.”

“Trust me. You haven’t seen angry yet.”

The pup growled at Precious.

“Bad pooch.”

“Are you gonna take that from her?” Angelika prodded. “Chomp the faerie. I bet she tastes delicious. Like roasted chicken.”

Saphiria scratched behind the hunting dog’s ears. “She’s not dangerous. I promise.”

Despite hiding her bared teeth, the pup didn’t divert its gaze from Precious.

Dimitry cleared his throat, dispelling the tension. “As all of you doubtless know by now, the heathen raids began tonight. I asked everyone to come here because you’ve all had more experience with them than I. My home was far from the coast, so I’ve never had a chance to fight them.”

“You’ve come to the right gal.” Angelika leaned back into her chair and slammed her boots onto the table. “Need me to shoot em for you? It’d be a nice change of pace.”

“I just need some information for now. Correct me if I’m wrong, but my understanding is that heathen numbers increase daily until the end of the month. Eight days from now. That’s when the night of repentance starts. Right?”

“Yes,” Saphiria said despite not fighting heathens since living in Estoria over four years ago. It was strange to see flying devils this early in the month, but crawler attacks started much earlier.

“I see.” Dimitry stroked his chin. “Since heathens have started attacking, would it still be safe to test something outside the city walls? Preferably tomorrow afternoon, far away from Malten where no one could see.”

“Take me, and you’ll be fine,” Angelika said. “But let me guess. Surgeon life has you craving a little danger? I know the feeling.”

“Not necessarily. I have a weapon I want to test.”

“Weapon? You mean the ones that relic we found showed you?”

Saphiria bit her lip. So Dimitry told Angelika about not only Precious but relics as well? Not even the queen knew about either.

“Enough foreplay.” Precious stomped, the sole of her tiny foot plonking into the table’s surface. “Skip to the good part!”

“All right, calm down.” Dimitry shook his head. “I’ve developed something called a ‘bomb’. I think it may allow people to kill ground-based heathens much more easily.”

The faerie hopped excitedly. “Explosions!!”

“Explosions?” Angelika asked. “Is that why your office always smells like burnt… something?”

Saphiria looked up from the sleepy pup, whose eyelids grew heavy. “I thought you were making flintlocks.”

“I was and still am.” Dimitry sighed. “However, that blacksmith Elias still hasn’t reported on his progress. If he doesn’t have one ready by tomorrow, I have no choice but to test what I already have. There’s no time to waste with the night of repentance being less than a week away. I want to have something ready by then.”

“I don’t mind tagging along,” Angelika said, “but do you really think your bombs will do anything useful? We already have voltech rifles and cannons.”

“The problem is that only mages can use voltech weaponry. But anyone can use a bomb.”

Saphiria didn’t know what to expect from the mysterious bomb, but if Dimitry made it, it would definitely be another miracle from his homeland. She had to see it with her own eyes. “I’ll be there.”

Precious rubbed her hands, a grin spreading across her face. “Who are we going to blow up?”

“The plan is to test it on dead crawlers and carapaced devils. My thoughts are if it works on a dead heathen, it’ll work on a live one, too.”

“Makes sense to me.” Angelika shrugged. “I’ll find some with their shells and blood intact.”

“Finally!” Precious yelled. “All those days sitting bored in a cold drawer will finally pay off. Hey, Dumitry. Can I explode a bomb too?”

“Unfortunately not. My head chemist will be there, so you’ll have to hide.”

“Wha—” Precious sniffled. “But after everything we’ve been through? I thought we were friends.”

Angelika groaned. “Stop pretending, you bullshitter. Besides, who’d want to be friends with you?”

“What a great idea, Loud Mouth. I might not be able to explode a bomb, but I can watch it explode from under your robes.”

“Uh. No, you can’t.”

“Yes I can.”

“If you come any closer, I will stomp you.”

“Your emotions say you won’t.”

“Trust me. I will.”

The sorceress and faerie’s bickering faded into the background when Dimitry faced Saphiria. He spoke in a hushed tone. “I’ve been meaning to ask. Is there a reason you stopped by the cathedral?”

The knowing glance in his eyes told Saphiria that he knew it wasn’t just because of an animal. Her being next to the hospital exactly when the flying devils attacked was too convenient. She looked down at the snoring pup’s fluffy head.

Should Saphiria tell him the truth? Her selfish reason for coming? How she considered her desire to chat about her own problems more important than his work as a surgeon? No. She would suppress her feelings and tell him something useful instead. “The plague situation in Amphurt is improving. Your blankets are working well.”

“That’s good.” Dimitry’s eyes continued to look on expectantly.

“And you should be careful.”

“Of?”

“There are nobles and merchants spreading rumors about you.”

“Good rumors, I hope?”

She shook her head.

“Yeah, Your Royal Majesty already told me. But that’s not all, is it?”

Saphiria froze. Despite appearing calm on the surface, she scrambled for something else to tell him. But unbottling her feelings wasn’t an option. They would overwhelm her. “…Mother said she vacated some land north of Malten for you.”

“You mean for potassium nitrate production?”

“Yes.”

“That’s nice of her, but aren’t heathens coming from there now?”

“A fleeing countess left it behind,” Saphiria said. “Mother said it was the best she could do.”

“I see, I see.” Dimitry nodded. “But there’s something else, isn’t there?”

Her emotion, sad and lonely, desperate and afraid, grew by the moment and bubbled within. She couldn’t hold it back anymore. “And I wanted to—” Saphiria caught herself before she overspoke. Everything she felt was a lump in her throat, struggling to get loose.

“I’m guessing it’s something private?”

“How did you…?”

Dimitry pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and held it out. “Because you’re crying.”

Saphiria raised a hand to her eyes. They were wet.

“Grief isn’t something people should handle on their own. You may think you’re fine, but everyone has to process their feelings. You’re welcome here anytime you feel the need.”

81. Improvised Explosive Device

The light of an enchanted lantern and the fires of a roaring forge illuminated an anvil bench. Hung around its horn was red-hot metal. A hammer struck the molten surface, expelling sparks and blackened hammerscale flakes with every forceful clang.

Elias wiped his forehead. What he was making was a frizzen, and according to the surgeon, it was a vital component in the flintlock mechanism. That kid said he wanted to build a musket—a weapon far stronger and cheaper than any voltech rifle.

Although Elias never heard of such an armament nor believed it could exist, he also didn’t care. He had to obey the queen’s orders. But that changed nothing. Even if the choice was his to make, he would have agreed to the job. Anything was worth doing so long as it let him forget about her. Projects born from a surgeon’s hopeful musings were no exception.

And a job as impossible as this one was just that.

It was the most challenging undertaking Elias had ever attempted. The frizzen was just one of many components, and it alone took days of tinkering to create a functioning sample. No matter what oil Elias quenched it in, no matter what temperature he used to harden it, the steel would chip when it struck flint at high speeds. The metal was too brittle alone.

That was why he welded the steel to a wrought iron bar. Although their differing welding temperatures made the procedure challenging, it was a crucial step. Malleable iron provided the toughness necessary for steel to survive the flint’s impact intact. Together they produced the sparks that set some powder or whatsit alight.

Elias shrugged. Despite dedicating every day from the age of eight to blacksmithing, he didn’t understand how the flintlock functioned or if it even made sense. All his efforts seemed to get him was an aching lower back, stiff shoulders, and legs sore from standing throughout the day.

He needed to rest.

After shaping the frizzen with one final metallic clang, Elias set down his hammer. He stretched. Popping sounds erupted from all over his body, including places they never came from before—his reward for nearly thirty years of intense labor.

Upon reaching a table in the corner, his hand swept across its surface to push away a rumpled brown apron and a cast-iron pouch, which fell to the floor with a loud thunk. Elias dropped onto a stool and looked around the smithy.

Broken files and drill bits lay on the floor. Shattered flint and sideways crucibles with hardened iron clinging to their sides.

What a mess.

If she was here, she definitely would have lectured him. Only an obsessive sorceress like her could have kept Elias’s hyperactive mind on track. Why did he let her leave that autumn morning eight years ago? They could have moved, avoided the Gestalt Wars altogether. His position as guildmaster was a small price to pay for her company.

Elias sighed. There he went. Thinking of her again.

Luckily, when work wasn’t enough to forget, he had a more effective solution. A more delicious solution. Elias reached for a bottle on a nearby shelf and removed its ceramic lid. He looked inside.

What used to be a vibrant red liquid was now brown-tinged and smelled of vinegar. Leaving Amalthea’s finest wine to rot in a hot workshop was a poor decision. But it wasn’t his worst. That one was made eight years ago.

“Here’s to you, Margaretta.”

An odor heavy with sulfur and sweat greeted Dimitry when he opened the door to Elias’s workshop. Warm air replaced winter winds, alleviating the prickling sensation in his numb cheeks. Something crumbled under the weight of his boot when he entered.

Sawed metal pieces, charcoal chunks, and chipped flint littered the floor. Traversing the room without stepping on something was an impossible task.

Hopefully, the clutter meant that the blacksmith was hard at work. If Elias had produced a functional flintlock, Dimitry intended to test it alongside his ceramic black powder bombs. Guns were vital for Malten’s defense. At the moment, only sorceresses armed with vol and magic-powered rifles could effectively dispatch flying devils. His weaponry aimed to change that.

“Yo, surgeon!” said a man whose chest hair bulged from under a brown apron. A blithe smile on his face, Elias placed a ceramic jug onto a flat anvil as he approached. “Here to check on that thing?” His breath reeked of alcohol.

Dimitry wondered if it was safe to work with heavy tools and burning metals while drunk, but didn’t mention his concerns. It wasn’t any of his business. “How’s the flintlock coming along?”

The man massaged the back of his bald head with a giant hand. “I’ve made progress. Check it out.” His hand beckoned Dimitry to follow.

They passed a worktable upholding dozens of wooden pieces with uneven spiral engravings. Thin and of varying lengths, there was only one thing they could be: screws. Bridle screws, frizzen screws, hammer screws, jaw screws, and sear screws. Parts essential in any flintlock mechanism.

Dimitry identified each cylindrical carving’s role but harbored doubts regarding their reliability in a functional musket. The relic’s visions called for metal screws. Wouldn’t the force of exploding black powder shatter wooden parts? Just how much progress did Elias actually make? “Has it been difficult?”

“Difficult?” Elias guffawed. “Nothing’s difficult!”

Although the guildmaster looked optimistic, Dimitry wasn’t. Only seven days remained until the night of repentance. Perhaps he was foolish to believe that an unspecialized blacksmith could produce a revolutionary weapon in just fifteen days.

Elias reached an anvil and lifted the L-shaped piece of dented metal resting atop. “Look at this.”

“Is that the frizzen?” Dimitry asked.

“Yep. You told me to use steel, but it breaks too easily. I welded a worn steel file to a wrought iron bar to make it more resilient.”

“Does it work?”

“Watch this.” Elias smacked it against a sharp and orange flint rock to produce sparks. “What do you think? Impressed?”

Despite the relic displaying the components in a flintlock musket, it didn’t show how to forge them. They could all be made from iron, and Dimitry would be none the wiser. It was the tinderbox in Dimitry’s office and chemistry lab that inspired him to tell Elias to make the frizzen from steel. He knew no other way to produce the sparks necessary to ignite black powder.

Apparently, Dimitry was wrong. “Well done.”

“I know.”

“How about those screws on the table back there? Do you think wood is strong enough to handle an explosion?”

Elias shrugged. “No idea, but metal ones would take weeks to file. Honestly, I still don’t even know if an exploding weapon makes sense.”

“The explosion is only there to propel the ball.”

“Right, right.” The hairy-chested giant grabbed something from an overhead shelf. “I had someone make some of those too.” He dropped the lead bullet into Dimitry’s hand. “But it’s strange.”

“What is?”

“Even with an entire crude vol pellet, a voltech rifle can’t shoot an iron ball further than fifty paces. So how is your flintlock thing supposed to fire something this heavy?”

Dimitry rolled the musket ball in his palm. “Although lead is a lot denser than iron, flintlocks produce more than enough force to shoot them. That’s what makes them so powerful.”

“I hope you’re right.” Elias looked down, his expression somber. “I don’t want any more sorceresses dying doing a job we should do ourselves. By the way.” He plucked metal shards from a near ceiling-height shelf. “There’s something else I want to show you.”

While entranced by his own gathering task, the lumbering man’s hip knocked against a drawer. An orb as large as a fist rolled across the furniture’s surface before crashing to the floor. There was a quarter-sized hole in its exterior.

Dimitry picked it up. “What’s this?”

Elias glanced back. “Oh. That? It’s just a pouch.” He continued fishing for scattered metal fragments. “I made it out of cast-iron for a client who had his pouch cut and coins stolen while he wasn’t looking. Said he wanted something refugee-proof. Unfortunately, it’s so brittle that a single hit from a hammer could break it. I’ll probably have to make it from higher quality materials.”

Dimitry’s eyes furrowed. The orb’s walls were sturdy enough to survive a fall and allow a black powder reaction to build up pressure, but not so sturdy that they prevented a powerful explosion altogether. Could the pouch function better as a bomb casing?

The original intention was to use ceramics. Unfortunately, it was expensive in bulk quantities and broke at the slightest impact. Ceramic bombs couldn’t survive a throw. Cast-iron was better. The question was whether he could get enough in time for the month of repentance. “Do they take long to make?”

“Nah. I could send a mold to the mines and get the blast furnaces to pour a hundred a day. The idea was to make them cheap and quick to make.” Elias sighed. “But not every idea works out, you know?”

“Do you have extras?”

“Why? You also scared of refugees stealing from you?”

“Not exactly.” Dimitry smiled. “I think there’s a better use for your pouches than holding coins.”

“I have a crate full of samples in the back. Grab ‘em if you want.” The giant dropped dozens of metal shards onto a nearby anvil. “But forget about that and take a look at this.”

They were flat pieces of V-shaped metal. Flintlock springs. Or that was the intention. Most had dents, cracks, or broke completely.

Elias massaged his bald head. “These things just don’t want to work. I used all kinds of steel, but no matter how much charcoal I hammered into it or what temperature I tempered them at, most didn’t produce enough force. The ones that did broke when I stressed them. Are you sure they aren’t too thin?”

Dimitry could only shrug. Although he wanted to help, to come up with a solution, he knew nothing about forging springs, let alone more than a blacksmithing guildmaster. “I’m not sure what to tell you. I only know what flintlock parts look like—never made one myself.”

“Alright.” The giant leaned back against a wall. He took a deep breath. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Puffy gray clouds hovered over a field of trees with shattered trunks, crumbling heathen corpses, and brown patches of barren soil. What little grass remained swayed in a frigid breeze. It was the land west of Malten—where stone monsters from the ocean depths ventured to wage war against the soldiers of a small and encumbered city.

Among many casualties was a corpse belonging to a crawling devil. Unlike the six legs a living variant had, this one only had five, which lay sprawled out behind it. The top of its spherical core collapsed, a pool of blue goo overflowing through the cracks. It was the freshest specimen Angelika found. According to her, the celebrated knight Valter killed it last night with a giant rock hammer.

However, having its body go to waste was a shame. Dimitry couldn’t let that happen. That was why he knelt beside it, fitting a bomb between its core and the dirt on which it lay.

His choice of explosive was simple. It was a cast-iron orb stuffed with granulated black powder. Clay sealed the hole on top, and through it ran a black powder encrusted yarn serving as a fuse.

Heart pounding and a proud smile on his face, Dimitry examined his improvised explosive device one last time. How many brainstorming sessions, failures, days of concerted effort did he spend designing it? From sourcing materials to training employees, he did it all. But now came the time to see if his efforts were worth the invested time.

Dimitry exhaled slowly to calm his trembling hands, then glanced back to ensure the resulting shrapnel wouldn’t endanger anyone.

Angelika leaned back against a distant tree with her arms folded across her chest. She doubtless held back the urge to yell at the faerie teasing her from beneath her crimson robes. Beside her was a gray-haired man whose head twitched as it scanned the skies. Fear contorted Clewin’s face. Saphiria stood away from them, waiting. A cloak’s hood enshrouded her face from the afternoon sun.

They were all at least twenty-five meters away. A safe enough distance. Dimitry struck flint against a steel rod. After one of the resulting sparks ignited the fuse, he ran to join the others.

Clewin’s fingers restlessly tapped his thighs. “Madam sorceress, are you sure it’s safe out here?”

Despite her relaxed posture, Angelika brushed aside her windblown red-brown curls to reveal alert orange eyes. “For the fifth time, you’ll be fine.”

Her words did little to soothe the fidgeting chemist.

She glanced at Dimitry. “The thing’s annoyed that nothing is happening. Can you tell it to shut up?”

“Thing?” Clewin muttered.

Dimitry knew Angelika referred to Precious. “It’ll be just a few—”

A sound like that of a firing cannon echoed across the vast field. With a flash of hot red light, metal, stone, and dirt chunks burst into the air only to disappear in a white smoke cloud. Heathen blood poured out of the dead crawling devil’s core through a new gap in its carapace.

Relief and satisfaction washed over Dimitry.

“Yes!” The high-pitched shriek came from the golden-haired faerie peeking beside the sorceress’s neck.

Emerging from a wordless trance, Angelika vacantly shoved Precious back into her robes.

Luckily, Clewin didn’t see the corrupted creature. His gaze remained plastered to the persistent cloud of white smoke rising into the sky.

“It’s beautiful,” Saphiria mumbled.

After the smoke dissipated, the bomb’s effects became evident. Its explosion left a ashtray-sized hole within the heathen’s carapace, while shrapnel fragments left smaller gaps and dents.

Delightful yet unsurprising results.

Crawling devil cores were fluid sacks surrounded by a thin layer of protective stone. There seemed to be other ‘organs’ too, but Dimitry didn’t have time to examine them.

Although his weapon produced a sizable bang, it still had glaring faults. It might have been able to pierce a heathen’s armor while it lay on the ground, but could it do so while the creature lived, giant legs suspending the core meters into the air? Could the bomb hit its target’s only weak point during combat?

“I-is that what we were making all this time?” Clewin uttered, finally recovering from his stupor. “I thought you were gonna set them on fire.”

“This is just the beginning,” Dimitry said. “It’ll be even more powerful once we perfect black powder.” He wanted to mention his intention to manufacture flintlocks and cannons, too, but decided against it. It was still too early to tell if they would ever reach completion.

The gray-haired man dashed towards the supply crate with renewed vigor. “Should I make another bomb?”

Dimitry nodded. “Prepare one with the second largest granules. We’ll be testing which size makes the biggest boom.”

“Got it.”

“Wait,” Angelika said.

Clewin looked up.

“What is it?” Dimitry asked.

She stomped closer. “Even though it’s fun to watch, there’s a big problem with your bomb. Heathens don’t sit around waiting to be exploded. They’ll be gone long before your weapon goes off.”

That was an issue. The only solution was to teach soldiers to adjust fuses for use on mobile targets, but that would require experimentation, supplies, and training. Neither of which Dimitry could afford.

“Hey, alchemist.”

Clewin looked up at her. “I’m a chemist, madam sorceress.”

“Whatever,” Angelika said. “Try making one of those things without the black string.”

“Y-yes, madam sorceress.”

Dimitry stroked his chin. “Do you have an idea?”

“You said the fuse thing lets you ignite the bomb from a safe distance, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“You don’t need it. Watch this.” Angelika grinned. “Is it ready?”

Clewin sealed the bomb with clay. “Here you are, madam sorceress.”

“Can you stop calling me madam? Angelika is fine.”

“Yes, mada—” Clewin’s eyes opened wide as if acknowledging a grave error. “Here.” He held up the cast-iron orb.

She grabbed the bomb and threw it onto a patch of dirt beside a massive, tortoise-shaped heathen. Its armor was far thicker than any crawling devil’s.

“Ignia.”

A thunderous clap roared through the open field, launching debris and white smoke into the air. The explosion dented the carapaced devil’s shell. While it didn’t cause the massive monster to bleed, this bomb’s destructive power clearly surpassed that of its predecessor.

A wide smirk spread across Angelika’s winter-chilled and rosy cheeks. “What do you think about that?”

The ability to detonate explosives with magic was powerful. “I’m impressed,” Dimitry said, “but what was that spell you used? It sounded familiar.”

“You mean ignia?” Her orange eyes narrowed. “It makes things burn.”

Her words jogged Dimitry’s memory. He remembered Saphiria chanting ignia to start campfires during their corpse delivery missions for Delphine and when she set alight tents for his rescue in Coldust.

Did Angelika’s magic amplify the bomb’s effects by igniting all the black powder at once, or did it result from using smaller granules, which packed more explosive force than larger varieties within the same casing? Perhaps both played a role.

Dimitry sighed. Unfortunately, Angelika’s solution wasn’t helpful. “Your magic is effective, but the problem is that it wastes vol, and only sorceresses can use it. I designed this weapon with the average person in mind.”

“That’s not a big problem.” Angelika held an aquamarine pebble between two fingers. “The reason ignia is awesome is because it’s efficient. This crude vol pellet alone is enough for me to start up to ten fires from fifty paces away, and I’m not an exception. Anyone who learned magic past the apprentice level and used ignia to practice their spells’ distance and precision could do the same. They may not be as good as me, but they’ll be good enough to blow up your bombs without some shitty fuse.”

Saphiria nodded. “I trained with ignia, too.”

“Princes—” Angelika swallowed her words. They kept Saphiria’s identity as royalty a secret from Clewin as a matter of precaution. “Who taught you?”

“Mira.”

The sorceress’ eyes widened. “The guildmaster herself?”

“She wasn’t guildmaster back then,” Saphiria said.

“Ah. Right.”

Dimitry wondered if he could create a better ignition mechanism than a fuse or magic during the seven days leading up to the night of repentance. He considered developing a pressure detecting mechanism akin to a land mine, but that would take time. Time he didn’t have. Rushing the endeavor was dangerous. Injuries were inevitable while training an uneducated populace to use sophisticated explosives. Not to mention the fact that a mine’s ground-level explosion couldn’t damage a heathen’s core.

Maybe a dual approach was better? Fuses for people who couldn’t use magic, and none for those that could. However, the latter was clearly a better use of resources. He needed soldiers capable and willing to put it into action.

“How about knights?” Dimitry asked. “Can they cast ignia?”

Angelika shrugged. “Depends which one. Most of those idiots think spells are a waste of time because heathens resist magic. Only a powerful caster can damage a devil directly. That’s why we use voltech weapons and why knights waste their time training with rock hammers.”

“What you’re saying is, finding able men will prove difficult.”

“Yep.”

“Many people in the castle can cast magic,” Saphiria said. “I’ll ask mother.”

“Castle?” Clewin uttered.

Ignoring the chemist’s confused glance, Dimitry glanced at Malten’s distant walls. They would be under siege soon. He had to perfect his weapon before then. Luckily, he was full of ideas.

82. Hunting With Grenades

Gray early morning clouds cast a dull shadow over buildings of metal and stone. Illumina lamps shone from behind shuttered windows, their light seeping onto chiseled roads and the unfortunates who had no choice but to call them their home. Refugees crowded the three-way intersection outside Malten’s cathedral as always.

However, today their postures were different. They didn’t sit slumped against alley and building walls under makeshift tents of loose timber beams and leather scraps, nor did they lay curled beneath thin blankets. The homeless and hungry stood in a lengthy line.

Among them was a woman wearing a torn and rumpled tunic. She straightened her head-scarf with one hand and coddled her toddler with the other. A man waited behind her. He clutched his weathered rucksack while his eyes devoured an array of freshly baked loaves of bread, their slightly sweet odor wafting along gentle winds from atop a long table.

Everyone looked different, but their goals were the same—to grab a meal from the Jade Surgeon’s soup kitchen.

Unlike Dimitry expected, no one pushed ahead of the queue or sabotaged the others. The refugees were orderly, patient, and courteous despite surviving on meager handouts and scavenged refuse for days and weeks. Would they remain civilized if the hulking giant Milk didn’t stand guard beside the serving table? It was possible. Most were regular people who once had homes and jobs before mechanical invaders trampled everything they cherished.

Dimitry watched people shuffle forward with a heavy heart. He hoped this city could provide them the solace they sought. Unfortunately, that wasn’t a guaranteed outcome. If the heathens’ numbers continued to increase, if they breached Malten’s walls like they did those of the northern countries, no one would live well. Everything would crumble.

But he wouldn’t sit idly while it happened.

There was a solution: black powder.

Although yesterday’s tests proved that Dimitry had refined the explosive to a state where it damaged heathens, he still had to weaponize it. His cast-iron bombs were useless if they bounced off of their targets without exploding. They were too weak to pierce stone from a distance. The blast would only cause substantial damage if it directly contacted the enemy.

He brainstormed all night in search of a solution implementable within the six remaining days before the night of repentance. While he devised a simple machine that pulverized black powder reagents for faster production and a magic lighter for igniting fuses, his original query remained without an answer.

Dimitry knew there was a fix. An effective one. It was out there somewhere, and it lay within reach. He was close. Yet accumulated mental fatigue demanded he take a break.

Like he did whenever he needed rest but had no time for sleep, Dimitry stood outside the cathedral. He leaned back against a marble pillar, savoring the frosty air flowing through his nostrils. It carried away weariness with every breath. To pass the time, he watched his plan to undermine the Church’s influence over Malten’s people unfold.

A senior lady with a wrinkled face—aged partly in bygone years and the rest through life’s tribulations—stood in front of the line. One of the hospital porters cut her a thick slice of bread and topped it with baked fish. She accepted the gift with trembling hands, bowed, and glanced at Dimitry. “Your generosity is undoubtedly her doing. I’m certain Zera guided you to us. Her blessings be with you.”

Although Dimitry responded with a smile, the elderly woman’s words left him conflicted. He enjoyed helping others. Providing a small beacon of hope for those who had none was why he trained as a doctor. That, however, wasn’t the only benefit. His philanthropic pursuits made the streets safer. If thousands of people across Malten starved simultaneously, they would descend into a frenzy, destabilizing the tiny city with desperate acts of violence. Feeding the hungry benefited everyone.

But Dimitry’s long-term goals weren’t as virtuous as they appeared. They were more manipulative than anyone knew and more devious than he thought himself capable of.

Like rats conditioned to pull a lever for a dopamine rush, he needed Malten’s populace to associate his cathedral with good deeds. The first step was giving the needy food. Once they bought into his outward kindness, he would make them listen to sermons before receiving more. Dimitry would espouse Zera’s teachings, altering them to his own needs as necessary, gorging his listeners with meals and propaganda.

As his influence grew, so would his power. Power that allowed him easy access to steadfast workers eager to collect resources and soldiers willing to wield his weapons against heathens. Enabled him to improve the city’s relationship with aquatic demons. Made resisting the Church easier if they ever returned.

Logically, his actions helped everyone by keeping Malten stable, but that did nothing to assuage the darkness festering in Dimitry’s gut. It sent a shiver colder than any winter chill down his spine.

He glanced up at a gray and dark morning sky. It trudged overhead, no sun in sight.

Although Dimitry was an asshole in his youth, he never resorted to manipulation of this scale. Did this world make him that way? Perhaps it was a part of him that lay dormant until a crisis coaxed it to the surface.

It didn’t matter.

Dimitry intended to keep himself and those around him alive. If underhanded means accomplished that, he would use them as necessary. Besides, unlike the Church, he wouldn’t discriminate against believers by gender or demand they give up their children. Perhaps Dimitry was simply the lesser evil.

Contemplating his morality, he watched the soup kitchen line move forward until the sound of two massive granite doors creaked open behind him.

A woman with dark blue hair and downcast eyes passed through them. It was Claricia—Dimitry’s stock manager and accountant. She received both roles from Dimitry after demonstrating her skills as a math-literate librarian. Her simultaneous command over multiple languages, diverse information, and basic computational abilities was rare amongst a mostly uneducated populace.

She bowed.

Dimitry cast aside his contemplative stare, ready to deal with the emergency her sudden appearance indicated. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes. I’m here to say I’ve prepared the inventory, revenue, and expenditure report like you asked.”

It was a task Dimitry gave her in preparation for the night of repentance, but he didn’t expect her to finish so soon. She didn’t even have any documentation on hand. Was Claricia a talented worker or just hasty? “Are you sure you’re done already?”

“I’ve checked twice overnight and again this morning. The numbers are accurate.”

“And you confirmed the chemistry lab’s stock as well?”

She nodded.

Although Dimitry wasn’t sure what to believe, the results of her efforts intrigued him. “Alright. I’m listening.”

Claricia’s mopey gaze traveled across refugees waiting in a neat line. “Out here?”

“I’d prefer to stand in the wind a little longer. That is, as long as the cold doesn’t bother you.”

“N-no, nothing like that. It’s just that there are other people here.”

“It’s fine.” Dimitry smiled. “There’s nothing sensitive in your report. Besides, it’s not like you yell when you speak. No one will hear us from all the way over here.”

“Very well.” Claricia brushed her dark blue hair behind her ear. “Should I start with the inventory?”

“Whatever’s comfortable for you.”

Her eyes traveled upward as if reading a logbook only she could see. “I made sure that most of our supplies will last several days past the night of repentance as you requested. The only resource I’m worried about is black powder. Clewin said he and his apprentices won’t have enough time to process all of it. At their current rate, they won’t have more than a third finished before then.”

Dimitry was aware of the issue with hand-grinding reagents. Not only would the process eventually inflict his employees with repetitive stress injuries, but it was also slow and inefficient. He already had a fix planned. “I’ll handle it. Anything else?”

“Well, I’m not sure if it’s a problem, but…”

“But?”

“A few jugs of alcohol have gone missing from the storage room. While it’s not a lot, and we have more than enough, it’s disappearing little by little. I wasn’t sure if it was you using them or not.”

Missing alcohol stock? Was someone drinking it? Dimitry hoped not. Distilling ale wasn’t cheap, and he didn’t have time to deal with drunk employees. “That’s very perceptive of you to notice. I’ll look into it.”

“Now, I’ll do expenditures and revenue.” Her expression grew regretful.

“Your face tells me it’s not looking too good.”

She shook her head. “You’re operating at an enormous loss.”

Building a hospital and supplying a laboratory wasn’t cheap. However, investing well now earned Dimitry more money later. “That’s inevitable for the time being.”

“The firewood and cooking tools you purchased for the kitchen cost more than the hospital made in the past two days.”

“Right.”

“We had to re-enchant an incendia blanket and two distillation apparatuses with freezia for six golds. That’s with the Vogel family’s discount. The preservia bedclothes are still fine, but having those re-enchanted as well could cost—”

“They won’t be a problem,” Dimitry said. “We will be getting rid of most of them soon, anyway. Even with all the arriving refugees, plague cases are decreasing.”

“So it seems, but are you sure it’ll stay that way?”

Dimitry nodded. “The fewer plague victims there are, the slower it’ll spread. Especially now that some people have developed an immunity to the bacteria.”

Although there was confusion in Claricia’s eyes, she didn’t argue his point. “I also inquired at the carpenter and blacksmith. They said it’ll cost nearly twenty golds for the oak beds and the two carts you asked for. And that… portable latrine will cost extra because they’ve never seen one before.”

The furniture was necessary to furnish a hospital luxurious enough for a well-doing noble to consider visiting for common illnesses. Most patients slept on straw mattresses or sometimes on the floor. As for the cart and portable latrine, Dimitry needed them to collect and transport waste matter for his nitrate synthesizing plant. “Confirm the orders.”

“What?”

“Tell the craftsmen we want all of it.”

“F-for over twenty golds? That’s more than enough to buy a house within Volmer’s walls. If Clewin and I lived there, we would’ve never—” She lowered her escalating voice until it regained its monotonous tone. “Surely, it is wise to reconsider?”

“I understand your concerns,” Dimitry said, “but I’m still going to ask you to continue as planned.”

Claricia’s gaze fixed on a woman who reached the front of the soup kitchen line, a toddler’s hand in hers. “I know it isn’t my place to tell you how to use your coin, but if the hospital closes from poorly applied funds, my husband and I will end up on the streets again.”

She looked back at him. “Please. Don’t get me wrong. I respect everything you’re doing for the refugees, and I wish there were people more like you, but it’ll be for nothing if you don’t mind your expenditures. It’s best to err on the side of caution.”

Dimitry stroked his chin. Claricia usually stayed silent: this was the first time she showed her argumentative side. But that was precisely what he needed—an earnest person who probed his decisions for errors. He was just one man prone to making mistakes like anyone else, and a yes-man accountant who agreed to everything he said would only worsen matters. Although Claricia was short-sighted, her judgment would improve with experience.

“Claricia.”

“I apologize if I overspoke.” She bowed lower than before, her dark blue hair falling to the cathedral steps. “Ignore what I said if you wish.”

“On the contrary, I want you to do what you did just now more often. Never hold back your opinions from me. I’ll explain the exact reasons for my investments later, but for now, understand that they are meant to keep the city stable. The biggest priority is fighting heathens. If the city crumbles because of them, no amount of money will be enough to keep the cathedral afloat. That’s where I spent most of my funds.”

“Do you refer to the bomb you developed?”

Dimitry’s brow furrowed. He had ordered the few people involved in his bomb project to keep the weapon a secret before production began. With displeased nobles, an ailing populace, and potential Church spies lurking about, secrecy was vital. It was one of several measures he implemented to limit the chance of others sabotaging his research. The ease with which someone attacked his lab the other day exemplified its importance.

He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You know about bombs?”

“Clewin talked about it all last night. He told me that even he could kill a heathen if he used one.” Claricia stepped closer, uncharacteristic fury in her eyes. “Is it true?”

Of course the chemist would divulge sensitive information to his wife during pillow talk. “Don’t get too excited. There’s still a lot of work to be done before bombs deserve the praise your husband gave them. I’m still trying to figure out how to make them useful.”

“Is that why you paced the eastern third-floor hallway all last night?”

Dimitry pushed off the pillar he leaned back against. “You saw that?”

“My apologies.” Claricia bowed. “I usually try not to mention it.”

Wait. Did that mean it wasn’t the first time? What else did she see? As the miraculous Jade Surgeon, Dimitry had an image to maintain. “Do me a favor: don’t tell anyone. About that, bombs, or anything else that might seem strange.”

“U-understood.” Her cheeks blushed. “But if I can speak frankly, I don’t mind your bouts of pondering. It makes me feel that you’re doing everything in your power to lead us. It’s comforting.”

Black speckled granite comprised the altar room’s walls, floors, and ceiling. This chamber resembled most others on the cathedral’s upper floors, except for one difference. In place of howling winter winds surging frigid air through squeaking oak planks, only cool and stale air drifted within. There weren’t any windows or furniture. Even the pews that once populated the space were gone. Dimitry guessed they sat four dozen at some point, but thieves stole most of them long ago only for his porters to dispose of the broken ones that remained.

At the end of the narrow room was a gray statue of a woman holding a cane to the ceiling—that of Celeste, a woman Zerans revered as their spiritual guide. Dimitry considered hauling her away as well, but she stood embedded in the floor. Removing her was too much work. There was already enough space to turn this room into a greenhouse.

More than a hundred clay pots full of soil lined two long walls. A young farmer with calloused hands knelt beside one, planting a wooden trellis into its center. He equipped it to grow samul—a bean native to this world and the first crop that would take part in magically assisted genetic hybridization. Jesco wiped the dirt from his hands onto his pants before reaching for another wooden stake, unaware that he was being watched.

Dimitry cleared his throat.

“Who’s there?” Jesco grabbed the traveling sack beside him as his head shot up. “Dimitry?”

“Why are you so surprised to see me?” He stepped inside. “You’re the one that called me here.”

“Right. Yeah.” The farmer laughed nervously. “You told me to tell ya when I finished setting up, and I think I did. I mean, I set up a few gardens in the village before, but nothing like this. I’m not sure if this is what you wanted.”

Dimitry’s gaze traveled along a chain of interconnected wooden trellises and around the room. Everything appeared ready. As soon as enchantresses arrived to coat the ceiling with illumina, the floors with incendia, and various components with accelall and hastia, it would be ready to produce crops capable of feeding an entire kingdom with a fragment of the land and labor they currently require. “Looks good. Well done.”

“Thanks.” Jesco scratched the back of his head with dirt packed nails. “Hey, do you remember what ya said before? About making better plants?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot while workin’, but it still don’t make sense.”

“I’d be surprised if it did. It’s a topic few understand—even where I come from.”

“Can ya explain it to me?”

Dimitry walked past Jesco towards the statue of a woman whose blank eyes stared at a granite ceiling. Although he preferred to spend his time planning for the night of repentance, he figured a rudimentary understanding of plant hybridization would make the farmer more dedicated to his work. “Do you know how the same crop can produce different sized fruits?”

“Ya mean like how some wheat grows bigger grains than others?”

“Exactly. If you breed different types of wheat together, you’ll eventually make one that grows even bigger grains. That’s true with every plant.”

“No it’s not.” Jesco stopped packing dirt around a wooden stake. “Back home, we always plant beans from the biggest samul pods from last season. Only some of it grows big. Most of it looks normal or is even smaller than the others.”

What he spoke of was probably the result of randomized pollination, inbreeding, and unseen factors like recessive genes or mutations. The appearance of a sexually reproducing plant didn’t dictate what its offspring would look like. However, even a biological understanding that simple would overwhelm an uneducated medieval farmer. Jesco required a simplified explanation.

Dimitry rested an arm on Celeste’s cold, marble shoulder. “You said you had children, right?”

“Yeah… but what’s that gotta do with anything?”

“Did you ever notice your kids share features with you and your wife?”

Jesco glanced at the ceiling in contemplation, then nodded.

“That happens because we have these things in our bodies called genes. They decide our eye color, our height, and even the lengths of our fingers. When people have kids, each parent randomly gifts some of their genes to their children. If you and your spouse have brown hair, for example, your children likely do as well.”

“Genes? Inside us?” The farmer gazed into his palm as if searching for an escaped chromosome. “Even if what you said is true, what does that hafta do with plants?”

“Just like we have children with a mate, plants pass genes to their offspring, too. By controlling what genes the parents have, we can control what their babies will look like. That’s how we’ll be making bigger crops.”

Jesco frowned. “Are you saying plants have babies with each other?”

“That’s right.”

“But how? They don’t even have a… you know. That.”

“That’s because instead of that, they use pollen to fertilize seeds. It looks like a powder. I’m sure you’ve seen it inside flowers before.”

Jesco’s eyes opened wide as if the universe lay bare its darkest secrets. “So that’s what pollen does. I thought it just made people and dogs sneeze so they don’t attack the stems or roots.”

Dimitry suppressed a laugh. “Pollen as a defense mechanism is a good guess, I suppose.”

“And what are we gonna do? Make ‘em make babies?”

“Yes, but more specifically, we’re going to make them make the babies we want them to make.”

“How?”

It was easier to explain genetic inheritance with a visual demonstration. He pointed at the traveling sack beside Jesco. “Do you still have all the different beans you got from Richter in there?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Dimitry grabbed the bag and searched through it with a wandering hand.

Inside lay disorganized crude iron tools like rounded scissors and hand-sized shovels. Flaxen strings and wool tufts. Beneath it all was a segmented layer of pouches. They contained seeds of varying shapes and textures. Some were small and coarse, others soft and fleshy.

Then there was a pouch containing something else. Something weird. Something sticky and squishy.

He opened it.

Inside was the same highly adhesive pink slime Dimitry touched several days ago.

His heart skipped a beat.

Dimitry pulled the pouch out of the bag and thrust two fingers inside.

The goop sealed the gap between his digits, rendering their efforts to pull apart ineffective. Last time, he required alcohol to wash the powerful glue from his skin. And he would need to do so again. But he wasn’t angry. Nor was he upset.

He was thrilled.

“W-wait,” Jesco muttered. “You said I can keep it if it don’t hurt no one. Right?”

Dimitry’s breaths grew rapid and heavy. What if he applied the pink slime to his cast-iron grenades? Would they adhere to heathens’ stone carapaces, allowing them to function as remotely detonated sticky bombs when used in tandem with ignia? A powerful adhesive like that would guarantee a critical hit every time. Explosions that delivered full force from point-blank range.

Perfect.

“Jesco.”

The farmer’s eyes trembled. “But you said I can—”

“What is this?”

His teeth audibly chattered. “I… you let me…”

“I don’t know what you’re so afraid of, but if this is useful for what I think it’s useful for, you’ll leave here a happy man.”

“Wha—?”

“I need to know what this slime is called.”

Jesco’s arms curled to his chest. “You promise you won’t tell anyone I had it if I tell you?”

“Tell anyone?” Dimitry grabbed the young man’s shoulder. “I’ll keep your secret to the grave. But you won’t care about that anymore. Your biggest fear will be walking in public with a fat coin purse.”

“Y-you’re gonna pay me?”

“Yes. A lot.”

Hesitant stare fixed to Dimitry, Jesco lowered himself to the granite floor. He sat a while in silence. One of the farmer’s hands shivered on his lap as another ran through his hair. “It’s… it’s lomnent. I made it from crushed and boiled lomn bark skins.”

The word struck Dimitry as familiar. Lomn was a tall breed of tree. He unsuccessfully used its charcoaled form during his extensive black powder experiments. “Can you make me more lomnent if I bought lomn bark?”

“You gonna go hunting?” Jesco asked, his voice quavering.

“Hunting? Explain.”

“Well, what we do is spread lomnent on branches so that when a bird sits on it, they get stuck. Lots of farmers eat aerfowl and pigeon now since it’s winter and other stuff made food expensive. But hunting is illegal if you’re poor, so if Your Lordship Richter finds out, we villeins have to pay a big fine. People like me can’t afford it, meaning—”

“Richter won’t find out, and even if he does, I’ll have your back.”

“A-are ya sure?”

“I’m sure.” Dimitry contained his excitement behind a pleasant smile. “What I need you to do is make me this lomnent and lots of it. Can you do that for me?”

“Yeah, but why do you need so much?”

“Because I’ve taken a sudden interest in hunting, and I have my eye on some really large game.”

83. Chicken in a Temporal Field

White smoke smelling of burnt wood drifted along wintry gales over the castle district’s towering stone walls. Enshrouded in an illumina lamp’s scattered light, well-doers in merchant cloaks and exquisite dresses stood on their toes while their heads leaned side to side. Their attempts to peek past guards blocking the gate to Malten’s wealthiest neighborhood did nothing to relieve their curiosity or impatience. Inconvenienced mumbling hinted their displeasure with the delay.

A chicken’s bewildered clucking made the chaotic situation more hectic. It came from a cage tucked under a combat sorceress’s arm. Angelika’s red-brown curls drooped from under a crimson hood as she stared at the floor, baring the curious glares of bystanders.

Dimitry stood beside her. Arms crossed over his chest, his foot’s tapping hastened.

He didn’t have the luxury of idling in a growing crowd.

It was already dark.

After discovering lomnent’s role in manufacturing sticky bombs, Dimitry scoured Malten for the key ingredient necessary to produce the powerful adhesive—lomn bark. A process that took longer than he hoped. Eventually, he located a carpenter who dumped enormous quantities into a fireplace after using the wood to build mining support props and beams. It didn’t take long to convince him to sell the alleged waste product.

With lomnent production started, Dimitry hastily designed a new casing for the explosive itself. Differing slightly from its predecessor—a cast-iron sphere with a hole on top—the updated model had the addition of a sturdy, hollow snout. It functioned as a grip, allowing the lobber to dip the bomb’s round base into lomnent before throwing it. Although Dimitry preferred to test the weapon immediately, the blacksmith Elias had to create a mold, send it to Amphurt’s foundries, and receive the first delivery of casings. Two days would pass before sticky bomb trials could begin.

Dimitry didn’t intend to use the downtime to rest. Especially when an issue more critical than weaponizing black powder existed: completing the greenhouse.

Enchantresses would soon arrive to coat the former altar room with the glows of incendia, illumina, and hastia. The combination of the three made indoor farming feasible. But Dimitry would ask them to enchant the greenhouse with an additional spell, one that he hoped would allow for the production of multiple generations of hybridized seeds before spring’s advent.

Accelall.

It was magic vital to timely crop growth. And yet, doubts remained. Could sorceresses weave accelall into an enchantment? If so, what effects would it have? Was it hazardous? Many such questions flooded Dimitry’s mind.

Only experimentation could provide answers.

That was why he waited outside the castle district: he needed to get to Vogel’s Enchantments while time for testing remained. Once the night of repentance drew closer, Dimitry would be too busy with other tasks.

But the crowd he stood in only grew. A court sorceress and an armored guard impeded entry regardless of how people asserted their status or exaggerated their urgency. What happened in the castle district that no one was allowed in?

Dimitry glanced at Angelika. “Do you know what’s going on?”

The caged bird she held clucked. “Don’t talk to me.”

“Are you still mad that I made you carry a chicken?”

Angelika’s head shot up, a frown on her face, and with burning red cheeks. “What kind of sorceress delivers poultry?”

“Is it that big of a deal?”

“No shit!” she spat in a hushed tone. “I have the Vogel name to uphold. Lords are watching me haul a chicken while I should be fighting on the city walls. But here I am, messing around with you.” Angelika turned her gaze back to the floor. “I’ll never live this down. I want to die.”

Dimitry didn’t know whether he should laugh, feel bad, or tease the uncharacteristically blushing sorceress further. Unfortunately, he had time for neither. “Come on.”

“Wait. Where are you going?”

“I’m going to ask the court sorceress to let us pass.”

Angelika grabbed his cloak. “She’ll see my face!”

“And?” Dimitry glanced back. “Where did the brave mage who wasn’t afraid of anything go?”

“Please,” she begged, “don’t do this.”

“Why are you so timid all of a sudden?”

“How would you like to humiliate yourself in front of someone who did everything you ever wanted to do and more?”

It was odd to hear words of praise from Angelika. “Are court sorceresses really that amazing?”

“That’s Leandra. She’s a damn war hero!”

Dimitry stroked his chin. With credentials like those, it was no wonder that they protected the queen. “Well, if we accomplish what we came here to do, we’ll be heroes as well. You can’t defend a country that’s starving.” He gently peeled her pleading hand from his cloak. “Let’s go.”

“I really hate you sometimes,” Angelika said, her words quiet and defeated.

In front of the narrow gatehouse separating Malten’s castle district from the rest of the city stood a halberd-wielding guard and a yellow-robed woman. Her amethyst eyes glared at Dimitry as he approached, and then glanced at Angelika, who summoned enough courage to lift her face from the ground.

“Surgeon.” The court sorceress didn’t budge. “You’ll have to wait here like everyone else. No one gets in or out.”

Her stern warning did nothing to dissuade him. “I just want to know what happened,” he lied. “Maybe I could help.”

“Do you intend to use more of that strange magic you demonstrated at the summit?”

“That depends. Without details, I can’t know for sure.”

She studied him and beckoned him closer. “It hasn’t been made public yet, but Her Majesty ordered the castle district be sealed off after an incident at the royal stables. We’ve found one arsonist, but we believe there may be more. Would you be able to find them?”

Dimitry considered agreeing with her request for guaranteed passage. However, espousing short-sighted lies to a court sorceress without backing them up would only sully his reputation. “Unfortunately, I don’t think I can. But I have another matter that needs urgent attention. One of equal importance, if not more.”

A chicken’s shrill clucks pierced the surrounding commotion.

Angelika’s cheeks blushed a brighter shade of red as she rattled the cage. “Shut up,” she hissed. “Shut. Up.”

The bird’s protests only grew louder.

“No one called for a doctor or little Angelika.” Although stone-faced, a glint in the court sorceress’s amethyst eyes hinted at her amusement. “But if someone needs poultry or medical aid, we’ll be sure to point them towards your cathedral.”

Angelika bowed deeply, her red-brown curls falling to the chiseled stone road. “I’m so so sorry for bothering you, Leandra.” She popped straight back up. “Come on, Dimitry. We’re leaving.”

“Wait.” Dimitry grabbed his fleeing guard’s crimson hood and pulled her back. “I know it may seem strange, Mrs. Leandra, but what we are doing now may save this city. Every moment we waste here will make your and Her Royal Majesty’s jobs harder.”

“Do you speak of heathens?”

“No.”

The court sorceress pulled closer to Dimitry’s ear, her scent that of dilute roses. “Aquatic demons?”

“No. It’s something far more dangerous.”

“Something more dangerous than devils and demons? Out with it.”

“Starvation.”

Her brows furrowed. “Is that what the chicken is for? Do you intend to conjure fowl with your magics?”

“No, but you’re close.” Dimitry smiled. “We’re working on a spell that could help us produce enough grain to feed all of Malten. The chicken is merely a test subject.”

“What spell?”

Dimitry hesitated to tell her about accelall. Although it would become common knowledge if he deemed it safe for enchantresses to weave, he hasn’t come to that conclusion yet. “It’s a secret.”

“Even after you showed us invisall?”

“It’s not you or the queen that I’m keeping the secret from.” He glanced back. “It’s them. I don’t want anyone to overhear.”

The court sorceress’s amethyst eyes examined his face, then looked over his shoulder at the crowd of lower nobles and merchants whose collective grumbling implied panic and impatience. “Another time, then. Where are you headed?”

“Vogel’s Enchantments.”

“I was told by Her Royal Majesty not to let anyone through.” Her yellow-cuffed arms folded across her chest. “Go. Straight there and back. Don’t betray my trust. You may have earned it before, but I’ll just as easily take it away.”

“I’m not so foolish as to deceive a war hero,” Dimitry said.

The court sorceress flashed a rare, crooked smile. “I’m too old to be a hero. That’s someone else’s job now.” She placed a hand on Angelika’s head. “Make sure he doesn’t go anywhere he’s not supposed to and learn every bit of magic from him that you can. Talent will only keep you alive for so long.”

“Right,” Angelika muttered.

“Good girl.” She stepped aside. “Everyone else, stand back!”

A crowd’s heated protests faded behind Dimitry as he passed into the castle district.

Angelika silently trailed him. Like a star-struck teenager ruminating on a movie star’s words, she cradled the clucking chicken cage in both arms while absently watching her shoes thump across a broad road. Her cheeks continued to blush red. They matched her equally red nose.

Her timid demeanor reminded Dimitry that she was cute when she wasn’t pretending to be badass. He suppressed the urge to spook Angelika back to reality for his own entertainment. Something else caught his attention.

The smell of burning wood and hay grew thicker with every step. White smoke rose from recently extinguished and partially cindered castle stables. That was where Saphiria’s horse lived. Hopefully, Dorothy was safe. The princess couldn’t bear another heartache.

An iron cage stood not far away.

Surrounded by armored men and well-dressed civilians, it blocked the street, a prisoner behind its bars. He preached. “The queen abandoned the Church’s teachings! She makes deals with demons and allows a heretic to blaspheme archbishop Fronika’s cathedr—”

A knight wearing a plume feather helmet slammed his steel-clad fist into the prisoner’s stomach. “You’re lucky we still need you alive. Just you wait.” He turned back to the crowd. “Does anyone recognize this arsonist or saw who he was with when they set the stables ablaze? Speak now for a reward.”

Dimitry examined the caged man. Why was he preaching? Did he act out of zealotry, or were his actions a sign of the Church’s interference?

“Damn refugees,” Angelika mumbled. “I mean him, not you, Dimitry. You’re okay, sometimes, I guess.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

In recent years, Vogel’s Enchantments stood silent prior to nights of repentance. End of month vol shortages and magic taxes made enchantments too expensive for all but the wealthiest. Only knights and their squires would pass through the narrow storefront, seeking last moment dispelia imbues for their rock hammers to prepare for the heathen raids. However, tonight, not even they came. Guards told everyone to stay home following the stable incident.

Leona pressed her elbow into the counter and propped her chin onto an open palm. She sighed. Mother and Angelika were working, Ignacius explored the northern lands, and Emilia practiced inscribing seals behind a locked door upstairs. Everyone was more productive than her—even her younger sisters.

Although Leona technically minded the house and shop, standing idle was hardly a good use of her time. She had already folded the laundry, baked vegetables for tonight’s supper, practiced casting rarer spells like incitia, and organized vol pellets by shade a dozen times.

Was there anything else she could do?

Her eyes drifted towards an overhead shelf displaying perfume bottles. Now was an excellent opportunity to prepare for the upcoming banquet. The Horowitz family’s eldest son would become old enough to succeed the count’s tanning business, and it would be the first joyous occasion in some time.

Leona needed a scent that would match the celebration. Something cheerful. She pushed past bottles of lavender, citrus blossom, and sandberry water. The first two suited working in the store and casual strolls through the city, while the third smelled too musky. Like a perfume one would wear to a funeral. She pushed aside several bottles to reveal a back row of containers.

Among them was a small green vial. Magnolia oil. Its creamy sweet and slightly sour scent radiated merriment.

Perfect.

Her hand shot up to retrieve it. She pulled back a wooden plug preventing the thick liquid from spilling out and applied a dab to her neck.

It was a good choice.

Maybe too good.

The Schwarz and Meier boys would doubtless attend the banquet. Afterward, like always, they would send Leona gifts without mustering the courage to give them to her directly. It was difficult to take a marriage proposal seriously if it came from a servant’s mouth instead of her prospective groom’s.

But Leona couldn’t remain indecisive. She had to get married soon.

It was time.

She spent years telling herself that she would wait until she mastered enchanting to start a family. However, no matter how much she practiced, no matter how much she dedicated herself to the art, progress came slowly. Her frail circuits and cores would overload if she accepted too large of a job, and she still didn’t learn every spell, let alone master them.

Her fleeting youth was the only thing going for her. However, it wouldn’t last. Leona turned twenty this year. Despite spending her life training, she still lacked her mother’s enchanting skills. Even her sisters, both younger than her, surpassed her in every way. She wasn’t a talented fighter like Angelika, nor did she possess Emilia’s genius.

Perhaps it was time to abandon her dreams in pursuit of womanhood. At least then, she would be useful. There weren’t many children these days.

Mindlessly swirling her scarlet hair around her finger, Leona noticed the repetitive thoughts invading her mind. She sighed. That was why she hated being here alone.

The shop’s door burst open, hitting the canister racks on the wall with a reverberating thunk.

Finally. A customer.

Leona’s slumped shoulders and leaning posture straightened. She performed a slight bow. “How can we be of assista—”

Something clucked a panicked cluck.

Was that a chicken?

A sorceress with red-brown curls and red robes passed through the door. Angelika clutched a wooden cage to her chest. How strange. Usually, she prefaced her entrance with boisterous comments or stomping, letting everyone know that it was her. Today, however, she was silent and contemplative. And it looked like she went shopping.

“Hey.” Leona strode towards her. “Shouldn’t you still be at work? Is everything all right? Are you hurt?”

Angelika shrugged and pointed back with her thumb.

A man not much older than her followed her inside. His mysterious pale green eyes met Leona’s gaze. They didn’t waver like most. “I apologize for the unannounced visit. We are in a bit of a hurry.”

Dimitry. The foreign wizard who saved mother’s life and possessed magic unknown to any sorceress in Malten.

Leona couldn’t afford to bother him with trifles. His knowledge was invaluable. “Think nothing of it.” She curtsied. “Please, make yourself comfortable. Shall I prepare some tea?”

“I appreciate the offer, but unfortunately we don’t have much time. Is Raina home?”

Of course he sought mother’s help. Although Leona was an enchantress too, anyone could tell her skills paled in comparison. “My humblest apologies. She’s working for Her Royal Majesty. I’m not sure when she’ll return.”

Angelika lowered the chicken cage onto the floor. “Still out there enchanting that damn wall, huh?” she mumbled. “Hope mom’s alright. Maybe I should check up on her.”

Although Leona too lived in fear of a heathen striking down their mother while her back was turned to the coast, they had a guest. It wasn’t the occasion for brooding conversation. She forced a smile. “If it’s her, she’ll definitely be fine. Do you want to leave a message for when she comes back?”

“No,” Dimitry said. “I don’t want to bother her while she’s doing something so important. Would you like to help me with my experiment instead?”

“An experiment? Me?”

“Who else, idiot?” Angelika grumbled.

Next time Angelika had nothing to wear to a party, Leona wouldn’t lend her any of her dresses. Not that there were many parties these days. “What kind of experiment, may I ask?”

“I want to try enchanting something.”

Was it that obscure, dark-glowing preservia again? An entire week passed since she last channeled it for him, and she couldn’t pass up another chance to learn more about the foreign wizard’s spells. Leona was desperate to learn more—it was her last hope for making progress as an enchantress. “I’ve noticed that you didn’t bring bedclothes today. I dried some earlier. Would you like them to imbue with plague-curing magic?”

“No, not that. We’re trying something new today.”

Something new? Did he refer to that other magic? Leona froze. Once she noticed her stiff shoulders and stifled breathing, she quickly corrected her posture. “Do you mean invisall, perchance?”

“Something like that.”

“Accelall?” Angelika asked.

Dimitry nodded.

Leona’s mouth opened but uttered not a word. If what Dimitry said was true, multiple spells ending in ‘all’ existed. How many more were out there? And why didn’t Angelika say anything if she knew about them? What other secrets did she and her boss keep from the world?

This was definitely a learning experience Leona couldn’t let slip, lest her younger sisters surpass her further. “What do you need me to do?”

Quiet footsteps descended the backroom’s creaky staircase. A girl with messy brown locks and an inscribing pen necklace hung around her neck emerged from the doorway. Emilia, who couldn’t even muster the courtesy to greet their guest, leaned back against the wall. “Sounds interesting. I’m watching.”

Contemplative vacantness vanished from Angelika’s eyes. “Hey! Look who decided to show their face.”

Emilia placed a finger over her mouth. “Let the adults talk.”

“What?” Angelika dashed to lock Emilia’s arms behind her back. “I’m older than you, you know.”

“Go away.”

“Make me.”

“If you don’t back off, I’ll bite you.”

“Just try it.”

Although Emilia struggled to break free, she was too weak despite being only slightly shorter.

Angelika’s triumphant grin savored its victory. Then, after leaning in, her face curled. “Eugh. You smell terrible. When was the last time you took a bath?”

“Five days ago.”

“That’s disgusting.”

Leona’s hand reached to cover her eyes. She couldn’t contain her embarrassment. Why did her siblings have to be themselves in front of a high-class wizard? “I’m really sorry. Please excuse them.”

Dimitry, however, didn’t wear a disgusted frown or so much as raise an eyebrow. He merely watched, smiling as if irreverent to rank and gentility. “Don’t be. My sister isn’t—wasn’t any less of a character.”

Relief coursed through Leona’s body. She wondered if the wizard’s sister was a sorceress more powerful than Angelika, but quickly discarded the thought. “Anyway, I’m certain you’re a busy man, so let’s start that experiment. What do I need to do?”

Angelika’s hand stopped ruffling Emilia’s already messy brown locks. They both stared unflinchingly.

“First, let me make something clear,” Dimitry said. “This enchantment might be dangerous.”

“That’s fine. I’ll just weave it from a distance.”

“You can do that?”

Emilia’s head tilted.

How strange for a trained wizard to be unaware of a practice that common. Unlike her sisters, Leona didn’t let her confusion show. “Of course. Enchanting bolts with witheria and blades with shockia can be lethal if performed up close, so we have to take preventative measures. But allow me to ask what accelall does. Just in case.”

“It accelerates time.”

“Accelerates… time?”

“I know it sounds stupid,” Angelika said, “but trust me when I say it’s pretty fucking awesome. Easily the coolest spell there is.”

Leona hid a fidgeting hand behind her back. If what her sister said was true, she would be the first one to create an enchantment that powerful despite her lacking skills.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Dimitry said. “When I said this spell could be dangerous, I meant it. That’s why I want to make a sample first. Can you do that for me, Leona?”

“With pleasure.” She looked around but saw nothing suitable to carry an enchantment. To save time spent searching, Leona tore a short strip of cloth from her cotton undershirt and held it out on her palm. “Would this suffice?”

“Only one way to find out.”

Leona rushed to grab a chair from the backroom. “Emilia, get the reflectia towelette ready. Angelika, put on the dispelia mitts.”

“’Kay.”

“Got ‘em.”

“What are they for?” Dimitry asked another question with an obvious answer.

Where in Remora did he come from that even wizards didn’t have access to standard enchanting tools? Leona dragged the chair to the narrow shop’s center. “The reflectia towelette prevents magic from leaking into the surroundings, and dispelia mitts temporarily neutralize any nearby enchantments. They’re for safe handling and transportation.”

Dimitry stroked his chin. “I see.”

Leona sat and unzipped the back of her robe with an unsteady hand to reveal her upper back. “Are you ready to channel your magic?”

“Palms under your shoulder blades?”

“Like always.”

Dimitry’s icy hands pressed into Leona’s upper cores, sending a shiver down her spine.

“Oh.”

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Your hands are a bit chilly is all.”

“Sorry. They get like that.”

“Please, don’t apologize. With the weather as cold as it is, I should have expected as much.”

“Can you two stop flirting and hurry up already?” Angelika urged. “I want to see what happens.”

Emilia nodded.

Eagerness overpowering her embarrassment, Leona thrust a hand into her robe’s vol pocket to retrieve a single, dark green pellet. She wouldn’t need any more than that. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

The vol drained into Leona’s palm. She guided the warm sensation through her right arm and into her back, where it disappeared into Dimitry’s circuits.

“Accelall,” he said.

However, when the vol reentered her body, it differed from how it left. A searing heat, like that from a concentrated incendia enchantment, burned from her shoulder to her left arm. The unexpected scalding pain coaxed a grimace from Leona. She exhaled through clenched teeth.

“Hey!” Angelika stomped closer. “Are you okay?!”

“Back off!” Although she hated yelling at her baby sister, Leona couldn’t let her get hurt. She didn’t know what was happening. What to expect. Even when she trained her circuits as a child, not once did they tremble as if tearing apart. She never let them. Her caution came from a lesson she learned from her mother’s mistakes. Leona was always careful to avoid overload.

Always except today.

“Should I stop?” Dimitry asked.

“I’m fine,” Leona said. “It just caught me off guard.” She shut her eyes, accumulated the intense energy in her left palm, and aimed it at the cloth lying on the counter.

The transfigured vol transformed once more as it left her hand, turning into a snaking beam that could only be felt but not seen. It slithered out of her hand to pierce the target, coil around it, meld into it until vol uniformly coated the cotton strip.

An exhausting while later, the weaving was complete.

Taking a moment to recover, Leona took a deep breath and leaned back in her chair. She wiped her forehead. The enchanting required more effort than usual, but it also filled her with pride. It was the satisfaction that came from accomplishing a feat neither her mother nor any other enchantress in Malten had ever accomplished before.

“…What the?” Angelika muttered.

Exhilarated to see the fruits of her labor, Leona’s eyes shot open despite lingering fatigue.

A perplexed surgeon stroked his chin overhead.

Emilia approached with wary steps.

Angelika cupped her dispelia mitts around the cloth strip’s multicolored aura. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. Its glow was like that of a rainbow.

Like that of a holy heathen barrier.

Like the one that stood beside Malten’s eastern coast for two years before the Church abandoned the country, causing her father to fight a war he never returned from despite years of hopeful prayers and abandoned tears.

Why could Dimitry create an identical enchantment?

Leona jumped to her feet and backed away from Dimitry. She grabbed a vol pellet from her robe pocket. “Angelika, shoot him if he makes any sudden movements. Emilia, hide. Both of you escape through the back door if something happens to me.” Breathing ragged breaths, her gaze met the self-proclaimed surgeon’s. “Who are you?”

“Let’s calm down.” He held his arms forward. “I’m just as surprised as you. I’m sure there’s a good explanation for everything.”

Leona’s heart pounded against her chest. She was ready to die as long as her sisters could escape. “Why are your enchantments the same color as the Church’s? Only they can make them. Them, and you.”

“I see your point, but think about it. If I was from the Church, why would I cure your mother’s plague and willingly give away my secrets?”

Leona didn’t have a good answer. Then again, she didn’t need one. Priestesses and bishops gave paltry gifts and perks with one hand while plotting schemes and committing atrocities with the other.

Her legs continued to shake as a lump of rage formed in her throat. “Don’t act innocent. Why did you bastards kill our father? What did we ever do to deserve that?”

A hand fell on her shoulder.

It was Angelika’s. “Relax.”

“How can I relax after seeing that?”

“I don’t know what’s going on either, but trust me, Dimitry isn’t with the Church.”

Her most trusted friend abandoned her during an insurmountable crisis. Leona felt betrayed. “How do you know that? You’ve known him for less than three weeks. Did he brainwash you like another one of their servants?”

Angelika glanced at Dimitry as if asking for permission for something.

“Not yet. We’ll tell them soon, just not yet.”

“How about the Precious thing? Can we show them that?”

“It’ll cause more problems than it’ll solve,” he said. “We can’t risk sensitive information spreading that fast. This city isn’t ready.”

“What are you two talking about?” Leona muttered.

Angelika sighed. “Look, Leona. If he was full of shit, I would have shot him long ago. But the world isn’t as simple as we thought. Things talk that shouldn’t, and some demons aren’t the corrupted creatures everyone says they are. I know it sounds dumb, but just trust me for now. Alright?”

Leona gazed into her sister’s orange eyes. They were firm. Steady. Like a mountain lake on a windless day, they held not a shred of turbulence. If Angelika of all people kept calm, there must have been a good reason.

Her shoulders slumped. Shame from losing her cool in front of her siblings and a guest made Leona want to curl into bed and never get out. She bowed deeply. “I’m really sorry for jumping to conclusions. I just—”

“No need for apologies.” Dimitry strolled past her. “I don’t like the Church either.”

Leona looked back.

Who exactly was he?

A cowering Emilia’s head peeked from around the backroom’s door frame. She crept closer.

“I’m ashamed you had to see that,” Leona said. “Don’t be like me.”

Emilia shook her head. “I was thinking the same thing you were. Besides, you were kinda cool. Like the time you kicked those young lords for putting rottcoilers in my hair.”

A decade-old memory played in Leona’s mind, bringing a reminiscent smile to her face. “Even if we’re not children anymore, I’ll never let anyone hurt you. Not even the Church. You can always count on your big sister.”

“Now you sound lame.”

The sinking shame in Leona’s gut returned. “Don’t say that.” She pinched Emilia’s cheeks. “That’s hurtful.”

“Sis, instead of saving me from the Church, save me from yourself.”

In the kitchen on the store’s second floor, a chicken clucked while Dimitry stared at a cloth strip with a flowing rainbow glow. It lay on a round table. On the oak furniture’s opposite side stood Angelika. She leaned back against the wall, glaring at the mysterious article as if it could flee at any moment. Her siblings watched from further away with hesitation and curiosity in their orange eyes.

Like them, Dimitry wasn’t sure what to expect. The strength and affected volume of an enchantment varied with the aura’s density. This one flickered like thick colored static on an old television set. Was that considered dense? Leona used a single pure vol pellet to enchant an object the size of a pointer finger, yet experienced the same burning sensation he did while channeling the spell. Why did that happen? Dimitry thought it was due to his inexperience, but if a sorceress felt the same surging pain, the source had to lay somewhere else.

His spells clearly differed from normal magic, but how? Why did they create enchantments with colors identical to those on a heathen barrier? Did the Church have access to the same abilities as him, or was it a coincidence? Could they cast accelall? What were the spell’s effects? Was its aura safe to be around?

Dimitry's mind flooded with loosely connected questions. Although experimentation could answer several, it couldn’t answer them all. But that was better than nothing. Fortunately, he came prepared. “Leona. Do you mind if I throw a rock?”

The scarlet-haired beauty wore an unsure guise since their earlier confrontation. “Why?”

“Rather than having someone get close to the enchantment, I want to see how it affects other things first.”

“If you think that’s best. But please, take caution not to break anything. Our mother would be heartbroken if she came home to find her dishes shattered.”

“I’ll be careful.”

Emilia stepped closer. “What do you think will happen?”

Dimitry stroked his chin. “It’ll probably accelerate time like the spell itself, but there are multiple ways that can play out. I’m guessing it’ll make nearby things happen faster.”

“Stop talking and throw it already,” Angelika said.

The wide-eyed yet somehow simultaneously bored-looking girl took another step closer. “Do you mean to see if the rock will fly quicker near the enchantment?”

“Exactly.” Dimitry smiled. “You’re pretty clever, you know that?”

“Yeah,” Emilia said.

“Damned genius.” Angelika groaned. “At least try to be modest about it.”

Leona frowned. “I don’t understand at all.”

Although Dimitry didn’t mind giving an explanation, it would have to wait until later. Excitement and fearful anticipation rose within. His foot’s erratic tapping demanded he explore permanent time dilation and the endless possibilities it offered.

He retrieved a pebble from his coin pouch and tossed it.

The small rock flew in an upward arc as it approached the cloth’s rainbow glow. Then, a short distance from the enchantment, it plunged into the table despite maintaining the same vertical velocity.

A result that surprised and disappointed Dimitry. He hoped that objects passing through accelall’s temporal field would speed up, allowing for the production of projectile accelerators. It would have made for a powerful addition to crossbows, rifles, and eventually cannons. However, what he got was something different.

“Well, that’s useless,” Angelika said. “Why would anyone want an enchantment that makes stuff fall faster?”

Emilia, unsatisfied with her sister’s explanation, pulled on Dimitry’s sleeve. Her curious orange eyes demanded the truth. “What happened?”

“It did exactly what I said it would do—it sped up time.”

“Explain.”

Dimitry would have offered a simplified response to anyone else, but testing the seventeen-year-old girl’s mental acumen was a potentially fruitful endeavor. The truly intelligent were a limited resource. “The exact details are complicated and need some explanation. Are you sure you want to know?”

The girl, slightly younger than a high school senior, nodded.

“Very well. Do you know what gravity is?”

She shook her head.

“It’s the reason we fall. If gravity didn’t constantly pull down on us and keep our feet on the ground, we would drift into the sky.”

“That’s so stupid,” Angelika said. “It’s because we’re too heavy to float.”

Leona listened silently, twisting her scarlet hair around her finger.

“What’s gravity?” Emilia asked.

“It’s a special force. It always pulls everything down with the same acceleration, meaning that if something fell, its falling speed would increase as fast as anything else’s. For example, if you and I jumped off a cliff, we would reach the ground at the same time despite our differing weights.”

“Things drop faster the longer they fall. Is that what you mean?”

Dimitry smiled. “Exactly right. Now, remember what happened to the rock. It fell faster than it normally would when it was near the accelall enchantment.”

Emilia’s head tilted. “Did gravity become stronger?”

“Close, but no. Anything near that rainbow glow experiences more time than we do. Although gravity’s pulling force stayed just as strong, it also pulled down on the rock for longer. The rock had more time to accelerate to a higher speed. That’s why it fell faster.”

As though something clicked in her mind, Emilia’s mouth cracked open. “I think I understand.”

Full of joy that Dimitry did nothing to deserve, he looked down at the messy-haired girl like a proud father. Emilia understood his explanation in one go despite living in a medievalesque world ignorant of science. Angelika’s words rang true. Her younger sister was a genius.

She glanced up again. “But why didn’t the rock fly forward faster near the accelall enchantment than when you threw it?”

He sighed. “Although we need to do a lot more testing to say for sure, I think only forces applied near the enchantment stay as strong as they normally do. Anything moving beforehand slows down to compensate for the time dilation effect. They still experience more time, but slower speeds cancel it out, making it appear to move in the same direction just as fast.”

“I don’t understand.”

Dimitry could say more, but that would be a waste of an opportunity to cajole Emilia into working for him. The quick learning her innate intelligence offered made her the best candidate to test if others could cast modified magic with sufficient scientific understanding. “That’s fine. If you’re ever interested in learning more, stop by the cathedral. There’s so much more to know.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Her orange eyes downcast, Leona stared at her boots as if in deep regret.

“What were you two talking about?” Angelika asked.

“I’ll tell you later,” Dimitry said. “For now, put on your dispelia mitts and place the chicken cage over the enchanted cloth.”

“Why?” Emilia asked.

“We’re testing how accelall enchantments affect live creatures. If it doesn’t harm the chicken, it won’t harm us. Probably.”

Angelika dropped the wooden cage onto the table with a loud thunk. Sensing something wrong, the chicken within shrieked shrill clucks before crashing into the cage’s corner for lack of control over its own legs. Although its cries sounded normal again, the poor creature wasn’t safe. Half of its body remained in the enchantment’s area of influence.

Included was a wing that couldn’t escape the time dilation effect. The feathers on its surface swayed at unnatural speeds, and the muscles beneath twitched quicker than any patient with pinched spinal nerves. Then the limb went limp.

Not long passed before the skin on the chicken’s exposed extremities turned blue. Cyanosis. It was a sign of oxygen deprivation in humans and a logical outcome for the bird. The creature’s lungs couldn’t fill themselves with air and circulate it as fast as time accelerated cells consumed it.

Less than a minute after the experiment began, the chicken was dead. Parts of its body continued to twitch.

Well, that didn’t look safe.

Dimitry silently thanked the animal for its sacrifice. Unlike most poultry, which fed only one family with their deaths, this one would feed an entire kingdom by advancing magic greenhouse technology.

“Holy shit…” Angelika jumped forward. “That was awesome!”

Emilia nodded. “Can we do it again?”

Although Dimitry thought himself a monster for giving an unwary animal a painful end, perhaps he wasn’t the worst one here. “I think that’s enough animal testing for now.”

Eyes wide open, Leona watched without uttering a word. And then she clapped. “I weaved that…” She hopped a quick hop. “I weaved that!”

“Nice one, sis.”

“I knew you could do it.” Angelika pushed the cage away and threw her gray-glowing dispelia mitts over the enchanted cloth.

The scarlet-haired beauty ran to grab a knife, then glanced back. “Dimitry, did you eat yet? Do you like baked vegetables and chicken pie?”

“…sure.”

“What next?” Emilia asked.

“Yeah,” Angelika repeated. “What next?”

Dimitry's eyes scrolled past the three exuberant sorceresses, then landed on the voltech rifle pressed to his guard’s back. Could an accelall enchantment increase its power? There would be complications, but with additional accelall testing and improvements, it might be possible. It was a task worth undertaking. If they pulled it off, they would produce an invaluable weapon for the upcoming night of repentance and a way to enter the good graces of every mage in the city despite possessing suspicious Church-like magic. “Hey, Angelika.”

“What’s up?”

“Do you want to find out if you could become the most powerful sorceress in Malten?”

84. Voltech Hand Cannon

The combined aromas of burning charcoal, pastry bread, and savory chicken drifted from a hot stove before escaping as pale fumes through a shuttered window overlooking a nighttime cityscape. Guards and knights in rattling armor patrolled broad roads. They searched Malten’s castle district for arson conspirators.

Unlike the chaotic city streets, the kitchen on the second floor of Vogel’s Enchantments stood quiet. Only crackling fuel and the sizzling of baking poultry could be heard. Although the chicken pie would soon be ready, no one so much as licked their lips. A surgeon and three of the store’s resident sorceresses watched a round table instead.

On its oak surface lay a weapon no person from Earth could consider a gun. Comprising a long iron pipe and a wooden stock, the voltech rifle didn’t even have a trigger. The firing mechanism was a seal embedded in its grip. Only a mage could operate the device.

But the otherworldly engineering wasn’t what captured Dimitry’s attention. His gaze fixed onto the voltech rifle’s aura—an accelall enchantment’s flickering rainbow hues. They melded and fused into one another, coating the weapon in endlessly shifting molten colors. If two gray-glowing dispelia mitts didn’t lie at either end, the aura would be fatal to all nearby.

How could something so beautiful be so dangerous?

And yet it was.

An accellal enchantment, no bigger than a finger's worth of cotton strip, killed a chicken—the product of a single vol pellet. To imbue the entire voltech rifle, however, Leona consumed over a dozen. Her doubtless deadly creation resulted from incremental weaving trials.

The goal was to enhance voltech rifles by accelerating their projectiles through an accelall enchantment’s temporal field. Since Dimitry intended to produce one weapon for every combat sorceress in Malten, he had to be efficient with resources. That was why he initially asked Leona to enchant only the base of the barrel—where the iron pellet lay—to minimize vol and money expenditure while reducing the wielder’s chance of accidental exposure to a lethal aura. To further decrease potential danger, he wrapped a gold-glowing reflectia towelette around the rainbow aura to prevent its hazardous time acceleration effects from leaking into the surroundings.

The result was an enchanted voltech rifle that allowed for safe handling. However, when Angelika fired it, an iron pellet didn’t blast out of the barrel like he hoped. It rolled out instead. His new weapon was much weaker than its predecessor.

A result contrary to Dimitry’s expectations.

His initial postulation was that accelall allowed nearby forces to act quicker, creating amplified effects once they left the enchantment’s temporal field. And further experimentation proved that. Candles burned faster, extinguished sooner, and emitted colored light with higher frequencies near accelall. Most important, however, was that their fires radiated unusual blistering heat just beyond the magic’s area of influence—the amplified effect Dimitry predicted.

His hypothesis was correct.

So why did the voltech rifle’s iron pellets roll out instead of firing with a sonic boom? They did when Dimitry cast accelall on Angelika back in Waira. What was different?

The problem must have been some other, unknown factor.

Hoping that enchanting the voltech rifle further would fix the issue, he asked Leona to incrementally weave more of the weapon with accelall. The rainbow aura consumed more of the device with every consecutive firing failure. It crawled down the entire barrel, then the stock, and finally the grip. Now, a thoroughly enchanted device lay on the round table.

Stood against the wall, Angelika pumped the neckline of her crimson robe to fan away a nearby stove’s overwhelming heat. Her orange eyes studied the rifle. “I want to try shooting it and all, but how am I supposed to do that?”

“We’ll just cover it up again.” Dimitry lifted the gold-glowing towelette they handled all evening. “Reflectia kept the enchantment contained before. Why wouldn’t it now?”

“That’s not the problem.” Leona’s sidewards glance returned to the black, squash-like vegetable she mashed over a marble counter. “The rifle is still safe to carry, but she can’t fire it anymore.”

“Why not?”

Lying her head sideways on the round table, the youngest sister’s messy brown locks spilled over the furniture’s oak surface. Emilia pointed to a wooden block planted in the voltech rifle’s grip. “That.”

She referred to a core seal. Twisting blue lines, figures, and solidified gel pools ravined its rectangular face. Like the rest of the weapon, it had a rainbow glow.

Although the mechanics that governed seals were unknown to Dimitry, the snoozia canister he bought in Ravenfall revealed their function: they allowed the user to cast a specific spell. However, to do so, the user’s palm had to touch the seal—a dangerous prospect when it carried an accelall enchantment.

Dimitry frowned. “I’m guessing we can’t just wrap the reflectia towelette around the seal because it’ll block it?”

“That’s part of it,” Angelika said. “Reflectia stops all magic from passing through. I can’t feed vol through it. The only way for me to use the voltech rifle’s propelia seal is to hold it directly, but now that it’s enchanted with accelall and after seeing what happened to that chicken, I’d rather not.”

Leona looked back, a rare smirk on her face. “The worst part is that Angelika wouldn’t make anywhere near as delicious of a pie if something went wrong.”

“Oh, shut up.”

The scarlet-haired woman giggled. “I was just kidding.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Angelika glanced at the rainbow-glowing rifle, then leaned an arm onto Dimitry’s shoulder. “So, Mr. Surgeon. What next? Any more bright ideas?”

Try as he might, nothing else came to mind. “Not right now.”

She clicked her teeth. “Can’t win them all, I guess.”

Dimitry’s hand reached to massage his forehead as the realization of failure sank deeper into his stomach. He had high hopes for empowered voltech rifles. They would have made combat sorceresses like Angelika more efficient, improving their ability to dispatch heathens and uphold Malten’s safety. His friends’ safety. Dimitry’s safety.

But that didn’t mean his efforts were pointless. Further experimentation at another time could reveal the answers he sought. And, even if it didn’t, accelall enchantments would doubtless improve the capabilities of non-magic weapons like flintlock muskets and cannons once he produced them. The research remained worth pursuing.

Angelika stretched and yawned. “Can I disenchant my rifle now? It’ll be hard to guard you if it just rolls out iron pellets.”

“Sure.” He inhaled deeply. “We can try again when we’re less busy.”

“Wait.” The quiet word escaped Emilia’s mouth.

Looking over her shoulder while dicing something, Leona’s orange eyes opened wide. “Did you figure something out?”

“Not yet,” Emilia said, “but I think we’re close.”

Her words rekindled Dimitry’s hope. His appreciation for the girl’s competence intensified by the moment.

Angelika ran up to Emilia and hugged her from behind. “What is it? What’ll make me the strongest sorceress in Malten?!”

“Enchanting the seal was a good idea. We just need to figure out how to activate it. It might be possible.”

“Are you sure?” Leona asked. “A busy man like Dimitry can’t waste his whole day here.”

“It’ll work.” Emilia paused. “Probably.”

Dimitry sat back in his chair. “Can you explain?”

She pointed at the carved wooden block entrenched in the voltech rifle’s grip. “The coil runs vol through the manipulator until the coalescence is charged. But the transducer doesn’t release the energy right away. Accelall slows the process further. That’s why propelia was weaker than usual when we fired the voltech rifle. Probably.”

Dimitry tried to grasp her thoughts but failed.

“Wait,” Angelika said. “Why does accelall slow the transducer?”

Although Leona continued cooking, her distracted gaze indicated that she focused on the conversation.

The onslaught of new vocabulary confused Dimitry. “I’m not sure I follow. Can we take it one step at a time?”

As if trying to calm a hyperactive mind, Emilia took a deep breath. Then, she pointed to random spots on the core seal. “The coils can only transport so much vol through the manipulator. I can try making the rails wider, but it’ll lead to more exhaust, and not all the magic will be coded. And there’s still the problem with the transducer—”

Although the girl’s lips continued to move, Dimitry could no longer hear their words. Either two days without sleep exhausted him, or Emilia gave poor explanations. Perhaps a combination of the two.

He glanced at Leona.

As if understanding his plight, she smiled, set down her chopping knife, and strode into an adjacent room. There was a metal canister in her hand when she returned. Her scarlet hair—smelling of perfume sweet and creamy—fell over Dimitry’s shoulder when she leaned in. “I may not be as knowledgeable as an inscriber like Emilia, but I’ll explain to the best of my ability.”

Leona pointed to a solidified pool of blue gel on top of the canister’s core seal. “This is the coalescence. It stores vol coded to a spell. Sinkia, in this case.” Her fingernail, covered in uneven pink nail polish, traveled upwards. “These two rails are the transducers. They drain the vol from a full coalescence and release it as a spell. Emilia thinks that the accelall enchantment somehow slows that process down, weakening propelia.”

Dimitry stroked his chin. From what he understood, the coalescence was the magic equivalent to a battery or a capacitor. It filled itself with vol before the transducers transferred that energy to the outside world.

“That makes more sense. How about all of this?” He pointed to the swerving blue lines and figures beneath the coalescence.

She brushed her radiant, scarlet hair behind her ear. “Those are the manipulator and the coils. The manipulator codes vol into a specific spell while the coils transfer it from your palm’s core to the coalescence. Does… that make sense?”

What she spoke of were essentially circuits with added steps.

Dimitry glanced at the patient woman. She may not have been a proficient warrior like Angelika or a genius like Emilia, but she was someone of equal importance—a natural teacher. “It does. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” Leona placed the canister onto the table before returning to the kitchen counter.

Dimitry leaned back into his chair, studying the device’s core seal. While the coalescence and transducers functioned as magical batteries, based on what the sorceress said, they didn’t transfer their energy as fast as an electrical circuit. There was a noticeable delay.

That meant a voltech rifle’s core seal applied propelia to the iron ball piecemeal. The spell didn’t transfer the forward force all at once. While the delayed transfer of energy didn’t prevent the bullet from flying full speed in a typical situation, their situation wasn’t typical. Anything inside the accelall enchanted barrel experienced more time, and therefore any outside force acting on the iron ball within would be weaker.

That was why they had to enchant the core seal with accelall as well as the barrel. If they didn’t, the magical ‘battery’ would release its energy too slowly, causing the bullet to roll out of position before it could receive the full brunt of propelia’s forward force.

Did Emilia figure that out already?

Dimitry glanced at the quiet girl with messy brown hair sitting across the round table. Although he wanted the seventeen-year-old genius to work for him before, he needed her now. She was irreplaceable. But that was a process he couldn’t rush. Emilia would have to accept his offer of her own volition.

“Hey,” Angelika said. “Why is everyone quiet all of a sudden?”

Leona pressed a slender finger to her lips. “Let them think.”

“Now there are two damned geniuses. Guess I’ll just wait this one out.” She glanced over her elder sister’s shoulder. “How’s the food coming?”

“It’ll be ready soon.”

Dimitry’s gaze returned to the voltech rifle’s core seal, whose patterns of lines and swerves differed from the canister’s. He had to enchant it with accelall while somehow making it safe for a combat sorceress to touch. His eyes traveled down the seal. From the transducer to the coalescence and across the combined coil and manipulator mesh.

He had an idea.

Cautious excitement rose within Dimitry. “Hey, Emilia.”

The girl looked up.

Dimitry pointed to the upper portion of the seal, which functioned as a battery. “The coalescence automatically pumps coded vol into the transducer when it’s full, right?”

She nodded.

“And the coil and manipulator merely code the vol and transfer it from the user’s palm to the coalescence?”

“Yes.”

“I was wondering if we could split the core seal into two. If we enchant only the coalescence and transducer with accelall, they’ll still release the spell quickly. We can keep the coils and manipulator unenchanted and somewhere Angelika can hold—perhaps on the grip. That way, she can transfer vol into the seal while not coming in contact with accelall.”

Emilia’s mouth creaked open. “That won’t work, but…” her voice trailed off, and her orange eyes shot across the ceiling as if painting a masterpiece with laser vision.

“Did you figure something out?” Angelika blurted. She shook her younger sister’s shoulders. “Please, tell me you’ve figured something out!”

Leona carried a bowl of mixed vegetables. “Instead of bothering her, help me set the table.”

“Emilia, you’ve got an idea, don’t you? If you make this Church crap usable with accelall, I’ll do whatever you want for a month. No, two! Three!”

Dimitry’s eyes furrowed. “Church crap?”

“Core and circuit seals are Church inventions,” Leona said. “We don’t even know all the calling signs, let alone how to produce inscribing ink.”

Calling signs? Inscribing ink? Dimitry’s budding thoughts scattered when Emilia jumped out of her chair and dashed out of the kitchen. “Where’s she going?”

“She’ll be back.” Leona lowered a metal tray upholding a piping hot chicken pie. She sliced the round pastry and set it onto plates. “I hope I didn’t make you wait hungry for too long.”

Angelika cleared the room of magical goods and pushed three of the four chairs around the dining table close together, leaving extra space for the fourth. “Dimitry, you’ll have to sit right next to Leona and me.”

“I don’t mind, but why?”

When Emilia returned, she carried a warped block of wood in one hand and a satchel of clanging tools in her other, which she dropped beside her plate. She nibbled pie in between brief woodworking sessions. Her table manners were likely the worst this medievalesque world had ever seen.

“You can do it, you absolute monster!” Angelika shouted with mouthfuls of food. “Inscribe that seal!”

Like a snapping turtle, Emilia’s head shot forward with every bite to preserve her hands for carving work.

Leona poked a silent Dimitry’s shoulder. “Aren’t you going to eat? Did you want something else?”

As if that was the issue.

Winter gales cut across a sparse forest’s canopy, rustling the leaves of undressing trees with every pass. The trunks of mighty oaks stood upright, and yellow grass carpeted the soil. Only occasional patches of barren dirt dotted the withering greenery, often beside the husks of recently deceased stone beasts. Unlike the territory west of Malten—the direction most heathens invaded from—the land north of the city’s walls remained fertile.

Aside from black midnight skies and teal clouds, three things stood out in the dark green expanse: the half-moon hovering overhead, a gold-glowing experimental voltech rifle in a combat sorceress’s arms, and the crawling devil corpse by her feet.

Like a cross between a giant daddy long legs and a crab, two of the heathen’s six cottage-height legs lay shattered. Bright blue goo spilled from its spherical core. Equally blue engravings swerved and circled and intersected across its carapace and legs. In some ways, its body resembled a far more complex seal.

Were the two related? Perhaps the Church developed and designed voltech equipment with heathens in mind. After all, ‘nature’ and the environment fueled human creativity unlike anything else.

While intriguing, Dimitry discarded the thought.

There were more urgent matters at hand.

He glanced at the weapon Angelika held. Every time he wondered how well it would perform, anticipation and excitement rose and erupted within his chest. Sometimes he envisioned the iron pellet bursting out at supersonic speeds. Other times, the bullet would feebly roll out of the barrel like it had all night. He didn’t know what to expect.

However, one thing was certain.

The long and twisting core seal the resident inscriber made was a world first. It ran from the voltech rifle’s grip to the base of its stock, the accelall enchanted coalescence and transducer out of sight. Uncertain how it would function, Emilia recommended conducting the first firing experiment outside Malten—far from prying eyes and ears.

Although the decision broke Leona’s heart since she had to stay behind to mind the store, the youngest sister’s judgment was for the best.

It was too early to reveal accelall’s existence to the public, especially when its rainbow-colored enchantment resembled that of a Church’s heathen barrier. Dimitry had to introduce it carefully. Tactfully. But first, he would confirm the weapon’s effectiveness.

Angelika held up the voltech rifle. A reflectia towelette’s golden aura entombed most of its surface. Only the unenchanted muzzle and exposed manipulator and coil mesh lay exposed. She examined it. “Are you sure this… thing is safe?”

Sat on a nearby boulder, Emilia shrugged.

“I hope I don’t lose an organ or something,” the combat sorceress mumbled.

Along with anxiety and uncertainty, Dimitry felt unease asking a teenager to test a weapon with dubious safety. “Can’t you activate the core seal from far away? Like Leona weaves enchantments? It’ll be safer.”

Emilia shook her head. “The seal has to touch her palm’s core.”

He frowned. “In that case, let me shoot it first. Just in case.”

“Stand back, surgeon.” Angelika smirked. “If you hurt your delicate hands, who’s going to run your hospital? Taking on danger is my job. I’ll handle this.”

“Are you sure?”

She waved him away. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Dimitry took several hesitant steps back. “If anything feels off, get rid of the voltech rifle.”

“What are you, my mom?”

No, but he was old enough to be her father. “Just promise me.”

“Fine, fine.”

Emilia fixed her gaze onto her older sibling’s crimson robe. “Good luck, sis.”

Angelika struggled to grip the blue engravings. “How the hell am I supposed to hold this thing?”

“Channel the vol into the ends of the elongated coil’s rails,” Emilia said. “Otherwise, it won’t work.”

“Ow!”

The accumulated nervous energy within Dimitry erupted all at once, making him stride forward. “Are you alright?”

“Relax.” Angelika shook her hand. “It’s just a splinter.”

“Sorry,” Emilia said. “I rushed the smoothing.”

Unsure if his gut feeling was that of relief or impending doom, he stepped back once more.

Angelika rolled an iron pellet into her rifle, retrieved vol from her crimson robe’s pocket, and aimed at the crawling devil corpse a meter away. “You guys ready?”

Heart racing and with locked breaths, Dimitry’s gaze focused on her weapon. The test could result in anything from tragedy to triumphant success. In the latter case, it was best to lower the risk of tinnitus from a sonic boom. “Emilia, cover your ears.”

“Why?”

“I’ll explain afterward.”

“’Kay.” The inscriber pressed her hands to the sides of her head.

Dimitry did the same and inhaled deeply. “Ready.”

Angelika rolled her shoulders and adjusted the voltech rifle’s barrel towards her target’s spherical stone core. Her hind leg, full of energy, continued to tap the ground restlessly. She took a deep breath.

“Propelia.”

A loud crack echoed through the sparse forest.

Although the sonic boom was weaker than when he cast accelall on Angelika in Waira’s cache, that did nothing to quell Dimitry’s dopamine rush. The iron pellet didn’t roll out the barrel like before. It reached supersonic speeds.

He succeeded.

Emilia glanced at Dimitry, her mouth ajar. “The sound. Why? How did you…”

A victorious grin spread across his face. “Stop by the cathedral if you want to find out. But for now, let’s go see the damage.”

The girl trailed behind him.

When they joined Angelika, all of three of them studied the unfortunate target—a downed crawling devil that sustained additional gaping wounds on either side of its spherical stone core.

But the bullet didn’t stop there: its momentum was too great. The iron pellet buried itself in the nearby soil.

Angelika snapped out of her stupor. “Did you guys see that? That was insane.”

Emilia’s gaze traveled from the heathen to the hole in the ground, and finally to the gold-glowing voltech rifle in her sister’s hands. “My turn.”

“Nope.” Angelika loaded another iron pellet. “We have to save vol for the night of repentance.”

“Then why are you wasting it?”

“Wasting it?” She smirked. “This is training.”

“You hypocrite. Let me try!” Emilia lunged at her sister.

Angelika thrust out her knee to use as a shield. “You’ll have your chance later.”

Dimitry watched in horror as the two wrestled over an object that barely contained a lethal accelall enchantment. “Can you two stop? If that reflectia towelette comes off, you’ll—”

“Then tell her to go away!”

“It’s my invention!” Emilia’s voice was louder than ever.

“And it’s my rifle!”

The cantering of an approaching horse ended their squabble.

Someone in glowing armor rode the beast’s back. The red and gold breastplate hinted it was one of Malten’s knights.

Dimitry stepped in front of the girls. He didn’t know the warrior’s intentions, but the cry of a collapsing sound barrier and two sorceresses fighting over a glowing gun in an otherwise quiet nighttime forest would undoubtedly attract unwanted attention. Attention that inspired too many questions.

He took precautions. “Both of you. No matter what they ask, don’t tell them about accelall. If they find out we’re using a Church-like enchantment in secret, I doubt any of us will be any better off.”

“It won’t be that bad.” Angelika pointed to a large cloth draped over the horse’s back. “That’s the Kuhn family’s heraldic banner on the caparison. It’s probably Valter.”

The name was familiar.

Emilia nodded. “He’s cool.”

“Still, don’t tell him anything,” Dimitry said. “I’ll do it when the time is right. Understood?”

“Wasn’t going to, anyway.” Angelika lowered her rifle.

The well-dressed steed trotted closer. When it stopped, the broad-shouldered knight riding on top sheathed his heathen blood-coated rock hammer into a layered sack beside the horse’s torso. He lifted his helmet’s visor to reveal a handsome face tarnished only by the scar cutting across its cheek.

Emilia bowed. “My lord.”

Valter smiled a benevolent smile. “Vogels, Jade Surgeon. Is all well?”

Seeing the youthful man in person jogged Dimitry’s memory. Valter visited the hospital for a plague cure back when it was a small church full of modified preservia blankets. The knight’s mannerisms were gentler than that of his father, Marquis Richter.

“We’re fine,” Angelika said. “How about you? Kill anything today?”

“Just crawling devils trampling the coast.”

“More than last month again?”

“I’m afraid so,” Valter said in a troubled tone. His eyes shifted to the weapon in Angelika’s hands. “Is that a voltech rifle in a reflectia sack?”

“This? It’s a…” Angelika’s voice trailed off.

“It’s a failed experiment,” Dimitry said. “We were trying something new.”

“Ah. Is it more of that magic father told me about?” Valter dismounted the horse with one swooping motion. “He said you possessed spells that could uncover lies and tame aquatic demons. I didn’t believe it at first, but I haven’t seen a fishman in over a week. Am I wrong to believe that thunderclap I heard is yet more of your magic? It came from your direction.”

Emilia’s head tilted. “Tamed the aquatic demons?”

Angelika elbowed her sister.

Although Dimitry could have easily deluded the knight, it was wise not to. The unnecessary lie would hurt his reputation once everyone learned of the modified voltech rifle’s supersonic capabilities. “Yes, that was us.”

“I may be a fool when it comes to magic, but I too am interested in the Jade Surgeon’s wizardry. Would you demonstrate it for me?”

“Unfortunately, it isn’t ready. It’s still too dangerous.”

“Is that so?” Valter stepped on the heathen’s corpse, disassembling its fragmented remnants with a steel boot. “Was it your thunder that pierced the crawling devil’s shell? It seems quite powerful.”

“It is powerful, but we can’t properly control it yet.” Dimitry appealed to the knight’s chivalry. “Until we figure out how, I don’t want to risk these young sorceresses getting hurt by accident.”

“I would never suggest otherwise.” Valter stroked his horse’s nose with a gauntlet reflecting the moon’s green light. “ I’m confident Mira and Her Majesty would be delighted to learn of your… thunder rifle bag. Do you think it’ll be ready by the summit?”

“What summit?”

“There’s one on the third evening before every night of repentance,” Angelika said. “Mom goes every month.”

Valter’s eyes furrowed. “Everyone involved in the city’s defense attends, including myself. Since you are the new court doctor, I thought surely you would as well.”

Dimitry stroked his chin. That was only two days from now. If he didn’t reveal the Voltech hand cannon at the summit, Valter would instead. The loose-lipped knight already blabbered about aquatic demons to an unknowing Emilia—he wasn’t the type who could keep a secret.

But maybe that wasn’t a bad thing. Maybe Dimitry could use the man’s disclosing nature to his advantage. If he planned carefully, the aspect of the rifle that garnered the most suspicion—its Church-like rainbow aura—could become a boon that solidified his position as a religious authority instead of his downfall. And Valter’s praise would only help.

People’s perception lay in the way he framed the new invention.

Dimitry smiled. “The thunder rifle bag will certainly be ready by then. Look forward to it.”

85. Black Powder Blast Tattoo

Snowflakes glided from gray, sunless skies along icy winds and crashed into Malten’s scarce passerby. Not many civilians wandered the streets. They had little to gain from staying in the cold. The few who braved winter’s frost did it out of necessity.

Watching them rush by were refugees sat alongside building and alley walls. Some displayed healing purple skin under rumpled clothes. Others, the weathered countenances of a recent escape from a crumbling kingdom or the countryside.

Although the homeless maintained their usual downtrodden gazes, there seemed to be something else. Something unusual. Something cheerful.

Eyes that gleamed a moment longer than yesterday. The occasional hushed laugh tittering from a dark crevice. Smiles. Like flickering candles struggling to illuminate an insurmountable pitch-black nothingness, the weary gripped hope tightly.

Dimitry examined the refugees as he strode by. Did their hesitant joy result from a free meal? In a time of starvation, it was possible. This morning marked the second day of his soup kitchen’s operation, where the needy could receive a meager breakfast despite famine. Nothing brought relaxation like a full stomach. Or did he take too much credit? Perhaps his alms were yet another gear churning humanity’s ability to extract jollity from the bleakest times.

A man huddling under a shop’s folding counter met his gaze. He pulled back his cloak’s hood and nodded. “Jade Surgeon.”

Dimitry flashed a reciprocative smile at the former patient. “Good afternoon.”

“Celeste guide you,” an unseen woman’s voice mumbled from somewhere nearby.

Although her otherworldly religious pleasantry was well-meaning, it brought Dimitry no comfort. It reminded him of who he was instead—a snaking opportunist who would soon regurgitate those same words to succeed the Church in shaping the people’s beliefs.

He didn’t care about Zera or Celeste’s guidance. All that mattered was that Malten was on the brink of collapse, and if warping sacrosanct babble was the fastest way to stabilize the city, then that was what Dimitry would do. Even if his manipulative ambitions elicited gnawing guilt.

But that wouldn’t happen right away. Like any messiah, Dimitry would have to perform miracles before he could convince the populace of his god-given authority. Curing the plague, distributing meager meals, and opening a hospital with tolerable survival rates wasn’t enough. He had to do more.

Developing sticky bombs capable of eliminating stone giants was a start. However, concepts alone were useless. The hardest aspect remained: manufacturing.

Despite Clewin and his three apprentices operating the chemistry lab for most of every day, they struggled to produce enough granulated black powder. The issue wasn’t lacking manpower, nor was it the mass quantities of distilled water and alcohol granulation required.

It was equipment.

Pestles and mortars couldn’t pulverize hundreds of kilograms of potassium nitrate, charcoal, and sulfur into a fine powder before the night of repentance. They were too inefficient.

Dimitry considered using a watermill instead, but grinding potentially toxic chemicals in a building that also handled flour posed a citywide health hazard. The stamp mills he saw in the Amphurt mines weren’t suitable either. Aside from losing large portions of powdered reagent with each impact and drifting gale, he would also risk revealing black powder’s composition. It was a dangerous technology in the wrong hands. Not to mention that many people considered sulfur to be ‘holy sand’. Its use in weaponry was blasphemous and could attract the Church’s unwanted attention.

That was why he designed something new.

Trailing behind him were two hospital porters. One man carried a modified metal barrel, while the other dragged a sack of iron pellets, two vertical stands, and a long crank. After assembly, the cement-mixer-like grinding tool would produce several gallons of pulverized product every few hours.

Dimitry’s inspiration was the rock tumbler he used to polish his mineral collection on Earth. It was a spinning tub that smoothed minerals and semiprecious gemstones by continuously mixing them with artificial sand. Billions of microscopic collisions weathered rocks’ sharp edges, leaving rounded curvatures in their place.

The portable mill he invented operated on a similar principle. However, instead of using sand or electricity, a chemist would manually turn the barrel by cranking a long rod, forcing the heavy pellets within to roll over and crush chemicals hundreds of thousands of times every hour. Countless collisions would produce more explosive than ten pestles and mortars could in the same time.

But massively increased efficiency wasn’t the only benefit. The resulting product would also be finer, and finer black powder allowed for more thorough chemical chain reactions.

That meant more powerful explosives.

It was part of Dimitry’s two-fold plan: assembling destructive weapons capable of penetrating any heathens’ stone carapace and impressing anyone who saw them do so.

A messenger from the castle confirmed that the queen’s summit was in two days—the perfect opportunity to show off his creations. By framing sticky bombs and improved voltech rifles as holy inventions, Dimitry hoped to convince the attending nobles of his own divine status.

His strategy was risky, but he had no choice.

It was the only way he could normalize accelall’s rainbow enchantment and justify his inheritance of the Church’s activities. Without approval from the wealthiest and most influential, his ambitions would only get him killed. They wouldn’t let a nobody amass power right under their noses otherwise.

The plan had many payoffs, but it also risked everything he built so far.

Dimitry inhaled several deep and slow breaths to ease the anxiety budding within. He neared the chemistry lab’s entrance. Displaying doubt to his employees would lower morale—an unfavorable way to greet the upcoming night of repentance.

Two men stood outside the former church’s entrance. A lanky man brandished a crossbow, while his heftier coworker caressed a bludgeon. They were two of Dimitry’s four guards. He reassigned them here after someone threw a rock through the lab’s window.

“’ello,” the larger man said.

“Afternoon,” Dimitry said. “Did anything happen while I was gone?”

The lanky guard shrugged. “Aside from some kid scribbling the walls with chalk, we didn’t see nothing.”

“Chalk isn’t an issue. Keep up the fine work.”

“You got it, boss.”

Dimitry passed under Celeste’s statue and into the domed passageway. He opened the granite door for the porters following him. “Leave the milling parts in the corner, then you’re free to take a break.”

A gray-haired man’s head shot up from a countertop and turned towards the commotion. Clewin approached with hesitant steps. “What’s all this?”

“It’s a tool,” Dimitry said. “It’ll help you pulverize chemicals faster and with decreased risk of repetitive stress injury.”

“I-I see. How does it work?” Although Clewin asked the question, his distracted eyes didn’t seem interested in its answer.

“I’ll show you after we assemble it. For now, just know this one is only for potassium nitrate. There will be another for charcoal and sulfur arriving this evening.”

“To avoid all three chemicals mixing together and exploding?”

“That’s right.”

“…right.” Clewin looked at the device with a troubled expression—the kind a guilty child might have after breaking something expensive.

“Is something wrong?”

The head chemist massaged the deep scar at the base of his neck. “Well…”

“Well?” Dimitry braced himself. Whatever troubled Clewin, it probably wasn’t good.

“It’s kind of related to not crushing saltpeter, charcoal, and holy sands at the same time. Because they’ll explode. I think I know what you mean now.”

Those were the words Dimitry least wanted to hear. His eyes darted to scan the room.

Two apprentices spoke in hushed tones. A woman continued to churn a white dust-like mixture, and the man beside her weighed samples on a balance scale. Nothing stood out of the ordinary.

The inconspicuousness of it all worried Dimitry further. “Go on.”

Clewin glanced back at his apprentices. “Promise you won’t get mad.”

“Just tell me what happened.”

He took a deep breath. “Anne, could you come here for a moment?”

A woman standing over a table dropped the tools she held and slowly approached.

“Show Dimitry your hand.”

She hesitatingly pulled her fist out of her pocket.

Blood engorged three of her battered fingers. Each digit was red and darkened with blast tattoos atop water-filled blisters protruding from their ends. The damage pierced the skin’s surface layer and scorched the dermis underneath. Signs of a fresh second-degree burn. Although not an immediately life-threatening injury, if the blisters burst, they could lead to infection. A death sentence in a society lacking proper hygiene.

Her injury resulted from tactless handling of black powder and a complete disregard for Dimitry’s warning not to grind all of the components at once. The mixture exploded near her hand.

Dimitry sidelined his rising fury. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” Anne said.

“Real bad?”

She nodded.

“At least the nerve-endings are still intact,” Dimitry mumbled to himself. “Listen carefully. Go to the cathedral. Tell Lili to soak your hand in cold water, and then wrap it in a fabric compress. You will hold it against a preservia blanket afterward. Is that understood?”

Anne’s petrified eyes mustered the will to meet his gaze. “We were just trying to—”

“I’ll hear you out later. It’s more important that you get it treated right now. Go.”

She rushed out of the building.

Dimitry prepared to lecture Clewin on basic safety and not being an idiot but held his words. Admonishing the chemist in front of his apprentices would only tarnish Clewin’s credibility and self-respect.

He needed to clear the room first. Dimitry glanced at the remaining apprentice, who looked on blankly. “Can you check up on Anne and make sure she’s okay?”

Without a word, the man dashed after her through the domed passageway.

Clewin glanced around the vast room, now devoid of onlookers as his feet squirmed restlessly against the floor. “Anne didn’t say anything about it hurting that bad. She just—”

“That’s because she didn’t want to worry you, you dolt,” Dimitry said. “As a leader, communicating with and keeping your team safe are your most important jobs. What would you have done if she burnt her hands to a crisp? Lost her fingers? We’re lucky that the explosion didn’t ignite the black powder granules a table over. Why did you crush all three chemicals in the same mortar? I told you specifically not to do that.”

He fidgeted. “We were just trying to get it all done for the night of repentance.”

“If your mistake set off a chain explosion, we’d have nothing at all. You would have died. Claricia would’ve been a widow.”

Clewin dropped into a kneel. “I’m sorry!” He stared at his feet with repentant eyes.

Seeing the defeated man, Dimitry tapered his anger. Although he didn’t enjoy lashing out at his employees, sometimes it had to be done. “Tell me. Why did you keep Anne here instead of sending her to the hospital? You knew she was injured.”

“Everyone was excited by what we found, so…” his voice trailed off.

“What could you have possibly found that made you so careless?”

“I wanted to say something, but I was afraid. Nothing really happens around here. I wanted to let them enjoy it.”

Dimitry’s brows furrowed. “Enjoy what?”

“D-do you want to see?”

“This better be good.”

Clewin jumped to his feet and dashed across the room. His destination was a table, where he fiddled with a crate of black powder granules. He piled a handful onto an isolated granite chair. “Remember how you said that faster burning powder made stronger bombs?”

“Yes.”

“This is what we found.” The gray-haired chemist struck flint against a steel rod.

Sparks scattered in every direction. When one contacted the dark-gray pellets below, the entire stack instantaneously combusted into a white cloud of smoke. Only a faint gray stain remained.

The fastest and cleanest burning batch yet.

Stunned, Dimitry thrust a hand into a crate full of black powder granules. He held a pellet between two fingers. “How did you make these?”

“By grinding all the chemicals in the same mortar at once. We did it to save time, but we got excited when we thought we discovered a better way to kill heathens. We’ve been doing it since morning. I thought it was safe until Anne got hurt.” Clewin sighed. “When I told them to stop, it was already too late. It’s my fault.”

Why did simultaneous pulverization of potassium nitrate, sulfur, and charcoal produce a more powerful explosive? Did highly integrated mixing make them burn faster? Or did the molecules interact in some other way?

Dimitry wasn’t sure, but he would be a fool not to take advantage of the development. Sticky bombs were useless unless they detonated while contacting the target. Even then, the damage was lacking. Could additional firepower change that?

However, before testing could begin, Dimitry had another task. Admonishing Clewin without building him back up would only destroy his frail confidence. Unlike Dimitry, who guided surgical teams, he was a decade younger and lacked leadership experience. One grew by making mistakes.

He placed a hand on Clewin’s shoulder. “As someone responsible for others’ safety, your priority is to stay calm and collected, even when you feel pressured. Never take risks without preventative measures.”

“I got carried away.” Clewin’s back slumped. “I just wanted to help kill heathens. We all did.”

“And you did a fine job. Your discovery will make a big difference.”

Clewin looked up. “Really?”

Dimitry nodded. “Going forward, I encourage you to experiment with chemistry, but only if you do it safely and consult with me first. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good.” Dimitry flashed a reassuring smile, then turned away to examine a mortar with a charred interior. The aftermath of an unplanned ignition. Was there a way to keep his employees safe while they prepared this highly efficient, yet dangerous, variation of black powder by hand?

He thought of the green aura covering Malten’s walls. The same enchantment that coated knights’ armor and the gambeson Saphiria lent him when they traveled to Amphurt. It belonged to protectia—a spell that weakened oncoming forces. Perhaps it would prevent injury from explosions, too.

His hand reached into his pouch for four gold marks and dropped them into Clewin’s open palm. “Continue processing black powder the same way. But before that, buy two pairs of the thickest gloves you can find and have them weaved with protectia at Vogel’s Enchantments. Wear them while working with dangerous blends. I want you to tell me if they help.”

Clewin stared at the gold coins. After snapping out of his trance, he pointed at the metal barrel of an unassembled mill in the corner. “How about that thing?”

“You’ll be using it to pre-grind reagents to save time before integrating them by hand. Let’s build it now. I’ll show you how it works.”

Icy as always, wind whistled into Precious’s office on the cathedral’s third floor. But she didn’t care. Here, in the hood of her human’s cloak, she only felt warmth as her head nestled in the fluff of some dead animal’s fur. Who didn’t enjoy the sound of pages rustling as fuzzy comfort trickled from their legs to their wings?

Absolute luxury.

The suffering of patients below only made it better. Precious never thought she would enjoy living in a hospital, but she had come to love it. It was nice.

One guy in particular filled her with overwhelming joy. He probably wasn’t going to make it. His emotions flickered between despair and sadness and fleeting salvation. Every one of his unanswered prayers, every surge of his pain sent primal chills down Precious’s spine. No faerie could have asked for more.

And yet, something else loomed within her, dark and lurking.

But it wasn’t pity. Why should Precious care if the guy lived? If he had the chance, he would crush her between his hands or stomp her out like any other pest without a second thought. And he would do so happily. People were jerks that way.

No. She knew that irksome feeling well. She knew why every pleasurable rush from others’ pain evoked a tinge of regret like eating mushy, overripe fent. She had known for over a century.

It was estrangement.

Although her instincts impelled her to cause malice, she yearned for company. Human comforts and socialization taught her that life entailed more than wordlessly competing against other faeries for still-warm corpses.

However, like some deformed leper cast out of their village, her unsightly origins doomed her to never belong. Each desperate attempt to converse with people garnered only violence. No one wanted to be seen with a corrupted creature. The uncontrollable laughter that rose within whenever man suffered only isolated her further.

There would never be a place for Precious.

The first human to give her a home abandoned her, and it wouldn’t be long before the second did, too. Luckily, this one was slow on the uptake. It would take her at least another century until she found another. She had to enjoy his company while it lasted.

Precious popped out of her curled position, scrambled up a shoulder, and thrust her head past dirty blond hair. After swatting away meddlesome strands, her gaze traveled downward.

A man’s hands flipped through the weathered pages of the Gospel of Awakening. Doubtless full of Zeran stupidity.

Or so Precious thought. Not that she knew for sure: she couldn’t read Rostlen.

“Hey, Dumitry. Still reading that dumb book?”

“Yep.” He turned the page. “Did you know that Celeste was born from an acorn?”

“That’s possible?”

“Apparently.” He reached to grab a quill resting in an inkwell and scribbled something silly on a nearby piece of parchment. Although the formatting resembled letters, it was unlike any sane language. Straight and loopy lines comprised every picture.

“What are you drawing?”

“Your portrait,” Dumitry said. “The black ink really brings out your eyes.”

Precious didn’t need to parse his emotions to know he was being sarcastic. She tugged on his earlobe. “Tell me!”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

Mustering all her might, she pulled as if to rip his gigantic ear clean off.

Dumitry chuckled. “Ow. Stop. That hurts.”

“Fine.” She let go. “Don’t tell me. I don’t care anymore.”

“It’s English.”

Precious’s head titled. “What’s that?”

“The language people use where I come from. Some of them, anyway.”

Squint as she might, his alleged language didn’t jog her memory. And he wasn’t lying. English must have been the dialect of some tiny village if Precious didn’t recognize it despite centuries of wandering. What a waste of time learning something only a handful of people could read. Or maybe he was trying to keep his thoughts hidden. “Are you writing secrets?”

His brows furrowed. “What are you on about?”

“You know. Because no one else knows English.”

“Interesting, but no. I need to take notes, and it’s the only language I know how to write.”

Was that why he always had that crybaby Claricia jot stuff down for him? Precious leaned forward. “Why are you taking notes?”

“I won’t remember everything in this book without a reference.” He leaned back in his chair. “There’s just too much to go through.”

Remember everything?

Was his curiosity more than a passing interest?

Precious knew how enticing that stupid book was. The entire world worshiped it. What if the gospel brainwashed him into a devout Zeran idiot just like it did everyone else? “Are you actually taking it seriously?”

“I don’t have a choice. It’s important for both of us.”

Did she notice too late?

Precious gripped Dumitry’s shoulder tighter. “You should get rid of it.”

“Can’t. If I’m going to lead ‘Celeste’s flock’, I need to know what that means.“

“I’ll throw it away for you.”

“It’s too heavy for you to lift, and you know that’s not what I meant. My goal is to convert this cathedral into a safe haven for Zerans. I have to pretend to be one of them to change their beliefs about corrupted creatures like you.”

His truthful words did nothing to soothe Precious’s unease. She risked everything if that stupid book changed him. “Do it some other way, Dumitry. You’re a smart dumb guy. You’ll figure it out.”

“I thought about it.” Dumitry set down his quill. “The advantage of this method is that it takes power away from the real Church, makes people less likely to target me for defacing holy property, and gives me an excuse to operate shrines like we did on Waira and in Amphurt. If you can think of a better way to do all that, I’d like to hear it.”

Precious darted out of the cozy haven his hair provided. She braved the icy chill to sit on the gospel, blocking its terrible words from sight. “You own the entire cathedral! Can’t you get rid of the Zera stuff entirely? No one would notice if the god that abandoned them just… disappeared.”

Dumitry shook his head. “Although Malten’s populace dislikes the Church, most continue to worship Zera. Prayer is important. Religion gives people hope, more so in these difficult times. It’s hard to imagine a situation worse than famine, war, and disease. They need the gospel more than ever.”

“But no one will even believe you! What kind of cathedral has a man in charge?”

“A valid point. Did you ever hear about the apostle?”

Who hadn’t overheard priestesses and deacons yapping about that? “You mean the lady that’ll appear to lead people in the cataclysmic battles of the end times or something like that?”

“Close.” He flipped through the weathered book. “I read the gospel twice. Not once did it mention the apostle’s gender or what they look like. From what I understand, they’re the kind of person that’d found a generous hospital, convince demons to stop attacking a dying city, return a princess to her castle, improve harvests, develop heathen-killing weap—”

“I get it already.” She pouted. “You think highly of yourself.”

Dumitry smiled. “All I’m saying is that I’m a qualified candidate. But don’t worry, I don’t really think I’m the apostle, and I won’t be doing it forever. Only for now.”

Precious prepared to shoot another complaint, but fear stole her will to speak. She looked down at her torn gown and trembling fingers instead.

Why was she so afraid?

Even if Dumitry started to hate her, even if he got caught impersonating a religious icon, she could easily escape. Her life wasn’t in danger. And yet, that did nothing to console her. Perhaps she longed for a home more than she thought.

Her gaze traveled up to meet his pale green eyes. “Just… don’t get carried away. Because I need someone to buy me food. And stuff.”

“Of course. That’s what all this preparation is for. Tomorrow, I intend to get the queen on my side. With her help, it’ll be a lot easier to convince the nobles. Everyone else will eventually fall in line once the biggest obstacles are out of the way.”

Dumitry’s gaze and words were confident. His emotions weren’t.

Precious couldn’t shirk her unease. “Are you sure it’ll work?”

“No, but it’s better than doing nothing while the kingdom collapses from a lack of timely change. I don’t want to go back to living in a city controlled by the Church. Do you?”

“N-not really. They suck.”

Laughing, Dimitry folded his parchment and set it aside. “Then it seems we’re in agreement. If all goes well, there’ll come a time you can show yourself in public. Just like I promised.”

“Do you really think so?”

“You know I’m not lying.”

Without her permission, imagery of Precious frolicking through the market invaded her mind. Her heart sang as she sampled all the fruit her heart desired: mouthwateringly sweet delicacies from Amalthea, Sundock, and even The Holy Kingdom. But no one attacked her or swatted her away. No one’s face so much as curled in disgust.

Everyone greeted her with smiles as the merchant jollily conversed with her, sharing gossip of the latest shinies imported from around Remora. Gold, silver, and crafted iron trinkets. So beautiful. So precious. Cozy warmth, without the irksome aftertaste of suffering patients’ emotions, enveloped her body.

What a dumb fantasy.

Dumb and wonderful.

Could it come true?

86. Prelude to a Lie

Populating the sparse woodlands north of Malten’s walls and a rushing river were scattered boulders, withering yellow shrubs, and darkened grass. All victims struggling to survive winter’s advance. Even the crowns of grand oaks fanned out, desperately clinging to the few browned leaves protruding from the ends of their scattered branches. Bleak midday light filtered through barren treetops, illuminating the roots beneath.

However, if one looked closely, they would discover more than exposed trunks. They would see the camouflaged silhouettes of motionless men. Backs pressed against bark, some wore light leather armor: others, black cloaks. Spies isolated an area several football fields wide to keep knowledge of two secret weapons from leaking to the masses.

The first was a glowing rifle that fired iron pellets with velocities exceeding the speed of sound.

The other lay disassembled in a crate by Dimitry’s feet.

Inside were several cast iron casings that arrived from Amphurt this morning. The blacksmith Elias upgraded them by giving each a snout, making them look like gray metal gourds. The explosive that would fill them rested in an adjacent compartment. Every granule harnessed the power of countless improvements—Clewin’s most destructive batch of black powder. Completing the trifecta was a bucket of adhesive, pink goop that Jesco made from ground and boiled bark skins.

All three components comprised this world’s first sticky bomb. An invention that revolutionized the common man’s defense against invading stone giants and, along with empowered voltech rifles, ensured this kingdom’s safety.

Or at least Dimitry hoped they would.

He would find out after today’s firing test.

An exhilarating prospect.

But experimentation wasn’t this outing’s sole purpose. There was another: impressing Lukas, Malten’s spymaster. He was one of the queen’s most trusted and longtime advisers. By convincing him of his weapons’ efficacy, Dimitry would convince the queen herself. She waited in the castle for a report on Lukas’s findings.

Although Dimitry preferred to demonstrate his inventions to Her Royal Majesty personally, having Lukas sing his praises in his stead would increase the desirability and value of his creations, making them indispensable bargaining chips. Bargaining chips Dimitry would use to enlist the queen’s help in a baffling premise.

He intended to solidify his holy status as Zera’s apostle at tomorrow’s summit.

A dangerous prospect.

Most attendants were nobles: fooling them would prove difficult. They owned armies, ran businesses, and managed vast stretches of land along with those who called it their home. Not only would they detect poorly conceived lies, but they also had the means to eliminate Dimitry if they thought him a fraud. A plausible outcome considering that some among them were already spreading distasteful rumors about the new surgeon in town.

To minimize his chances of failure, he needed the queen on his side. She was the perfect safety net. While her power wasn’t absolute, royalty was nothing to scoff at either. Her resources and connections allowed her to manipulate gossip and quell disputes. To warn Dimitry if someone targeted him. And her incentive to do so was access to pioneering weapons only he could produce.

That was why Dimitry waited with bated breath for Lukas to arrive.

Or he did.

His excitement and anxiety waned after waiting all morning for the spymaster’s arrival. Elbow pressed to his thigh, Dimitry’s head rested on an open palm. The overwhelming fatigue of consecutive sleepless nights coaxed a yawn from him. He would have dozed off long ago if it weren’t for the vivacious clamoring of a nineteen-year-old girl with waist-length hair.

Her red-brown curls swayed with every icy gale as she stared downward. Crouching, Angelika jabbed a stick into a patch of dirt between her boots and a pool of blue guts leaking from a nearby crawling devil. “Don’t go that way.”

Dimitry didn’t know who she spoke to. He had been avoiding the temptation to ask—doing so would end his only entertainment in an uneventful woodland.

Angelika pressed her sideways stick against the floor to form a blockade. “I said stop!”

Things were getting interesting.

“Where are you going? You’ll die, you idiot!”

It was like a soap opera.

She clicked her teeth. “Told you. Moron.”

Unable to suppress his curiosity any longer, Dimitry lifted his head. “Who are we holding a funeral for?”

“These idiots keep running into heathen’s blood. Why don’t they ever learn that they’ll just burn to death?”

“What idiots?”

“Conjuring ants.”

Were conjuring ants a species of insect unique to this world? And why was Angelika talking to them? Could they understand speech like faeries and aquatic demons? Judging by her unheeded warnings, probably not. “I’m sure they’ll be more careful if you yell loud enough.”

Angelika looked up. Rosy cheeks flanked her indignant frown. “Ha ha. Good one.” Her attention quickly returned to the stick, which she dragged across the dirt. “I just don’t want the little assholes to waste the vol they’re holding.”

Dimitry raised an eyebrow. “Why do ants have vol?”

“They make it.”

“How?”

She shrugged.

“Interesting.” Dimitry stepped off the boulder to join his guard.

Dark green specks between their mandibles, cockroach-sized ants raced around Angelika’s boots as they hauled magical cargo from one burrow to another. But not everyone made the journey. The occasional straggler wandered into heathen’s blood, their chitin and flesh melting on contact. Only molten specks remained.

“That’s brutal.”

“Told you they’re idiots.”

Watching the insects go about their business, Dimitry wondered if he could farm them. Probably not. Although the tiny fragments the ants held had the same metallic luster as vol, it would take hundreds to smelt a single pellet. Breeding the insect to produce larger chunks was an option, but there was no guarantee it would work. The time and labor was better spent improving mining methods with explosives.

A lengthy silence followed.

Like a compassionate celestial being, Angelika assembled a train of sticks barricading the blue pool of toxic fluids. She wore a rare, gentle smile. “There you go. Maybe you’ll stop burning to death now.”

The sight of a teenager engrossed in a simple task cajoled a laugh from Dimitry.

“What’s so funny?”

“The day is saved once more by Angelika—guardian of Malten and stalwart defender of ants.”

Her mouth opened as if to protest, but she looked away instead. “Leave me alone. I’m bored. Besides, there’s no point in letting them die.”

“Fair enou—”

The sound of boots stomping across wet grass approached from behind.

Dimitry’s head shot back.

“I apologize for the delay,” said a man. Although his voice was soft, it carried a subtle, threatening tone.

Angelika jumped to her feet. She hastily bowed. “Lord Lukas.”

The spymaster didn’t so much as nod in response to her greeting. His face remained emotionless, and his pinky-less hand pointed to a gold-glowing bag lying on a flat rock. “Dimitry. Is that the weapon you wanted to show Her Royal Majesty?”

He stood. “The voltech rifle’s part of it.”

“Voltech rifle?” Lukas’s finger ran across the modified core seal Emilia inscribed. “Why the bizarre appearance?”

“It’ll be easier to explain afterward. Can we begin?”

“Whenever you’re ready. I halted all nearby patrols: no one will see or hear what happens here.”

Dimitry’s gaze traveled from spy to spy, all on the lookout many meters in every direction. “How about them?”

“My men can keep a secret. They know what’ll happen if they don’t.”

The thuds of hard leather soles and the clacks of embroidered slippers’ silver heels echoed across a castle’s hallway. Granite and marble comprised the walls, and the floor radiated mellow, blue light onto a passing retinue: two yellow-robed sorceresses, an uncharacteristically pondering count, and a former duchess who undeservedly seized the title of ‘queen’.

Amelie never desired royalty. Never in the days her husband lived, and even less now. Every desperate law she passed, every overhanded tax she approved reminded her that the territory she and Ferdinand painstakingly erected from interspersed cottages would soon crumble. Problems worsened despite extreme measures.

Heathens, zealots, and famine.

Overcrowding, vol shortages, and overly ambitious vassals.

She had just left a meeting where she listened to the petitions and advice of nobles and foreign dignitaries. There was a time they strove to be helpful. Now, like emboldened vultures, they gutted the remnants of her kingdom, growing bolder as Amelie’s wealth and power declined. Ambassadors made unreasonable demands. Her own aristocracy sought to profit before fleeing to distant lands.

Remora piled all its weight onto Amelie’s shoulders. Would a court sorceress’s spells be enough to let her sleep tonight? Unlikely. Hoping the next meeting could relieve some of her burden, she glanced at the man walking beside her. “How was it?”

Lukas’s distant gaze refocused when he looked up from the floor. “I attended Dimitry’s ‘weapons test’ as you requested.”

“And?”

“His bombs were unlike anything I have anticipated.”

“What happened?”

“I’m not sure.” Lukas displayed wonder with typically unemotive eyes. “It shames me to admit that his… creations function beyond my understanding. He claimed he would explain their workings in more detail only when you and I were present to maintain secrecy.”

Amelie frowned. What could have surprised a count who had once visited every palace in the world? “Will they be of use to us?”

“It is too early to say for sure, but it is my opinion that they hold potential in combating both human and heathen threats. I permitted him to smuggle samples into the castle for your personal inspection as per your request. Though I advise caution. Their vast power may hold danger.”

A weapon must have been grand to surprise and impress Lukas, but that didn’t explain why a mere surgeon could produce them. In secret. Within her own domain. Although Dimitry mentioned the ‘flintlock’ and ‘black powder’ before, he never spoke of ‘bombs’ or ‘enhanced voltech rifles’. Was that why spies reported him venturing past the city walls? Did he leave Malten to maintain secrecy? Perhaps a third party was helping him.

All that Amelie knew for certain was that she knew nothing about Dimitry.

Who was he, where did he come from, why did he offer his aid? There was not a person who acted from the kindness of their hearts. Everyone schemed. The surgeon was no different.

Regardless, Amelie needed all the assistance she could muster. If the apocalyptic demonic forces of the end times themselves offered their support, she wouldn’t hesitate to accept. Let worry of backlash come after her kingdom’s safety was guaranteed. But that didn’t mean she neglected vigilance. “Regardless of what comes from this meeting, have your men continue tracking Dimitry.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

When they arrived at a pair of marble doors, her retainers stood at either side. Abundant blue light painted their yellow robes green.

Dimitry waited in the parlor beyond. Whatever he had to say was doubtless a sensitive matter.

Arms folded behind her back, Amelie stood tall. “Leandra. Anelace. No one is allowed near.”

Both court sorceresses briefly knelt. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

The massive doors creaked open, revealing an old chandelier—a gift to Amelie’s mother from Coldust’s former sultan. It hung over an oak table crafted by a master carpenter who had long fled Malten. On the surface rested an obscure iron ball resembling a curvaceous pot, and a muzzle peering out of a long, gold-glowing bag. Were those the weapons Lukas held in such high esteem?

Their creator sat patiently on a nearby chair. Dimitry’s unnatural, pale green eyes met hers as he motioned to stand. “Your Royal Maj—”

“Dispense with the pleasantries.” She strode forward.

Beside him was a meek girl in a yellow dress and raven black hair. Upon seeing Amelie, Saphiria looked away.

Something weighed heavily inside Amelie’s gut. Then, like rabid moths dispersing and congregating around a torch’s overwhelming flame, fluttering feelings of betrayal and worthlessness rose to her chest.

Her own daughter couldn’t stand the sight of her.

And rightfully so.

Since Saphiria returned, not once did Amelie apologize for her actions. How could she? After sending the girl’s father and brothers to die in a senseless war and bequeathing the heiress herself to the Church only for her to end up a slave, there were no words capable of conveying Amelie’s shame. And she hadn’t the courage to try. How amusing that Malten’s most powerful woman lacked the resolve to confront her own kin.

However, instead of silently stewing in her inadequacy, Amelie had the nerve to pressure Saphiria into upholding her heritage. She barked endless commands at the girl. From lessons in court mannerism to encounters with suitors, she forced them all, hoping to offset eight years of lost time.

But Amelie’s haste only distanced her daughter further.

Saphiria grew more reclusive by the day. She avoided her tutors. Skipped conferences. The times she didn’t hide in her room, she aimlessly roamed the streets in apparel befitting a common street rat.

Still, the celestial bodies decreed the girl’s destiny decades ago. Just like her mother, Saphiria’s noble lineage was her gift and her burden. Their lives weren’t their own. Half a million across the kingdom relied on them to lead in a time of calamity, and Amelie would never allow her daughter to shirk her duty. Every moment they wasted cast Malten further into ruin.

Without a visible hint of remorse, Amelie sat. She met the surgeon’s gaze. “Lukas tells me your creations will prove useful.”

Dimitry smiled. “Then my time was well spent.”

She glanced at the gold-glowing bag lying on the table. “Is that the enhanced voltech rifle?”

“Yes.”

“What of the flintlock we discussed prior?”

He shook his head. “Elias and I are still working on it. I’m afraid it won’t be ready before the night of repentance.”

“I see.” Her gaze shifted towards a clay-sealed cast iron jar. “And this is the sticky bomb?” She reached forward to touch the alleged weapon. Unlike the name suggested, her finger merely slipped across the surface. “It doesn’t seem very sticky.”

“There is another component,” Lukas said. “Dimitry applied lomnent to the shell, allowing it to stick to a heathen’s carapace.”

Amelie’s brow furrowed. Why did a weapon require an illicit gel to function? It mattered not. As long as the device killed devils well, she would gladly pass a law permitting its specialized use.

A separate matter concerned her.

If Lukas spoke the truth, the voltech rifle Dimitry developed was far more potent than any of its progenitors. How could a mere surgeon produce such a technology? And why did he ask for nothing in return? Those who labored for free had ulterior motives: they couldn’t be trusted.

“What compensation do you desire for your innovations? Payment? Territory? Status?”

“Nothing so grand,” Dimitry said.

Amelie frowned. “Do you expect me to believe you do this of your own goodwill?”

“Of course not.” He leaned forward. “I want what anyone else wants. Safety for myself, my business, and my employees. Although these weapons may help combat external enemies, it’s the ones within Malten that concern me most.”

“Explain.”

“Words alone won’t do. There’s something you should see.” Dimitry lifted a leather bag from the floor and dropped it onto the table. He retrieved two gray-glowing dispelia mitts from within, then placed them beside the voltech rifle. “Your Majesty, would you please step back? While no one was harmed during my research, a dangerous element may exist.”

What lurked beneath the reflectia cover? Amelie glanced at Lukas.

The count’s own lack of understanding made itself apparent despite an unflinching visage. “I will accompany Her Majesty to the far side of the room. Is that acceptable?”

“I don’t mind.”

“Saphiria,” Amelie beckoned. “Come. It is not safe there.”

The girl remained seated.

“She’s just worried about you,” Dimitry said. “I’d prefer if you went with her.”

“I’ll stay with you.”

Stood against the wall, Amelie’s gaze fell to her embroidered slippers. Did Saphiria place more trust in a surgeon than her own mother? Could she be blamed? “It is no matter. Continue your demonstration.”

Dimitry tugged at the reflectia cloth where it clung to the rifle and slipped off the entire sack to reveal a baffling sight.

Enveloping half of an elongated core seal and the barrel’s base was a rainbow-colored aura—identical to any high ranking Zeran officer’s armor, the heathen barrier in Remora, and the one Malten used to have.

Amelie’s breath hastened.

Was Dimitry with the Church?

Hand in his vol pocket, Lukas shot her a glance. He doubtless wondered the same.

She shook her head. Dispatching Dimitry in front of Saphiria would end any chance of gaining the princess’s trust. The girl held more value to Malten than anyone else present. Was that why Dimitry brought her to this meeting? A hostage to guarantee his safety?

If so, it was an unnecessary precaution. Amelie couldn’t kill him regardless. The plague continued to ravage her kingdom, and only he had a cure. Maybe that was another Church ploy. Did they spread disease just so that Dimitry could vanquish it, earning the trust of all?

Unlikely.

Dimitry negotiated a cooperative peace with aquatic demons. Any archbishop ambassador from The Holy Kingdom would have advocated a crusade. The Church couldn’t risk their centuries-old reputation by showing forgiveness to corrupted creatures solely to conquer a dying city. A single battalion of Zera’s chosen, holy knights, and priestesses sufficed to overrun Amelie’s and her subordinates’ armies.

Perhaps they intended to keep their involvement stealthy. But if that were the case, Dimitry wouldn’t have revealed his magic. Why send a single man to divulge military secrets? Furthermore, his obscure terminology, medical methods, and inventions were unlike anything the Church devised. Unlike anywhere in Remora.

And there was something else.

Amelie folded her hands behind her back. “Saphiria. Is it true what you said before? That Dimitry assaulted a bishop in Ravenfall?”

She nodded. “We also hid from one on the ship to Coldust.”

“... I see. The matter is settled.”

Lukas retracted his hand from his pocket. “What is that enchantment?”

“It’s accelall,” Dimitry said.

“Does it bear relation to the invisall you displayed in the previous summit?” Amelie asked.

“I believe so. The difference is that this spell accelerates time.”

Lukas rubbed his hands. “Accelerates time?”

“I apologize if the explanation comes across as obscure, but that’s what makes this variation of Voltech rifle extraordinarily powerful.” Dimitry covered the weapon with a reflectia cloth once more. “It’s also what makes being near it potentially dangerous.”

“That’s not all that makes it dangerous.” Amelie pulled up her gold-stitched mantle’s skirt, then sat once more. “There are some who would seek your life for the resemblance to Church magic.”

“I’m aware.”

“So, that’s what you meant by enemies within Malten.” Amelie grinned. “You wish to distribute your weapon, but you wisely fear receiving reactions like that of myself and Lukas. You seek my protection.”

“Not your protection.” Dimitry smiled. “Just your cooperation.”

She leaned back in her chair. “For now, you have my attention.”

“Although accelall enchantments resemble those from the Church, my goal is for people to accept them as a gift from Zera herself. More precisely, as a gift to her apostle to help them save a dying kingdom.”

“You claim yourself to be the apostle?” Lukas asked.

“I’m not. But that’s what I want people to think.”

Amelie exhaled a disbelieving chuckle. The apostle. In her kingdom? No one would accept such a foolhardy lie. “Why would the apostle rescue a land abandoned by Zera?”

Dimitry folded his arms onto the table. “My perception is that it was only abandoned by the Church.”

“You intend to divorce the two?”

“The divide already exists. All we have to do is expand it further.”

The surgeon spoke sense. Many despised the Church but continued to praise Zera out of habit and desperation. In the worst of times, Amelie was no different. However, despite the people’s desire for salvation, they weren’t fools. Convincing the masses of the apostle’s arrival wouldn’t be easy.

Nobles more so. While some yearned for a return to the days of yore, others reveled in their newfound freedom. Without Church advisers to regulate their territory, they did as they pleased. The appearance of another Zeran institution would threaten their power.

“You run a great risk naming yourself apostle,” Amelie said. “Some nobles brandish military might exceeding my own. I can’t control all of them.”

“It’s a risk worth taking. If we don’t seize religious authority soon, the Church will do it themselves. I believe they have already begun.”

Lukas straightened his cloak. “Do you refer to the spies we apprehended in the castle?”

“Yes. And the arsonist who set fire to the castle stables, shouting about the queen sacrilegiously allowing me to repurpose the cathedral.”

“Those idiots are spread throughout Malten.” Amelie frowned. “Like some pernicious pestilence, they infest even Amphurt and other towns under my jurisdiction. That’s the issue you aim to solve?”

“It’s one of many. I intend to gradually convert citizens to a new form of worship that allows alliances with aquatic demons, expanded use of sacred property, and widespread use of Church-like magic. It’ll allow me to continue work on enhanced weaponry, among other projects I have planned.”

Other projects? Those words ignited hesitant hope within Amelie’s bosom. What secrets, benevolent and lurking, did the surgeon retain?

“My men report of your food handouts to refugees,” Lukas said. “Is that related?”

Dimitry nodded. “Feeding the poor is the fastest way to gain people’s trust. I also provide medical services for those who can’t afford them.”

In an unusual display, the cold-hearted count wore a hint of a smirk. “How devious.”

“Nobles don’t starve.” Amelie tapped the table. “It will take more than paltry meals and benevolent healing to convince them of your divine status. I pray the Jade Surgeon didn’t forget such a basic fact.”

“He didn’t, Your Royal Majesty. I will reveal sticky bombs and enhanced voltech rifles as our salvation against heathens at tomorrow’s summit.”

“Is that when you intend to announce yourself Zera’s apostle to explain the accelall enchantment?” Lukas asked.

“No. To do it so bluntly would draw too much resistance. I want the attendees to come to that conclusion on their own. All I will say is that vivid visions bestowed me with knowledge and guided me to Malten.”

“Just like the apostle in the gospel.”

“That won’t be the people’s first conclusion.” Amelie’s tapping hastened. “They’ll sooner believe you a loon or a fibber.”

“It’s as you say.” Dimitry displayed a thoughtful visage. “Alone, I won’t succeed. That’s why I requested your cooperation—the cooperation of everyone in this room.”

“Continue.”

“As Your Majesty pointed out, there’ll be a great commotion once I announce my visions, but I can’t control whether it’ll be positive or negative. I hoped Lukas could help with that.”

“How do you intend me to do so?”

Dimitry pushed a folded paper sheet forward. “I prepared a list of my ‘good deeds’. Since this summit will have many attendees, your men can utter them without standing out. A few deviants are all it takes to alter the course of conversation.”

“False supporters?” The count raised an eyebrow. “It won’t be enough. I’ll have to do more than that.”

“Like what?”

“Among other things, spread rumors and make potential troublemakers… agreeable.”

“I-is that so?”

Amelie smirked. Although the surgeon was clever, he lacked experience in courtly affairs. “Lukas will handle it. What of my role?”

“I wish for one favor, Your Majesty. No matter how much resistance the crowd puts out, I ask you to keep me safe.”

The nobles all but threatened to secede. Amelie couldn’t risk losing their armies’ support by overtly helping Dimitry. “Although you have been a great help to me, many consider you an ominous outsider. I can’t ignore their prattling—it’ll only hasten this city’s collapse.”

“I just need enough time to demonstrate my weapons’ capabilities. Preferably, right after the summit and before people’s opinions solidify.”

“Will your devices’ power suffice to convince the crowd?”

Lukas nodded. “I believe they can, Your Majesty.”

Amelie ran a hand through her hair. If Dimitry’s plan succeeded, it held the potential for stamping out the Church’s influence while freeing him to materialize more of his ‘miracles’. Miracles she desperately needed. The kingdom desperately needed.

Failure, however, remained a possibility that endangered all involved. Dimitry would die, and Amelie would lose her reputation—an irreplaceable commodity in these turbulent times. Without influence over her subjects, division would crumble Malten like it did the Gestalt Empire eight years ago.

But she had no choice.

If Amelie didn’t accept the surgeon’s offer, the city would fall eventually. This was likely her last chance to preserve the territory her ancestors, she, and Ferdinand had built.

She stood. “Lukas. Ready a field visible from the castle walls for a demonstration. Don’t make it obvious we’ve prepared.”

“I will handle it.”

“Dimitry. Sleep well, and come ready to fight for your life. It may very well be at stake.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

87. Blasphemous Rifle

Dimitry wasn’t a stranger to anxiety. No different from his shadow, it stalked him throughout his life.

Adrenaline-fueled cram sessions where the smallest detail decided between matriculation into medical school and failure. Nervous rocking to ease the dreadful lull before a piano competition. A scrub nurse’s rolling eyes while he struggled to mark the site of a cholecystectomy incision with trembling hands, praying his first solo surgery didn’t involve him accidentally slicing the bile duct, liver, or small intestines. Routine procedures that rapidly ballooned in complexity with profuse bleeding or the sudden discovery of a tumor.

Anxiety loomed over Dimitry then, and it did again now.

Eyes pierced him from the throne room’s every direction: curious eyes, dismissive eyes, pompous eyes. Overbearing perfume—rose, lavender, and citrus—wafted as nobles shifted to get a better view. Like zoo-goers gawking at a rowdy chimpanzee, none dared get too close. The crowd maintained a two-meter gap between themselves and the target of their gossip.

“Does the Jade Surgeon bear news of plague?”

“—accepting every refugee.”

“What does he carry in his bag?”

“Will our lands be blessed now that he has returned Your Royal Highness to Malten?”

“This one has heard of them mingling in public.”

“Then he is no holy ambassador—just her concubinus.”

“—that the flesh barber whispers to aquatic demons—”

“Will we incur Zera’s wrath once more?”

Confidence seeped from the voices and postures of women wearing elegant dresses or red robes and men in decorated uniforms. Every distinguished mannerism exuded the belief that they were a superior breed of people, resulting from a privileged upbringing and a lifetime of unconditional respect.

Fifteen years ago, a bright-eyed and naïve young man, Dimitry would have collapsed under the pressure. His legs would have shook. His spine would have slumped. His subtlest gestures would have been hasty and indecisive—all primal impulses. Social evolution programmed humans to display submissiveness to those at the top of the hierarchy, and in this society, nobles dominated.

But Dimitry was a young man no longer.

He attained control over his unconscious communication through countless interactions with exhausted coworkers, rude patients, and their demanding family members. Life as a surgeon and a leader necessitated the ability to hide his honest feelings.

Dimitry now employed that same skill to veil his unease. Stood tall, he met every noble’s inquisitive glare and barbed utterance with an unassuming smile—just as a benevolent apostle might. The apostle he would soon insinuate himself to be. He had to convince everyone attending the summit that the cast-iron bomb and rainbow-glowing rifle in the bag strapped to his back were weapons Zera herself bestowed upon him to combat the heathen threat. Failure would endanger him and perpetuate Malten’s slow decline.

From the crowd of gossiping nobles, a single sorceress dared breach the invisible barrier surrounding Dimitry. She pulled back her red robe’s hood to reveal neck-length brown hair. It was Raina—Angelika’s mother and the city’s head enchantress.

“How are you?”

“I’m well, Mrs. Vogel. Just getting accustomed to the kind people here and their pleasant welcome.”

“It’s unfair that you have to bear their gossip alone after everything you’ve done for us.” Her hand, palm scorched with past overload, tapped his arm. “I’ll stand with you.”

Raina’s motherly concern filled Dimitry with warm comfort. Although her gesture may have appeared inconsequential, she risked her aristocratic reputation to accompany the most conspicuous man present. “I appreciate your kindness, but I’ll be making an announcement soon that may earn me quite a bit of scorn.”

“I'd rather show support to the man who saved my life than hide behind a pack of squabbling bullies.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I’ve already decided.” Raina flashed a courageous, bubbly smile. “Besides, there’s something else I want to ask.”

“Sure. What is it?”

Her determined orange eyes transitioned to excitement. She giggled devilishly. “I have it on good authority that your announcement might be related to that magic. You know the one I mean.”

Dimitry sighed. Despite telling Angelika, Leona, and Emilia to keep accelall a secret, it was inevitable for one of them to reveal the spell to their mother. “That’s right.”

“I knew it!” she cheered in a hushed tone. “Ask me how I know.”

“How do you know?”

“For the past few days, every time I walked in on the girls, they dispersed. When I asked why they were being so secretive, Angelika just shrugged, and Emilia hid in her room. I had to trap Leona to get anything out of her, and she was all like, ‘you’ll find out from Dimitry soon enough.’

“Later, I found a strange seal in the rubbish pile. Something so odd only made sense when I put everything together. You probably thought you were oh so clever.” Raina puffed out her chest. “But I’m clever too, you know.”

He laughed. It seemed a parent’s snooping rather than her loose-lipped daughters undid his secrecy. Not that it mattered. Soon everyone would learn about accelall. “I made a big mistake underestimating you.”

“You sure did. Let me in on the fun next time.”

“I promise I—”

A steel spear’s blunt end crashed into the floor. Metal clanging reverberated across the throne room’s marble walls and arches. The guard holding the weapon stomped. “Her Royal Majesty, Amelie Pesce, and Her Royal Highness, Saphiria Pesce.”

Silence swept across the crowd.

Two massive oak doors opened, their hinges croaking under the overwhelming weight they carried.

A pair of yellow-robed court sorceresses strode across a blue carpet. Following them was a dignified queen. Her red and gold mantle trailed behind her every step, as did a stone-faced princess in a yellow dress. The entourage passed between two masses of kneeling nobles before occupying two thrones—the third remaining empty.

Dimitry glanced at Raina, taking cues from her every movement. He knelt.

A group of three noblemen with decorated epaulets grinned at the sight.

The bubbly enchantress leaned towards him. “Men take both knees.”

He forgot about that sexist rule. “Right.” Dimitry altered his posture to resemble a sat Japanese martial artist. Although his movements were slow and calm, the anxiety festering in his gut grew tumultuous. Could he maintain his unflinching facade until the weapon demonstration?

Amelie’s glaring red eyes scanned the groveling sea from her elevated platform. She raised an open hand. “Three days from now, devils will invade our kingdom once more. Like every month prior and our ancestors before us, we will crush them underfoot. We will prevail. Malten will prevail.”

“Malten will prevail!” repeated the crowd.

Caught unaware and too late to join the chant, Dimitry remained silent.

“However, heathens grow in size and strength. Now faster than ever before. As those in the north have learned, crawlers now strike from two directions at once. Warriors take heed.”

Scant whispers filled the room.

“Did Volmer collapse at last?”

“Celeste, guide us.”

A guard beside a far wall stood. “Your Royal Majesty, pardon this one’s selfish intrusion. Now that Your Royal Highness, Princess Saphiria, has returned, how come we do not have Zera’s blessing once more?”

The voices grew louder.

“Blessings come in many forms, boy,” a gruff voice responded. “We may have lost the Church’s protection, but we retain our humanity.”

“Indeed!” another shouted.

Dimitry cracked a broken smile. Were those outcries Lukas’ doing? It made sense for a spymaster to manipulate thought. By planting the seed of an idea into people’s minds, they were more likely to make related connections—a concept modern psychologists called priming. Today’s targets were nobles.

Did Lukas believe that priming the audience with thoughts of Zera’s blessings would make Dimitry’s weapons and ‘visions’ come off as sacrosanct rather than heretical? Would the spymaster’s attempts succeed?

Dimitry hoped so.

Amelie didn’t appear thrilled. “You will speak only when spoken to.”

“This one’s humblest apologies.” Gaze downcast, the guard lowered himself once more.

“First, I will hear from the Marquis of the North. Rise, Richter Kuhn.”

“Yes, my queen.” A portly man in enchanted armor tumbled onto the blue carpet splitting the throne room into two.

“What was the tally for the last night of repentance?”

“One carapaced devil, thirty-eight crawlers, and fourteen fliers. A negligible few attacked the villages on the northeastern border.”

“And the forecast for this month?”

“With Volmer’s impending collapse and the heathen’s disposition to raid enchanted fortifications, the biggest change will be the northern assault on the city itself. The escalating trend makes it difficult to predict the exact scale of the assault.”

“Are your knights and man-at-arms prepared—”

Their voices trailed into Dimitry’s periphery as his heart beat as if to burst from his chest. Soon, he would be in Richter’s position. Maintaining a dignified image in silence was simple, but could he do the same while speaking to nobles? Lying to them?

What if they asked questions or raised concerns Dimitry didn’t prepare for? Would he lose all credibility if he stammered? Would that solidify his image as a laughable commoner? And yet, losing the nobles’ respect wasn’t the worst outcome.

Death was.

Dimitry walked a fine line between heretical speech and the harbinger of salvation. Every word he uttered had to be subtle but precise. Assured yet delicate. Inadvertently insulting the most revered deity in a religious society was tantamount to suicide. No one could rescue him from such a fatal mistake.

Although sweet, Raina’s well-meaning support would do nothing to rescue him from an enraged crowd, and Queen Amelie would selfishly deny her role in his schemes to preserve herself. Even if she risked everything to defend him, any noble zealot could secretly hire an assassin to dispatch Dimitry with magic or a simple dagger.

Success was his only option.

He had to impress.

Mouth dry, Dimitry rubbed a sweaty hand against his uniform. A lump in his throat grew increasingly uncomfortable. He knew the feeling well: it was the soaring fear of failure before any grand performance. Like all downward spirals, the longer Dimitry dwelled on doubt, the more it dwelled in him.

Pressure on the verge of overwhelming, he couldn’t let it consume him. His efforts would be for nothing if he did. A single solution flashed across his mind—a therapy he cautiously prescribed to trauma patients on Earth and one he practiced to stay alert during eighty-hour workweeks in the emergency room.

Mindfulness meditation.

Although the calming effects were best with habitual use, he welcomed anything that could help him escape his current anxious cycle.

As nobles rotated out of their speaking position, Dimitry focused on his breathing. Slowly, relaxation permeated his body with every rhythmic breath, extracting tension from his clenched jaw, shoulders, and finally, his mind. The rustling of linen, a sorceress gently clearing her throat, clinking coins in a pouch beneath a man’s uniform. Every sound distinguished itself as Dimitry retreated further from his nervous monologue and tethered his attention to the present.

Before long, a confident voice thundered across the room. “Doctor of the Court, Dimitry Stukov.”

A hundred expectant glares locked onto the interloper.

“Ignore them,” Raina whispered. “I believe in you.”

“I appreciate the support.” Shoulders firm and back straight, Dimitry stepped onto the blue carpet dividing the room into two. Whispers flanked him from either side as he approached the queen sitting at the end. He gave the nearby stone-faced princess a subtle nod before kneeling beneath their elevated thrones. “This one is at your service, Your Royal Majesty,” he imitated the speech of the dozen speakers before him.

Her piercing red eyes weren’t welcoming. “Since your arrival in my kingdom, you have demonstrated skills superior to any doctor before you. That is why you enjoy your privileged position in my court. You’d be wise not to forget that.”

Dimitry didn’t budge. He knew Amelie didn’t aim her message at him, but those behind him. Being overly friendly to a stranger would only foster discontent, diminishing her ability to sway the nobles' opinion later. Although he considered the queen using him as a scapegoat if his accelall announcement failed, Precious detected no scheming against him during yesterday’s meeting. Amelie needed him as much as he needed her. That was unless she changed her mind since. “This one takes your words to heart.”

“See that you do.” She propped her chin onto her hand. “Now, you have heard the others speak. Mira and both marquises expect this month’s night of repentance to have more casualties than any before. Even in a land where men have eyes like yours, surely there are heathens?”

“There are,” he lied.

“Then, as the barber-surgeon who cast their rivals out of practice and dared to erect a hospital from a cathedral, you will take responsibility?”

Her words had teeth, but Dimitry recognized them as an opportunity to bolster his reputation. Most present fought as knights or sorceresses. He would appeal to their ego. “My queen, this one has the greatest respect for your country’s warriors. They wage battle with their life in the balance to defend those who can’t, myself included. While—”

“The whelp is cultured enough to show proper respect, at least.” A man in an overly decorated uniform ran a hand down his beard.

Haughty laughter trickled from every corner.

Dimitry resisted the urge to groan. Were the people here so pompous that they would degrade the single person responsible for their medical care? A slip of the scalpel was all it took to end a life. He continued his speech. “While this one lacks strength, I aim to support the war effort any way I can. My ability to mend wounds is second to none. Any injured soldier will promptly receive the best treatment available in Remora.”

“H-he saved this one’s arm!” a red-robed woman among several uttered. “Other barber-surgeons recommended amputation, but Dimitry removed the festering gash another way. Without his aid, I may have died!”

As if committing an unspoken taboo, the sorceress’s praise filled the room with dismissive silence.

Dimitry wordlessly thanked her for being the sole voice of reason.

“I am aware of his talents,” Amelie said. “Like many others present, I have benefited from plague cleansing magic. There is no doubt about his skill.”

A handful of agreeable murmurs ensued.

“However, aiding a stabilized man already in bed differs from his downed comrades arriving from the battlefront. Does Dimitry have the capacity to tend to surges of wounded with haste?”

“This one does, Your Royal Majesty. Although I have arrived in this city only recently, I have already begun instructing nurses. I no longer work alone.”

“Will they be enough?”

“They will,” Dimitry said. “However, the brave warriors of Malten deserve more than such a paltry level of care. An injured man or woman bleeding on the field may not survive long if their allies are preoccupied with fending off heathens. Every moment is the difference between life and death. That is why I strove to find a solution.” He paused. “And I have found it.”

The distinguished crowd’s murmurs rose in volume, their voices abound in curiosity.

“Is it more magic?”

“Maybe he carries it in his bag.”

“—if my sons and daughters are safe, this one will sleep—”

“Go on. What’s the solution?” a man barked.

Was it Dimitry’s dramatics or Lukas’s unseen interference that entranced the onlookers? He didn’t care. Whatever it was, it worked.

Amelie leaned forward. Her furrowed eyes revealed her own surprise. “You speak the truth. Even a squire carries noble blood: their passing is no less than a tragedy. Now, release us from suspense.”

“Is Your Royal Majesty familiar with the concept of a field medic?”

“Yes.”

“My invention of an ambulance is similar. It is a two-man unit solely focused on administering aid on the battlefield. They swiftly tend to the wounded warrior’s most grievous injuries to prevent permanent damage, then carry them back to safety on a mobile bed. This one will personally take care of the rest once they return. Preparation for this service has already begun.”

“Do they return armor, too?” someone asked.

Dimitry looked back. “Unfortunately, they don’t. Although valuable, my belief is that life takes priority over garments.”

“Garments?” A sharp laugh followed. “Someone of your station would labor decades to afford such a ‘garment’.”

A man with a prosthetic leg limped forward. “The surgeon is odd, and his mannerism uncouth, but I rather have my boy back than the pierced steel breastplate stood in my parlor.”

“This one is in agreement with Sir Schumacher. I would feel at ease knowing my children are safe.”

“And I.”

Thankfully, not all nobles were single-minded dolts.

The queen’s red eyes traveled past her subjects, then down to the man knelt in front of her. “Dimitry, I will employ your services. Do well to conserve lives as you have so far.”

“Yes, Your Royal Majesty.” He looked back.

Unlike the dismissive glares that met him when he entered the throne room, several nobles looked on with a modicum of respect. Some even nodded to show their support.

Dimitry’s opportunity arrived. He won the crowd’s attention. However, now came the time to risk it all with an announcement necessary to preserve the city’s long-term stability. Terrifying words slipped out of his mouth, “if this one may give one more offering—”

“Be quick,” Amelie said. “There is much preparation to be done.”

“I wish to confer a gift to show my appreciation for the generous hospitality the people of this summit showed me.” He unstrapped the bag pressed to his back.

Heads shuffled left and right for a clearer view. Innumerous eyes watched as he retrieved a cylindrical, gold-glowing cloth from within.

A sorceress guildmaster in red and gold robes edged closer. Mira peered over him. “A muzzle? Is that… a voltech rifle?”

Her concern evoked similar puzzled cries from the audience.

“What is it?” The queen’s stupefied expression belied that she already knew her question’s answer.

Dimitry inhaled a sharp breath. “It is a weapon more powerful than any in your kingdom.”

Tension followed his statement.

Then, hysteric laughter.

Amelie jumped out of her throne. “You dare ridicule me?”

The calm from his meditation gone, Dimitry’s heart raced once more. “That wasn’t my inten—”

“Shall this one restrain him, my queen?”

“Give the word, and I’ll behead him without delay.”

A raven-haired princess motioned as if to defend him with a hidden dagger, but fortunately, a sudden yell stopped Saphiria in her tracks.

“Wait!” Scar cutting across his cheek, a broad-shouldered man ran out of the crowd. He knelt beside Dimitry. “Your Royal Majesty, pardon this one’s insolence, but the Jade Surgeon speaks the truth.”

“Valter, return at once!” Marquis Richter shouted across the room.

“But father, this is the weapon I told you about. The thunder rifle bag!”

“You damn idiot,” the portly man bellowed. “Centuries of Kuhn servitude just to sully the family name by spewing rubbish in front of Her Majesty?”

The young knight defiantly stood to face the crowd. “The thunder rifle bag is a weapon that pierced a heathen’s shell with the crack of lightning! I have seen the Jade Surgeon fire it myself.”

Mira marched forward, her hazelnut hair trailing behind her. “Is it true?”

“I lie not, great sorceress. Any technology that may allow us to benefit each other is welcome in my eyes.”

The knight vouched for Dimitry as he had hoped, but once he unveiled the thunder rifle bag’s outer layer, would his praise be enough?

Amelie’s fist slammed into her throne’s armrest. “Silence!”

The chaotic din permeating the room ended at once.

A knowing glint in the queen’s eye reassured Dimitry that she knew of his plan to reveal suspicious, Church-like magic.

He didn’t trust her methods anymore, but it was too late now.

“What lies beneath the reflectia coat?”

“A spell that grants sorceresses the power to kill heathens with ease.”

“I know of no such spell,” Amelie said.

“This one does not lie.”

“The color will tell me everything I need to know. Show it to me.”

“I cannot.”

“You dare defy my authority?”

“That is not my intent.” Dimitry struggled to ignore countless glares digging into his back like traumatic forceps. “The enchantment beneath is hazardous to all in its periphery. It is against my principles to expose others to senseless danger.”

Amelie beckoned the court sorceress beside her. “Anelace, your undervest.”

Without hesitation, the loyal servant fiddled beneath her yellow robes. She pulled a thin, leather armor piece from underneath. Coating it was the gray glow of dispelia.

“Throw it to the surgeon.”

The undervest flopped against the blue carpet beside Dimitry. Was the article’s purpose to negate magical attacks against the queen, or did the court sorceress wear it in preparation for this moment? Did that matter right now?

Apparently not. No one’s concern targeted the loose armor. Instead, their gazes fixed onto the enhanced voltech rifle.

“What do you wait for?” Amelie asked. “Show us this spell.”

“Yes, Your Royal Majesty.” He placed the enhanced voltech rifle over the still warm dispelia undervest and peeled back its reflectia cover.

Accelall’s rainbow glow, mending and melding, peeked out from beneath.

Nobles’ heads leaned closer. Their eyes widened like those of a mother gasping at a breakup in a midday television drama.

“…Church magic.”

“Does Dimitry come at the behest of The Holy Kingdom to return with their blessing?”

“Nay, he comes to confirm we crumble under the pressure of heathens.”

“Then why would he cure the plague with dark pink healing enchantments?”

The nobles’ outbursts devolved into fierce argumentation.

Dimitry couldn’t stop his fingers from trembling. He hoped his voice wouldn’t be the same now that the real struggle began. This was what the queen meant when she said his life was at stake. Hopefully, his preparation would keep him alive.

Amelie feigned displeasure with a frown. “What spell is it?”

“Accelall.”

Mira, Richter, Valter, Raina, among others who attended the summit two weeks ago, stood shocked. Perhaps they made the connection to invisall.

“Where did you learn of it?”

“It came to this one in a vision.”

The queen’s brow furrowed once more. “A vision?”

As the throne room sank further into chaotic infighting, a shout echoed from somewhere imperceptible. “The surgeon’s visions resemble the apostle’s!”

Doubtless the utterance of Lukas’s men.

“Is that why his eyes are unlike any other? Was he birthed from Zera herself?”

“Impossible! The Church cares not for us!”

“What if Celeste sends us her pity?”

“And she sent him? A man who consorts with demons?”

Dimitry froze. He knew his peace negotiations with myrmidon would eventually become common knowledge, but it was too soon. People in this world needed to learn to keep their damn mouths shut.

Amelie ran a hand through her graying black hair as if at an impasse. “Leandra, detain him. Carefully.”

The second court sorceress strode forward to clasp his hands behind his back. Her perfume smelling of sweet citrus, she leaned in to whisper. “All according to plan, hm?”

“Not exactly,” Dimitry muttered, wondering how many others were in on his schemes.

Leandra raised her voice. “Stand.”

He complied.

The queen pulled her red and gold mantle bottom off the floor, then rose from her throne. Every movement dignified, she stepped down from her elevated platform. “Normally, I would have cast aside your claims as the mad ramblings of a larmesh addict, but your deeds have been nothing short of miraculous. Tell me, did your surgical methods come from a vision as well?”

“They did,” Dimitry lied.

“And those enchanted bedclothes?”

“Yes, Your Royal Majesty.”

“Your reason for returning Saphiria to her home?”

He nodded.

“Do you expect us to believe you’re the apostle?”

“This one does not know who he is, only what he came here to do.” Dimitry’s foot tapped the rifle beside it. “A force beyond my understanding impels me, and the weapon at my feet serves as proof of my aspirations.”

Amelie’s gaze traversed the room. “Who wishes to test their faith and this… this device?”

No one spoke.

Then, a bubbly woman emerged from the crowd and rushed forward. Panting, Raina knelt. “This one, Your Royal Majesty!”

“We need to confirm its safety first,” Mira said. “I can’t let you risk your life. Your daughters need you now more than ever.”

“The Jade Surgeon is the reason this one is alive. Call me a fool, but I trust him.”

“Are you sure you wish to proceed?”

She nodded.

Dimitry repressed the urge to hug Raina. She treated him well ever since they met, and now when everyone else refused to openly acknowledge him, the amiable woman alone offered her support.

“Very well.” The queen faced the guards by the entrance. “Open the doors and clear the main hallway.”

Raina covered the enhanced voltech rifle in its reflectia coating and dropped an iron pellet into the barrel. “Dimitry, how do I use this strange core seal?”

“Press your palm to the exposed end.”

Her hand fumbled around the grip. “Like this?”

“A little further up.”

The nobles muttered among themselves as guards obeyed Amelie’s command. Before long, A blue carpet rolled from the throne room into a long corridor now devoid of maids, gifts, and other ceremonious paraphernalia.

Vol in hand, Raina aimed down the rifle’s barrel. “I think I’m ready.”

Dimitry looked around. “This one urges anyone who values their hearing to cover their ears. It’s one injury I can’t fix.”

A handful of nobles heeded his advice. The rest pretended the warning didn’t concern them.

“Your Royal Majesty, s-should this one shoot?” Raina asked.

“You may.”

The head enchantress inhaled deeply. “Propelia.”

With a loud and echoing crack like lightning, an iron pellet blasted from the muzzle. It flew at velocities exceeding the speed of sound before veering off course and pounding into a marble wall with frightening force.

Silence.

Nobles shot disbelieving glances at their neighbors, the voltech rifle, and then at Dimitry. The man with a prosthetic leg mopped a forearm across his sweaty forehead, Raina’s unsteady hands held her weapon as if it were the holy grail, and Mira pulled her red and gold collar away from her neck.

“See, father? I do not lie.” Valter stood. “The thunder rifle bag is a formidable tool of war.”

Marquis Richter didn’t respond. His wide eyes focused on the dent where the iron pellet collided with the wall.

Even Amelie wore a dumbfounded stare. She quickly recovered. “Leandra, release him.”

The court sorceress tore herself away from the scene before complying.

Rolling his freed shoulders, Dimitry suppressed a grin that strove to spread across his face. Some watched him with shock, others with fear, more still with caution. But their feelings were irrelevant: he had everyone where he needed them—waiting with bated breaths for his next word. They danced to his tune. His plan to win the nobles’ support and rout potential troublemakers could proceed.

Dimitry lifted the bag from earlier, which contained a second object: a cast-iron ball filled with gunpowder. He held it out for all to see. “Your Royal Majesty, if I may, I have another item that may interest you.”

88. Medieval Combat Medics

Getting out of bed today was difficult.

And it wouldn’t be any easier tomorrow.

Saphiria’s gaze fell to her yellow slippers as they climbed the steps of the castle’s south-western tower. Although her legs struggled to uphold her, she forced them to move just as she forced herself to eat, get dressed, and attend the summit moments ago.

Little motivated her. Tending to the horses became tiring. Caring for the injured pup she found behind the cathedral took insurmountable effort. Even her passion for Amphurt’s mines vanished since she acknowledged Father’s passing. As if hauling a sack of ore Saphiria couldn’t drop, something ceaselessly weighed over her shoulders.

Few knew of Saphiria’s burden. She concealed it beneath an emotionless countenance neither mother, the maids, nor her suitors could penetrate. Vulnerability was weakness. Unfortunately, her attempts to veil the heart didn’t fool everyone.

Intermittent giggling emanated from her bosom. “C-can’t you sto-stop being so depress-depressing?”

Saphiria bit her lip. “I’ll try harder.”

“W-wait. Don’t feel g-guilty! It’s my fault, t-too.” Precious gulped, and her laughter ceased. “I’ll hold it in as best I can.”

So disgraceful that even a corrupted creature pitied her.

But Saphiria marched on.

She wouldn’t stop.

Neither shame nor malaise could keep her from fulfilling a favor to an irreplaceable friend. Dimitry was there whenever she needed to talk, and now that he needed her help, she would be there for him.

He had tasked Saphiria and the faerie hiding beneath her dress to record the names and emotional states of nobles attending the summit. Aware that revealing Church-like magic would win him enemies, Dimitry wanted to identify angered attendees before they sought retribution. A prudent maneuver. Although nobles appeared unpredictable and sly on the surface, like Saphiria’s, their emotions were easy prey to Precious. Haughty smiles and false praise couldn’t conceal their disgust.

Yet the throne room wasn’t the place to associate with a faerie. Dimitry suggested waiting until the outdoor weapon demonstration to look for potential nuisances.

Saphiria agreed with him, and she knew the best place from where to accomplish her task. Upon reaching the tower’s exposed summit, an icy breeze caressed her neck, and a thunderous crackle came from below. She peered over granite handrails.

Beneath was the wall bordering the castle district and Malten’s western forest. Dimitry stood on top. Nearby was mother, several servants, and many nobles. They all watched the court sorceress Leandra shoot a desiccated crawling devil’s corpse with an enhanced voltech rifle.

The perfect vantage point.

Saphiria dropped the satchel she carried onto a tea table. She reached inside for parchment, a small vial of ink, and one of Klaire’s obscure metal quills. Her task began.

“Wow.” Precious clambered up her shoulder. “Suddenly, you’re kind of determined and stuff.”

“Stay focused. We have a job to do.”

“I just never saw someone transition from dragging their feet to composure so fast.”

When Saphiria lived in the Amalthean Kingdom, survival required the ability to suppress extraneous doubt before an assassination. More so whenever her collar’s enchantment waned. Although her current burden outweighed any from the past, she didn’t hesitate to employ her wretched skills to mute emotion now that Dimitry relied on her.

Saphiria grabbed Klaire’s metal quill. Her brow furrowed when the object moistened her hand. Despite not loading the device, ink leaked from somewhere within. Was there an internal reservoir of some sort? She rotated the bizarre implement in front of her face. Hastily borrowing an item with mysterious functionality was a fatal mistake.

“Comon. Stop wasting time!” Precious tugged her earlobe. “You’re the one that told me to focus!”

“Wait.” Saphiria scribbled several loops along the parchment’s edge. “I figured it out.”

“Congratulations! Now, who’s our first target?”

“The highest-ranking nobles.”

Precious’s head tilted, her golden ponytail spilling over a torn white gown. “Because they’re the most powerful?”

“If they hold contempt for Dimitry, they’ll sway the opinions of the aristocracy and gentry managing their land to do so too. There’ll be more enemies.”

“Sounds complicated.”

Saphiria’s eyes landed on a woman with hazelnut hair—Countess Mira Bright. As the current sorceress guildmistress, she would decide whether Dimitry’s enhanced rifles were worth using. “Her.”

“You mean the lady in that fancy red and gold robe?”

She nodded.

Precious’s wings chimed as she leaned in. “I’m sensing wariness, curiosity, and lots of excitement.”

A good outcome. Saphiria recorded the woman’s name and disposition.

The faerie’s eyes widened. “Ooh, your handwriting is so neat.”

“Thank you.” She pointed. “Baron Schwarz next.”

“You mean Baldy? Baldy is somehow thrilled and angry. What a weirdo.”

Baron Schwarz could go either way. “Now, Marquis Richter.”

“Shocked, disbelieving, and slightly relieved.”

“Viscountess Meier.”

Precious hesitated. “She’s… praying. Maybe?”

“For what?”

“Well, I can’t read thoughts, but she feels warm and rescued.” The faerie shivered. “How nasty.”

Did the viscountess believe Dimitry to be the apostle? Saphiria couldn’t fault her. She attributed the woman’s vague emotions to salvation. “Count Lukas next.”

“The short guy’s scheming.”

“Against Dimitry?”

“Dunno.” Precious perched atop Saphiria’s head. “I don’t sense maliciousness, but with some people, you never know. There are some real crazies out there.”

Their top-down spying continued. Dozens of thunderous shots rang out as people took turns firing a rifle with a concealed rainbow glow, and dozens of names appeared on the parchment. Most nobles’ reactions were mixed. Some were strictly positive. Others negative.

When Saphiria’s gaze neared the end of the line of suspects, her teeth clenched. A single person stood out. She pointed at an aged woman wearing grandmother’s tiara and a gold-threaded mantle. “Her.”

“Isn’t that the queen?” Precious blinked. “Aren’t you humans supposed to trust your parents or something?”

“Trust is earned, not owed.”

“Wow. So deep.”

Saphiria’s hand squeezed the metal quill tighter every moment she stared at mother. She was the reason her brothers never came home. Why the castle’s halls were cold and unwelcoming. Why Father died. Who was to say she didn’t scheme once more to oust her daughter and Dimitry?

“F-fine. I’m doing it. Just calm down a bit, won’t you?” The faerie leaned forward by pushing away from Saphiria’s head.

“Well?”

“I don’t know what you expected to hear, but you’ll probably be disappointed.”

“Tell me.”

“All I’m getting is anxiousness, a sliver of hope, and some guilt.”

Impossible. Mother was definitely planning something nefarious. “Check again.”

“Look, I’ve been doing this for centuries. I don’t make mistakes.”

“Just do it.”

Precious sighed. “I did. Same thing. Happy?”

The faerie’s words couldn’t have been true. There had to be another explanation. Mother was conniving, scheming, the root of every tragedy. What if she had magic capable of hiding her emotions? That would explain Precious’s folly. Or maybe mother demanded the Church warp her emotions like they did Saphiria’s, an archbishop pulling strings from somewhere unseen.

But that didn’t explain why.

Why did mother tear Saphiria from everything she knew? Why did the castle become yet another prison? Why did everyone she cherish die? Saphiria tried to pace her breathing, but her inhalations grew deep and rapid. She tried to remain seated, but her feet jumped away from the chair. What did Saphiria do to earn mother’s scorn? For what reason did she kill Father?

“Why?!”

Her fist slammed into the table.

She didn’t know how long she stood there, the side of her aching hand planted against a granite surface. Yet there she stood until a pinprick irritated her scalp.

Saphiria looked up.

Sat on her head was Precious, who nibbled on a long black strand of hair with tiny, flat teeth. “Are you asking me? You probably aren’t, but if you are, while you were stewing in your own rage, I decided I was hungry. I didn’t eat all day. Then I realized your hair smelled like berries, but I wanted to know if it tasted like them too.” She spat her mouthful. “In case you were wondering, it doesn’t.”

The realization of failure sank in: Saphiria couldn’t complete a single task without losing her composure. She collapsed into her chair.

Dimitry told her to expect bursts of anger while grieving, so how could she let her guard down so easily? And to do so in front of a friend. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“There, there.” A petite hand slapped the top of her head. “This is how people comfort people, right?”

“You’re not upset with me?”

Precious shrugged. “Not really. I saw it coming. First, you were mopey, then you became numb, but suddenly you started getting all angry. I expected you to break down eventually. Humans do that sometimes.”

The faerie’s sentiment made Saphiria feel inexplicably light. She sniffled and mopped her eyes with a yellow dress’s sleeve. “It won’t happen again.”

“I hope so. There’s still one more person to spy on. My future is on the line too; we can hold your pity party later. Hopefully, with fent.”

Saphiria managed a smile. “I promise I’ll get you plenty.” Her gaze traveled over the tower’s handrails once more and down at her mother—the person who she blamed for everything as of late. An apology was in order. But not now. Their target was the man standing beside her. “Marquis of the South, Tylo Sauer.”

“You’re talking about the tall guy with muscles growing out of his muscles?”

Saphiria nodded.

“Marquis of the South. Isn’t that title a bit too grandiose?”

“He’s the third most powerful person in the kingdom.”

“Oh.” Precious gripped a small clump of Saphiria’s hair. “That’s pretty bad news.”

“Why?”

“Either he despises standing on tall walls, or he really, really hates Dimitry’s guts.”

Stood atop a wide wall, Malten’s wealthiest and most influential people took turns testing an enhanced voltech rifle. Thunderous cracks echoed. Iron pellets burst forth to reduce a heathen corpse laying twenty meters away into a faintly blue pile of rubble—proof of the weapon’s destructive potential.

But overwhelming power didn’t win Dimitry the response he hoped for.

A muscular man walked forward, holding the gold-sheathed rifle in outstretched arms. “This is yours.”

“I appreciate it,” Dimitry said.

Those were the only words spoken. The other nobles watched him silently. Although their haughty smiles vanished since they left the throne room, and their wary frowns dissipated with first-hand experience, all they wore now were empty gazes befitting poker players—no discernible emotion. They didn’t ask to purchase voltech rifles. Nor did they shrink in fear. Instead, they studied Dimitry as if he were an untouchable beneath their station and beyond their understanding.

Dimitry stood tall despite invisible pressure flanking him from both sides. Even as countless questions whirled through his mind, he couldn’t show unease. To do so would undermine his attempts to portray himself as the apostle.

However, beneath the facade, he wondered what the nobles were thinking. Did they see him as a rival? Fear him? Were they gauging the reactions of their neighbors before openly showing their support? Was it beneficial to continue the weapon demonstration, or would that further fuel the contempt of the kingdom’s biggest movers?

There was no way to know. Dimitry wouldn’t receive Precious and Saphiria’s report until later, and the night of repentance’s rapid advance required him to act. There was no time to waste. This was his only foreseeable opportunity to reveal sticky bombs.

He held out the rifle to the court sorceress beside him, who watched his movements like an eagle those of its prey. “Leandra, would you please?”

After a moment of hesitation, the yellow-robed woman accepted his burden. “Very well.”

“Thank you.” Dimitry knelt beside the pot of pink adhesive Angelika delivered and a cast-iron bomb. “Mira, can you assist me? The next demonstration requires two.”

“Excuse this one.” The sorceress guildmaster squeezed between two fur-cloaked men, who cautiously stepped aside. She strode forward and hovered over Dimitry with a raised eyebrow. “Lomnent? I’m afraid I’m not much of a huntress.”

“That’s fine.” He dipped the casing’s rounded bottom into powerful glue as dozens of glares pierced the back of his skull. “All I ask is that you cast ignia on the bomb when I tell you. But not too early.”

“What is its purpose? Is the magic similar to the rifle’s? I don’t see or sense an aura.”

Gripping the bomb’s gourd-like neck, Dimitry stood. “This weapon operates on chemistry.”

She straightened her red and gold cuffs. “Is that related to the biology you told me of previously?”

“Yes.”

“My interest is piqued.”

Dimitry made a brief announcement to avoid nobles falling off the wall from panic. “No matter what happens, I urge everyone to stay calm.”

The only response he received was a count silently folding his arms across his chest.

Hoping his message got through, Dimitry glanced at Mira. “Are you ready?”

She slowly reached into her robes’ interwoven pouch. “I am.”

Dimitry identified a target far from where the resulting shrapnel could reach him and the other observers. It was a fresh crawling devil corpse with a mostly preserved body—perfect for demonstrating the bomb’s efficacy.

The lomnent-coated explosive arced out of Dimitry’s hand and flew towards the heathen. Upon contacting the collapsed beast’s spherical core, the adhesive layer clung to the stone shell, slowly giving way under the cast-iron bomb’s weight.

“Now!” Dimitry said.

“Ignia.”

An explosive roar echoed across a battle-scarred field as shards of metal and fragments of an unfortunate crawling devil’s corpse erupted from a vast cloud of white smoke. The false fog lingered, expanding as it sluggishly rose into the sky.

Shrieks resounded from Malten’s south-western wall. Although not all nobles were visible, the few beside Dimitry flinched and ducked. At one end of the lineup, a court sorceress hugged the queen like a sacrificial soldier rescuing her platoon from a grenade.

As the gassy cloud lifted, blue liquid spilled from a basketball-sized gap in the heathen’s core.

The observers stood with disbelieving glares before regaining their composures and muttering extended apologies to their neighbors.

Now.

Now was Dimitry’s opportunity to market his inventions. He shot Leandra a glance. “May I have the rifle back?”

She threw it over her shoulder. “Did this ‘bomb’ come from your visions, too?”

“It did,” he half-lied.

Leandra smirked. “I see.”

Dimitry held out a hand.

“It’s yours.”

“Thank you.”

Before order could return along with nobles’ indecipherable postures, Dimitry raised his voice. “As you have all seen, these weapons are invaluable for combating heathens. They can help guarantee your territories’ safety. Would any of the prominent men and women present like to purchase enchanted voltech rifles?”

A woman in a red dress straightened her hair. “My daughters will need training before using such a device. There is too little time.”

“I only have sons,” a man with a prosthetic leg said. “We use rock hammers.”

More excuses followed.

“We don’t use magic we don’t understand.”

“It’s too early to decide.”

Excuse after excuse after excuse.

Dimitry struggled to contain his impatience. While some nobles had valid reasons for refusing his offer, most didn’t. Who wouldn’t want to wield weapons boasting power exceeding that of their predecessor several-fold? It made little sense. Did they distrust Dimitry? Fear the political repercussions of siding with someone who hinted he was Zera’s apostle? Worry about upgrading to tools of war with an unpredictable source?

He didn’t know.

Mira tightened her robes around her tall and slender waist. “Your rifle is indeed powerful. Its strength would make quick work out of any crawler, and may even damage a carapaced devil. While I do not know why your magic is so efficient, how a crude pellet could produce such force, it leads to issues I’ve encountered in my experimentation. Too much power makes bullets inaccurate. Your rifle won’t hit a flying devil over thirty strides away.”

“There’s a simple solution,” Dimitry said. “Use normal voltech rifles to shoot fliers and the enhanced ones to kill crawlers and carapaced devils. The increased strength and efficiency will save lives and money.”

Like viewers at a debate, nobles faced Mira with postulating glares.

She shook her head. “Another issue makes redundancy infeasible. Your rifles are limited by availability and manufacture. Elongated core seals like these will require new tools to mass-produce, and you’re the only one who can enchant them.”

“That’s true,” Dimitry said. “Quantities are limited now, but there’ll be dozens before the night of repentance.”

“How many seals do you currently have?”

“Around ten with Emilia making more every day.”

“Raina’s girl?” Mira looked down at the wall she stood on. “If it’s her…” She cautiously looked around, examining the gazes of the others. “I’ve said too much. Let’s speak more on this afterward.”

A potential sale, but Dimitry wouldn’t let her off that easily. “Would you also like to sample some bombs?”

“My apologies.” The sorceress guildmaster turned away. “My girls have no need for such… dangerous devices.”

Damn.

No one else looked interested either.

Could Dimitry assemble a militia to use bombs? Not in time for the night of repentance. Ignia took years of magic training to use well, and fuses required extensive safety drills. The shrapnel from a single incident could wipe an entire battalion. Such an error would tarnish his and his weapons’ reputation.

A man missing a pinky stepped forward. It was the spymaster, Lukas. “It seems few place trust in your bomb. Unfortunate, yet understandable. I may be interested if you’re willing to part with them for a reasonable price.”

Dimitry got played.

That was the realization he came to after reading Precious and Saphiria’s report. Although among the nobles at the weapon demonstration were a handful who trusted him, perhaps thought him Malten’s savior, not one offered to purchase bombs.

And now he knew why.

Lukas.

The spymaster likely schemed to get them from the start and pulled strings beforehand to make that a possibility. But how? How did a single man dissuade the other attendees, some more powerful than himself, from purchasing revolutionary explosives that could change combat forever? And why? Despite Lukas’s promise to use most of them against heathens, what other purpose did he intend them to serve?

Concerning yet pointless questions.

It was too late for Dimitry to undo his mistake. Instead, he learned an invaluable lesson: never trust an intelligent and seemingly benign noble to act predictably. Still, while not everything went as planned, he accomplished his primary goals of distributing anti-heathen weaponry and familiarizing Malten’s most influential people with Church-like magic without them murdering him for heresy.

Or so he hoped. Among those on Saphiria’s report was a baroness, two counts, and a marquis that ‘hated Dimitry’s guts’. Their emotions only intensified after the sticky bomb reveal. Would they attempt an assassination with daggers and magic? Rout him out politically? Use a different, unknown method?

Dimitry didn’t know.

But he did know that, like any noble, he needed magic retardant clothing and his own army. One that could keep him safe, wield his inventions in place of a third party, and guard his property. The small fortune Dimitry earned from weapon sales would go towards that end, and tonight, he took the first step.

An icy gale blew past his hair and whistled as it traversed a maze of oak stumps and withering grass. While most open fields’ foliage would rustle with the wind, the patchy and barren field before him bore the scars of war. Four fresh flying devil corpses with shattered waists. Nearly a dozen crawling devils, each with six sharp legs boasting a cottage’s height, lay scattered.

The silhouette of a lantern wielding sorceress patrolled Malten’s looming western wall. At its base stood four men. Aside from the giant Milk, their nervous gazes shifted from heathen to heathen beneath open-visored, second-hand iron helmets. They were Dimitry’s security, his ambulance in training, and the seed from which his militia would grow.

Although the queen had sent a detachment from her private guard to defend the hospital and chemistry lab while Dimitry’s men and Angelika were here, he couldn’t help but worry. He preferred not to rely on outsiders more than necessary. Especially after Lukas’s interference. However, if the queen herself sought to undermine him, she wouldn’t need to resort to underhanded measures.

Besides, Dimitry had a more urgent problem—his frightened guards.

Milk not included, three men scanned the horizon for oncoming monsters. And rightfully so. Until now, they handled human disputes. Not those with heathens. Training couldn’t begin or succeed if fear at their surroundings sapped what little morale they had. It was an issue needing correction.

Shoulders back as if everything was under his control, Dimitry stepped forward. “First, allow me to thank you all for showing. Your bravery is commendable.”

A former crossbowman flashed a frantic smile, but his gaze darted back to the dark green horizon before long.

“I won’t mince words—your jobs will be dangerous. Rescuing wounded warriors during battle is not without personal risk. However, it is your very courage to undertake that challenge that will keep your friends and families in Malten safe. Every life you save is another soldier that can return to the battlefield. After your training, you will become the source of hope for every knight, sorceress, and citizen in this city. Angelika believes so, too. That’s why she volunteered to watch over you during your drills.”

Using her upright rifle’s butt as an armrest, the curly-haired girl beside Dimitry waved. “Hey. I appreciate what you guys are doing. Leave any heathens to me.”

The former hunter bowed. “I-it’s my pleasure, mad’m sorceress.”

“Will she be with us on the night of repentance?”

“Unfortunately not,” Dimitry said. “She’ll be defending the field hospital within the gatehouse.”

Although Milk wore his usual bouncer-like expression, his three fidgeting coworkers looked at Angelika with eyes that begged for a savior.

“Celeste guide us,” mumbled the hunter.

Dimitry sympathized with them. If American and European paramedics regularly encountered danger in relatively safe societies, an analogous profession in this twisted world would be perilous. Especially on a battlefield. Few had the gall to tend to wounds while heathens roamed nearby. That was unless they felt safe.

“Your concern is not without merit. If this was a month ago, I would never have asked you to put your lives on the line. It was too dangerous.” Dimitry smiled. “But fortunately, things have changed.”

“What?” uttered a man who once fought for Zera. “There’re more devils than ever.”

Dimitry glanced at Angelika. “Show them.”

The sorceress aimed her gold-veiled rifle at a nearby stump. “Propelia.”

Witnessing an iron pellet burst through rotting wood with a resounding pop, the crossbowman’s mouth widened. “I’ve h-heard the rumors, but for Zera’s Thunder to truly exist…”

“Celeste guide us,” mumbled the hunter once more.

Dimitry’s brow furrowed. Zera’s thunder? Was that how people referred to the gunfire echoing from Malten’s south-western wall this afternoon? Uneasy with God taking full credit for his invention, he corrected the employee. “This weapon is one I’ve developed with guidance from a vision. Soon, all of Malten’s sorceresses will wield a similar rifle. They’re why heathens are no longer as big a threat.”

The former Zeran soldier’s eyes shot open. “A vision?”

Although Milk remained unfazed, the others engaged in stunted chatter.

“Could Zera’s Thunder really be…”

The crossbowman massaged his exposed forehead. “It kinda makes sense if you think about the cathedral.”

“There’s also the church.”

Angelika rested an arm on Dimitry’s shoulder. She leaned close to whisper. “Must have been one hell of a vision, huh? To make a weapon this cool? It’s almost like my sisters and I were there to help.”

“I might be twisting the truth a bit, but I’m doing it for everyone’s benefit.”

“I know.” She smirked. “A selfish Church freak wouldn’t hide faeries in his desk drawer or cure plagues. I just wanted to see if I can tease a blush from the magnanimous Jade Surgeon himself.”

He looked into the sorceress’s playful, orange eyes. “Did it work?”

“No.”

“That’s a shame.”

“There’s always next time.” Angelika stepped back and mockingly curtsied. “This one humbly apologizes for keeping the amazing, wonderful apostle from his work.”

A chuckle escaped Dimitry. “You are forgiven as long as you recognize the error of your ways.” He turned away from her sarcastic gesture to face his men.

Determination overrode their fearful expressions. They were ready. It seemed a goddess’s manufactured approval sufficed to encourage them.

Taking advantage of their newfound morale, Dimitry held up a finger. “Assume you find a wounded knight. After stripping away their damaged armor, who can recall the first step for treating them?”

“Remove heathen feathers and anythin’ else that can be easily removed!” the hunter said.

“That’s correct. Never force anything out or waste too much time fiddling around. I’ll handle the deeper punctures and debris.” Dimitry pointed to the crossbowman. “And then?”

“Flush heathen’s blood out with water, right?”

Dimitry nodded. “The longer you leave heathen’s blood to fester, the more difficult the injury is to treat. It’s important that you keep your canteens full of distilled water at all times. There’ll be replacements at the gatehouse whenever you need them. What next?”

The former Zeran infantryman held up some cotton strips. “Stop the bleeding with bandages and keep the injury elevated.”

“Good. Just remember to wrap the wound tightly, but not so tight that it prevents blood flow.” Dimitry motioned to ask Milk a question but stopped midway. The giant probably wouldn’t answer. “And the last step is to use the stretchers by your feet to bring the patient to me. Does anyone have questions before your first real drill?”

There was no response. Instead, his men looked on, their rusted iron armor rattling as they fidgeted or loosened their joints.

“No? In that case, partner up and begin rescuing the dummies I’ve planted around the field. The team that performs best will earn a bonus.”

The ambulances in training scattered.

Dimitry watched, hoping their simplified instructions would prepare them for the fast-approaching night of repentance.

89. Military Foundations

Stood in an altar room on the cathedral’s second floor was Celeste. Still for eternity, her lifeless marble eyes fixed on something far beyond the black-speckled granite ceiling. Did her skyward gaze seek new horizons? Her surrogate mother-goddess, Zera? Or was the statue’s dignified pose merely a sculptor’s fancy? Whichever the case, humanity’s shepherd misplaced her attention. Celeste needed not look far to find Malten’s best hope for survival.

From her spot at the chamber’s edge, the statue would witness Dimitry revolutionize agriculture with his enchantment-powered greenhouse.

A floor emanating incendia’s faintly red aura maintained spring temperatures despite winter. An illumina ceiling flooded the room with white light. Walls glowed pink with hastia—a spell that encouraged plant growth. Those three were the basic components that allowed for the hybridization of wheat and samul strains capable of feeding an entire kingdom from the confines of a long and narrow room.

But they alone weren’t enough. Both crops needed half a year to mature. Despite hastened growth and optimal conditions, breeding hybridized seeds would require multiple growing cycles. Growing cycles Malten couldn’t afford to waste. Starving homeless already packed the streets, and heathens rendered farmland inarable with corrosive blood. Time ran short. If Dimitry didn’t produce hearty, bountiful seeds before spring, it would have been too late.

That was why he risked all. Why he gambled his life and asserted himself as the apostle in front of every powerful noble in the kingdom. It wasn’t for enhanced voltech rifles. No. They were a sweetener Dimitry used to win support for Church-like enchantments before using accelall elsewhere.

And his plan succeeded.

Wooden stakes with rainbow auras protruded from every plant pot. Crops would grow around each trellis, harnessing accelall’s power to mature faster than anyone conceived possible. Perfect temperatures, hastia, ample light, and time acceleration. They made Dimitry’s ambitions feasible. Like a scene from a surreal dream, the altar room glowed a plethora of vivid colors, each repelling the next wherever differing hues collided.

Crouched in the middle of it all was a farmer whose trembling and calloused hands hid beneath a cotton suit with a golden aura. Jesco’s clothing was peculiar. The magic equivalent to a hazmat suit shielded him from a lethal environment as he forced himself to sow seeds. Accelall would kill anyone who ventured into the re-purposed altar room without reflectia gear.

A wide-eyed enchantress studied Dimitry’s creation from an adjacent hallway. Her red robe’s cuff ran across her forehead. Whether she pondered novel magic, the greenhouse’s purpose, or reevaluated her life was unclear.

And she wasn’t alone. Beside her were her similarly perplexed co-workers. Three debated accelall while four others leaned back against a wall, fatigued after a job involving immense vol usage and magic more exhausting than any they had weaved before.

Tending to the exhausted women was the hospital’s head chef. “M-madam sorceress, would you be interested in some more?”

An enchantress held out a ceramic cup. “Would you?”

Valerie’s silver amethyst earrings jingled when she leaned in to ladle yet another serving of amber ale from a knee-high cask.

Glancing at the greenhouse from further down the hall was Dimitry. Although he stood still, his expression calm, his gut urged him to experiment. What discoveries awaited him? Would a pre-germinated potted plant survive entry? If so, how much faster would it mature? What growth multiplier would the combination of accelall and hastia provide to crops? How often would they need watering? Would carbon dioxide replenish as fast as time-accelerated plants consumed it?

Questions flooded Dimitry’s mind. Unfortunately, his curiosity would have to wait. There was another issue he had to deal with—the sorceress guildmaster who rushed here in Raina’s stead after having a chance to test enhanced voltech rifles.

Although Mira’s arms folded across her chest as if to show self-control, her eyes couldn’t help but gleam. Long and slender fingers fiddled with a red and gold robe’s cuffs. Like a lottery player one number short from winning the jackpot, her breath paused before every question. “How does it work?”

“It accelerates time.”

“So you’ve said at the summit, but what does that mean?”

“Anything around the enchantment experiences more time than normal.”

“More time?” Mira ran a hand through her chestnut hair. After a moment’s contemplation, she regained her composure. “Why is the spell so efficient?”

Efficient? Dimitry recalled Ignacius mentioning the same during their journey from Estoria. Most spells leaked vol as exhaust while coursing through a mage’s circuits, but accelall and invisall didn’t. It was a concept Dimitry intended to investigate when he had more time. For now, however, he could offer only one response. “I’m not sure.”

“I see… and where did you learn of accelall?”

“From a vision.”

“That story again?” The tall woman stepped closer. “Do you expect me to believe you mastered such a powerful spell to this degree without trial and perseverance?”

“I don’t expect you to believe anything,” Dimitry said. “My goal is to preserve Malten. I’d be happy to try and prove my claims after we guarantee the city’s survival.”

“How earnest. Have you heard the rumors that you’re the apostle?”

Of course he did. The lie’s dissemination was Dimitry’s intention all along. Religious authority would allow him to enact miraculous deeds without explaining the much more unbelievable truth behind them. However, openly stating he was Zera’s apostle registered as a claim to power. Rumors accomplished the task better than he ever could. “I’m familiar with them.”

“Strange, no?” Mira took another step forward, a frown on her face. “There are even those, several amongst my sorceresses, who refer to your rifles as ‘Zera’s Thunder’. They are fools, are they not?”

Was she coercing a confession from Dimitry? He wouldn’t oblige. “People are free to think whatever they please. My only concern is that they’re alive to do so.”

“Why did I expect to hear anything else from a surgeon?” She flashed a defeated smile. “While I do not know who you are, I dare not rob you of your achievements. Your rifles enchanted me from the start. I’ve even obtained samples of your ‘bomb’ from Lukas, but my investigations haven’t brought insight into their functioning. Care to enlighten me?”

Dimitry suppressed a sigh. Although the guildmaster claimed sticky bombs were too dangerous for her sorceresses during the weapon demonstration, why was she experimenting with them the following day? “I was under the impression that you couldn’t find a use for bombs.”

“Your impression is correct. I would never allow my darlings near something so… volatile.”

“Then why the interest?”

“Because I didn’t lie when I said you piqued my interest. I wish to know about your chemistry, your biology. My heart shudders and sings at the existence of magic beyond my understanding. It is why I assisted you in your show of force despite those rumors. Shame is preferable to a life of ignorance.”

“Rumors?”

She frowned. “They turned out to be no more than the prattle of idle nobles. Your weapons proved effective despite them.”

Leaned back against a wall, Dimitry didn’t respond immediately. Did someone spread negative rumors about his armaments before the demonstration? Was it Lukas? There was no way to know for sure—the spymaster doubtless covered his tracks by operating through proxies, and there were others interested in defaming Dimitry.

For now, he focused on a separate matter: the authenticity of Mira’s heartfelt sentiment. While one interpretation of her hesitation to purchase bombs was a reluctance to show her support in front of other nobles, that may not have been accurate. Explosive shrapnel could easily pierce the thin leather armor sorceresses wore beneath their robes. A tragedy waiting to happen. Combat mages required decades and fortunes to train, with each casualty imperiling the city further. Having them wield bombs was reckless.

If Mira shared similar concerns, Dimitry could only respect her judgment. Perhaps she was a potential ally. Wise, curious, cautious, and knowledgeable about magic. But as Lukas proved, a noble wouldn’t act predictably unless they had a powerful motivator. Was there a way to ensure countess Mira’s unwavering trust?

Dimitry thought so. He smiled. “If you’re interested in the workings of science, may I suggest a mutually beneficial agreement?”

Wrinkles ravined the corners of Mira’s narrowed eyes. “Oh?”

“I’ll teach you science, the source of my modified spells. In return, I ask you to instruct me in magic.”

“Why do you require my guidance? Haven’t your ‘visions’ taught you all there is to know?”

“That isn’t the case. I have to learn most spells normally.”

“How intriguing.” She straightened her cuffs. “And you claim I’ll learn modified magic in return?”

“I believe there’s a possibility.”

“I’m a busy woman. There isn’t time for me to invest into uncertain pursuits.”

“And I’m a busy man, but I guarantee you that fiddling with explosives alone and unguided is a poor decision. The same is true for me with magic. However, this agreement goes beyond just us. There are numerous people, including many of your sorceresses, who wish to learn science as you do. I could easily teach everyone at once. How powerful would your guild become if everyone had access to modified spells?”

Mira shot him a prolonged stare, then looked away. As if weighing a decision with innumerable variables, she paced the granite hall, her boot’s light thumps echoing across featureless walls with every thoughtful step.

Dimitry looked on, heel restlessly tapping the floor. Her cooperation was invaluable. Not only would it tighten his relations with the Sorceresses Guild and its members, but Mira’s continued reliance on his knowledge would win him the support of a powerful noble who couldn’t betray him on a whim. A faithful ally.

“What possibilities does modified magic hold?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. My poor grasp on magic prevents me from exploring on my own, but my previous exploits hint at endless possibilities for us to explore.”

“Then we venture into the unknown?”

“Doesn’t it excite you?”

Hands behind her back, Mira stopped walking. “Indeed.”

Dimitry thought he saw her shudder. Was that excitement? He intended to find out. “What do you say we begin after the night of repentance?”

“I’ll have someone send you an invitation to my manor.” Mira smiled. “Next we meet, there’ll be tea and wafers ready as promised during our previous encounter.”

“I look forward to it.”

She took several strides towards her enchantresses before glancing back. “One more thing. Although I’m sure you despise the pernicious waste of time that is politics, allow me to advise caution. Not everyone at the royal summit was open-minded. Be safe, surgeon.”

Saphiria wanted to make amends.

It was difficult.

To her left sat Mother. Shoulders back and chin high, a posture no less powerful than any from Saphiria’s memories, Mother surveyed the throne room with piercing red eyes. Her glare traveled past marble arches full of guests, across a granite floor, and through a scattered crowd of servants until she found her target: Moritz Stein.

“Are the walls ready?” Mother asked.

The stout stonemason guildmaster was kneeling on both knees. “This one has done all he could, Your Royal Majesty. The repairs aren’t complete, but with Mira’s protectia enchantments, I believe they’ll hold.”

“That’s assuming the heathen raids are no more vicious than last month?”

“Yes, Your Royal Majesty.”

“And if they are worse?”

“Then…” The burly man gazed at his reflection on the polished floor.

Mother spent a moment in silence. “You have done well, so rest while you can. Dismissed.”

All within the crowd bowed and shuffled out through gargantuan doors. For the dozenth time today, the throne room emptied.

Twelve years have passed since Saphiria had last witnessed normal preparations for a night of repentance. Back then, the Church vowed to eradicate the assaulting heathens while Malten’s army trifled only over the occasional flying devil sneaking over the coastal barrier. Worries were few. Mother’s black hair had not a hint of gray, half a dozen court sorceresses stood alongside two bishops and an archbishop, and Father sat where Saphiria did now.

Although Saphiria often dodged lessons as a child, few prospects excited her as much as presiding over the court. The blue canopy overhead and the raised pomp below filled her with grandiosity as she stood higher than her subjects. Saphiria had felt mature. Wise. Even if she made mistakes, Father was always nearby to share a lighthearted smirk despite Mother’s constant reprimands.

But tonight, the throne Saphiria occupied was far too large. She was older and mature, yet she no longer felt wise. Everything within screamed she didn’t belong here.

Yet that changed nothing. Saphiria had a goal today.

She glanced to her side. The mere sight of Mother—poised upright despite sacrificing Father, her brothers, and Saphiria’s freedom eight years ago—unleashed a rage within Saphiria that burned into her cheeks.

One of two court sorceresses stepped forward. Eyes hidden beneath the shadow of a yellow hood, Leandra knelt. “Are you well, Your Royal Highness?”

Concern from her childhood caretaker made Saphiria freeze, and sense rushed back to her. Retribution against Mother would not remedy this kingdom’s ills, and with the opposition Dimitry faced among the aristocracy after revealing his inventions, Saphiria had to gain influence within the court to ensure his safety. She couldn’t succumb to furious indignation any longer. “Mother, there is a matter we must discuss.”

Leandra stepped back, holding her tongue unlike when they spoke in private.

“We both know my commands have lost their sway over you.” Mother waved her hand. “If you wish to roam the streets like a rat through the gutters, then go.”

Jaw clenched, Saphiria jumped to her feet. “My intention isn’t to run away!”

“Then your intention is to throw a tantrum in the throne room? You disgrace our lineage with your antics.”

“How else should one react when their own mother thrusts them into servitude, and instead of offering an apology upon their return, degrades them further?”

“I did not thrust you into servitude. I wagered on you becoming an archbishop and saving these lands. Such are the decisions I’m charged with making. Our lives are in service to our people.”

“Father would weep if he heard you rationalizing your mistakes.”

“So that’s it!” Mother slammed her heel into the foot of her throne. “The first occasion you attend your duties when the surgeon isn’t there, and it’s just to mock me?”

“No,” Saphiria said. “I came here to... I sought your guidance on how to earn my birthright, but now that Father is gone, it’s clear that I have acted in vain.”

“Saphiria, Ferdinand was a great man, the greatest I have ever known, but unlike the carefree strolls he had taken you on, it is I who instructed you on etiquette and manners. I scoured the empire and paid any price to find you the best mentors. I raised you to become the hope of our people. Every effort was in preparation for a crisis like the one Malten faces now, yet you can’t rule your own emotions let alone your subjects. Ferdinand had spoiled you too much—a petulant child that cares only for herself.”

Saphiria’s fist tightened around a clump of her yellow dress. “And you are a soulless witch that has drained the life from everyone I have ever loved! My father and brothers are dead because of you!”

Mother scowled and gritted her teeth, but instead of lashing back like her aggressive posture suggested she would, she hunched over, eyes glancing away to absently wash over her red, gold-threaded boots. All hints of a commanding presence had vanished.

Leandra retreated behind the thrones to rejoin Anelace, who diverted her gaze from the commotion. Neither court sorceress spoke.

Lips quivering, Saphiria paused. Seeing Mother—an impervious bastion of authority—deflated was more horrifying than watching the life fade from a man’s eyes.

What had she done?

Oak double doors burst open, and a count stomped past them. Blue light illuminated his black cloak as Lukas rushed forward with suppressed haste. “Your Royal Majesty.”

Mother’s gaze slowly lifted.

Lukas ran across a narrow carpet, up the pomp, and leaned in. His gaze traveled from Mother to Saphiria. “Am I interrupting a private moment?”

“Just speak.”

“Yes, Your Royal Majesty. There’s been another arson in Amphurt.”

“How many this time?”

“Eleven dead, and the target was an old church. After questioning the only surviving thug, we learned they were targeting plague-curing blankets. The effort was too organized to be an outburst of anger. I believe they rebel against the Jade Surgeon’s claims to apostlehood.”

Icy dread awoke Saphiria from her stupor. Was a noble attempting to deface Dimitry already? Or was it someone else?

“Did you learn whose whims they heed?”

“I’m afraid not, Your Royal Majesty. The thugs themselves knew little. They may be the pawns of an angered noble, a Church cell, or even that of a neighboring kingdom.”

“Do you believe they’ll attempt an assassination on Dimitry?” Saphiria asked.

Mother glanced in her direction.

“I apologize, Your Royal Highness. I do not know. But if they do, the night of repentance is their best chance. We don’t have the forces to secure the streets, the walls, and the surgeon.”

Looking away, Mother leaned back into her throne and massaged her eyelids with two outstretched fingers. “The surgeon is important. Make sure he gets as much security as we can muster.”

“Yes, Your Royal Majesty.” Lukas rubbed his hands as he skittered away.

Saphiria looked down at her trembling fingers. If Dimitry vanished, would Malten ever recover? Would she? Everyone she treasured disappeared the moment she turned her gaze.

Never again.

Even if Saphiria could not command Malten’s nobles with the wisdom of the Pesce lineage yet, she had her own talents, as gruesome as they were. The elevated heels of her mahogany pattens clacked against marble steps as she rushed down the pomp.

“Did I make you run away again?” Mother asked in a low and fatigued voice.

“No.” Saphiria stopped to glance back. “I’m fulfilling my duty to the kingdom.”

“And how’s that?”

“In my own way. But our discussion isn’t through. When the chaos recedes… I hope we can speak like proper humans.”

Dark green light illuminated the field west of Malten. Mutilated tree trunks, scarred earth, and stone corpses. A land so dead that even Hades would get jealous. Under a near-spherical moon, a brave few traversed the foreboding wastes.

Men on armored horses patrolled a makeshift barrier alongside a riverbank. They searched for opponents, who would occasionally rise to meet their challenge from emerald depths.

One long and slender leg would emerge from deep waters. Then another. Finally, six limbs upholding a heathen’s blue-streaked core would charge towards a small city. Most crawling devils perished under a rock hammer’s weight. Those that pierced the primary line of defense fell to the echoing cracks of Zera’s Thunder or a sticky bomb’s explosive blast.

Mira’s sorceresses and Lukas’ men patrolled Malten’s walls. For now, they sufficed to intercept invaders, swiftly dispatching the unnatural beasts ramming the green-glowing fortifications they stood on.

But the heathen raids worsened.

They would continue to worsen until the night of repentance. How many wretched invaders would assault the city two days from now? Could the city guard fend them off?

Dimitry didn’t know. After life on Earth, how could he know? He still hadn’t acknowledged reality as it appeared to be. Even observation from a gatehouse tower with an overarching window view did little to explain the nightmarish scenery. Only icy winds, roaring munitions, and a sorceress’ occasional holler reminded him that this was real. This was life.

However, despite Dimitry’s struggle to reconcile the truth, he didn’t hesitate to take advantage of his wartime environment. The conditions were perfect for training combat medics. Physical stress, impending danger, and rampant gunfire would acclimate them to operating under pressure. If they couldn’t set aside fear now, there was no hope for a passable performance on the night of repentance.

The only problem was the lack of patients for them to practice on. Casualties were few. It was a situation that would change once the night of repentance arrived, and to prepare his men, Dimitry had them run drills in groups.

Two men pretended to be wounded soldiers, while the others tended to falsified injuries. Successful first aid administration followed by extraction to the gatehouse concluded each exercise.

Their performance was poor at first. Aside from Milk, the medics’ attention wavered with every heathen-marking illumina flare and gunshot volley. They panicked and fled and dumped their fearful insecurities onto Angelika, who was busy scanning the skies for flying devils.

But experience taught them to ignore unnecessary stimuli. Every drill resulted in improved focus and quality of simulated treatment. Dimitry no longer had to make corrections as all four medics learned to recognize and fix their own mistakes.

Was it a sorceress’ reassuring presence, simplified instruction, or Dimitry’s decision to hire only those with combat experience that led to swift improvement? Dimitry was unsure. Perhaps all three played a role. For now, the best he could do was take notes.

Among intermittent supersonic crackles and excited shouts, a quill’s gentle scribbling recorded Dimitry’s observations and ideas. Both were invaluable. As his paramedics grew in number and their skills in complexity, management would spike in difficulty. He needed all the data he could get to refine future training sessions and administrative structures. Medical squads, however, wouldn’t be the sole beneficiaries of those advancements.

They would extend to military uses as well. Mira’s warning echoed within Dimitry’s mind, reaffirming the need for an army. There was no guarantee that a focus on enemies outside Malten would keep him safe from those within. Still, many roadblocks remained.

Dimitry dropped his medievalesque pen when a cold gale howled through the window. Did he have the resources to maintain troops? Although refugees made for excellent recruits, housing and arming them would prove problematic. The cathedral didn’t have space for dozens of men. Perhaps the queen could provide him another Zeran structure for use as a barracks.

Even if she did, the issue of armaments remained. A lack of magical expertise prevented most people from wielding voltech rifles, and flintlocks were far from ready. Was there a weapon that could bridge the development gap? Dimitry thought so, but only experimentation would prove the efficacy of its design.

Swift footsteps echoed up the tower’s spiral staircase.

Dimitry’s head shot back.

A cloaked figure emerged, throwing back their hood to reveal waist-length silken black hair. The girl rushed closer. “Are you well? Did anyone try to hurt you? Do you know of anyone who might cause you harm?”

Relieved his unannounced midnight guest was a friend and not an unfriendly assassin, Dimitry released a trapped breath. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. How are you?”

“Did you secure your cathedral? Your chemistry laboratory? How about the main street you wish to erect your field hospital upon?”

Breaths heaving for air made it clear Saphiria ran here. Although concern great enough for her to sneak out of the castle at night didn’t bode well, Dimitry worried more over the girl’s flickering emotions. One day she was on the verge of tears, the next she wanted to save his life and fix the kingdom.

“Let’s take some deep breaths,” Dimitry said. “Everything is fine.”

Saphiria dashed across the room, thrust her head from the window, and shot glances at the city walls on both sides. “If I were here to kill you, the two royal guards downstairs wouldn’t have stopped me. You’re not safe.”

“Don’t worry so much about me.”

“Then who will?”

“Look, you have your own problems to—”

“This is my kingdom. I should be the one risking my life to fix my family’s mistakes. Not you.”

“Stop.” Dimitry grabbed her shoulders. “I know how you feel. Self-blame is part of the grieving process. It’s only been a month since you learned of your father’s passing, so stop pushing yourself. These things take time.”

She broke free from his grasp. “Someone is targeting you.”

“What?”

“They attacked a church in Amphurt full of plague-curing blankets, but if what Lukas said was true, their actual target is the Jade Surgeon. Someone wishes to remove all traces of you, and they’re not holding back.”

Icy dread spiked through Dimitry’s spine. It was the culmination of the fear he struggled to contain since Mira’s warning, only for it to resurface with a ferocious vengeance. Someone did want to kill him. Was it a noble or a zealot similar to those that set fire to the castle stables days prior?

Saphiria stepped close enough that the leather of her tunic brushed against his hand. “Mother doesn’t have the forces to guarantee your safety, and I won’t stand to watch you get hurt.”

He reeled in his shock. The last thing he wanted was to involve Saphiria. “I’ll have Angelika protecting me.”

“One rankless combat sorceress isn’t enough.”

“So you expect me to enlist the crown princess to guard me? Do you know how mad that sounds?”

“What would happen if you perished? How many will starve, how many more will succumb to the plague, how long can these walls last against the heathens without you? You’re too important to this city.”

"And what if you got hurt because someone wanted to get rid of the apostle? The queen would murder me and for a good reason. You're the future of this kingdom.”

"There is no future without you. Not for my people, and not for myself."

A wretched mass weighed heavily in Dimitry’s gut. Although Saphiria would fret over his safety the entire night of repentance, her concern did little to change his stance on the matter. But argumentation wasn’t getting through. He opted for a slyer tactic.

Dimitry unveiled a confident grin. “Don’t you know me? I always have everything under control.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I… everything will be fine?”

“I know.” She grabbed his wrist and met his gaze with determined eyes. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Saphiria just didn’t know when to give up!

“Don’t give me that look. A royal’s duty is to defend her territory, and right now, you’re my most promising gambit. I’m acting in my own interests. Obey me as a loyal subject should.”

“As if your self-serving princess bluff could convince me.”

“I’m not asking for your permission.”

Dimitry sighed. “Nothing I say will deter you?”

She shook her head.

Despite Dimitry’s self-assumed role as an emotional pillar, the rabid fluttering within his abdomen washed away the longer he gazed into those dependable indigo irises. Saphiria never failed him. Not once. Whether he asked her for a logistical favor or they bumbled through Ravenfall, Estoria, and Coldust, she came through whenever he fell into trouble. This night of repentance would be no different.

"Fine."

Saphiria released his arm. "So you are a sensible man. Where shall we meet? In front of your field hospital, before the moon reaches its crest in the night?"

"Don't get ahead of yourself. You’re not accompanying me anywhere."

“But we have agreed!”

“We only agreed on you protecting me and your subjects, but there’s a better way than having you physically guard me. Especially with your skills.” Dimitry strolled towards the window, a cool wind brushing his chin. “You’ll save lives, we won’t have to risk nobles seeing the princess defend the court surgeon, and no one will think I’ve gone mad with power.”

There was no response.

A glance back at Saphiria’s betrayed expression broke Dimitry’s heart. “I’m sorry.”

“No… you speak sense. I was without a clear mind.” She stepped closer. “Let us deliberate and get this right.”

90. Painting With Demons

The high-pitched cracks of magic gunfire echoed from atop Malten’s western wall. Since last night, their volleys became more frequent as sorceresses struggled to repel growing waves of crawling devils. But they didn’t stand alone. Intermittent explosions marking their every strike, Lukas’s men joined the fray. Experience with bombs taught them to erect shrapnel-proof barricades.

Hopefully, improvised weapons and tactics could defend the city. Failure would bring catastrophe.

Although three large tents stood where only one was last night, Dimitry’s field hospital couldn’t accommodate surges in casualties. The west main street it clogged was too narrow for extensive construction. Densely packed buildings and a massive gate flanked the stone road, leaving space only for a supply house, an operating room, and a rest hub for on-call medical personnel. There wasn’t capacity for overflow. Too many patients at once would result in deaths.

However, despite the occasional flying devil sneaking over city walls, Dimitry treated only three people since last night. None of the casualties were life-threatening. Although hopeful that the trend continued, it was unlikely. The struggle had only begun.

Two of the queen’s guards lowered their halberds and stepped aside when a hospital porter carrying a crate full of jugs approached. He stopped beside Dimitry. “Claricia told me to bring detrilled… demilled water. Where should I put ‘em?”

Thinking he should find time to educate his staff, Dimitry pointed to the tent behind him. “Leave them on an incendia blanket so they don’t freeze.”

The porter nodded and ducked to fit through the supply house’s leather door.

Observing their brief exchange were hundreds of eyes. They belonged to refugees huddling beside rusted walls and in adjacent alleyways. Ever since rumors about Zera’s Thunder and sticky bombs began to spread, more came to watch the Jade Surgeon—controversial bringer of miracles and Church-like magic.

Among the growing crowd was a woman cradling an infant. She regularly visited the soup kitchen. Upon meeting Dimitry’s gaze, her head respectfully lowered.

A man sat on a blanket across the street. Leaned over a makeshift altar of scrapped wood, he held Celeste’s statue in outstretched arms, mumbling holy verses.

Well-doing residents peered out from second-floor windows to exchange exuberant chatter with neighbors.

Unfortunately, appreciative gestures, fanatical praise, and gossip weren’t all Dimitry saw. As his supporters increased in number, so did potential threats. Men in tattered rags would shoot hateful glares as they passed. Cloaked figures atop iron roofs watched unflinchingly.

Dimitry didn’t know what to expect. Would someone rush past the queen’s halberdiers to strike him? Or did they wait until he was alone? Maybe it wasn’t the public that posed a threat, but those lurking amongst them, prepared to shoot poisoned crossbow bolts at an angered noble’s cue.

Dimitry wouldn’t let them catch him off guard. When a wintry gale howled by, he turned away and pulled in his coat to conceal a conversation with a corrupted creature. “Precious.”

A little weight shifted in his hood, muttering sleepy complaints.

“Wake up.”

As if pestered on a lazy Saturday morning, she snuggled further into furred cloth. “Later.”

Dimitry rattled his hood.

“Hey! I’m trying to nap here!”

He ignored her complaint. “Do you sense anyone trying to kill me?”

The faerie yawned, and her wings gently vibrated against his nape. “Oh, Dumitry. What would you do without me?” She stretched for far too long.

“Are you getting anything?”

“I’m not sure. Probably someone is, but there are so many strong emotions that it’s hard to tell. Trying to pick through them is like choosing what to eat first at a fruit stall. Well, if I don’t get swatted away, that is.”

Dimitry clenched his teeth. Without the resources to vet everyone who approached, the best he could do was stay under a guard’s protection. Fortunately, he only had to worry about physical assault. The reflectia gambeson Saphiria had delivered to him this morning nullified offensive spells from all but the best mages. Or so she claimed. Not that he doubted her. As a capable mage and a former assassin, Saphiria’s advice held considerable weight.

A sticky bomb exploded in this distance.

Precious tugged on his ear. “Ooh, ooh! Can we go watch some more explosions?”

Dimitry sighed. For her attention to deviate at a whim, Precious was an easily distracted creature. “Maybe later if there’s time.”

“But why not now? All you’re doing is standing around.”

“I know you’re excited, but let’s be patient.”

“You suck.”

Although Dimitry didn’t mind complying with Precious’s request, he had two final tasks before the night of repentance. One was completing the field hospital’s assembly.

The other involved myrmidon. It was a request he received from the aquatic demon’s ambassador weeks ago. Even now, she hid in the castle, waiting to see people fight bravely against rock giants. Leylani demanded proof that heathens were humanity’s enemy.

And Dimitry intended to give her all the evidence she wanted.

By flaunting enhanced voltech rifles and sticky bombs’ destructive potential on the night of repentance, he would provide quite the tale for her to tell when she returned to Waira. One that would secure a fragile alliance between both nations, supply a starving city with seafood, and guarantee Dimitry’s safety and authority as an irreplaceable diplomat.

Unfortunately, he had to wait until Angelika returned. She had left to ‘go get something’. Without his guard, Dimitry was at the mercy of streets filled with frantic and fanatic refugees. A trip to the castle wasn’t safe.

“Mr. Dimitry,” Lili’s muffled voice called from several meters back.

Did his head nurse need more guidance on sharpening scalpels? Dimitry turned away from an entranced crowd and marched through the narrow gap between tents until he reached the one closest to the western gatehouse. He peeled away the entrance flap and ducked through. “What’s up?”

A freckle-faced girl hovered over an iron instrument stand. After her slender finger nudged hemostatic forceps into place, she looked back to face him. “The preparations are finished.”

Although Dimitry had started the operating room’s construction, he had left Lili in charge of the rest to forge her technical and leadership skills. “How’d it go?”

“Why don’t you tell me, Mr. Dimitry?”

“Very well.” He approached a box full of surgical tools. In a world where low-quality steel cost fortunes and disposable instruments were a forlorn dream, careful maintenance was necessary to prevent blunt edges where they didn’t belong and rusting. Dimitry glanced past spell canisters and curved vascular scissors and examined an array of tissue forceps. None had so much as a fingerprint on their surface.

“Not bad.”

“But of course.”

“Don’t get overconfident,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll find something to lecture you on.”

Wearing a confident smile, Lili stepped forward. “Do try, Mr. Dimitry.”

He strode over to an oak drawer boasting incendia’s red glow—this world’s equivalent to a warming cabinet. Inside were heated blankets, gauze rolls, and linens. Their purpose was to help surgery patients maintain normal body temperatures despite the winter weather. Open wounds compounded by hypothermia didn’t bode well for health outcomes.

After confirming that an earlier incident’s erratic blood splatter vanished from the cabinet’s surface, he glanced at the girl trailing him. “How did you clean it?”

“With the seventy percent ethanol mixture we use to sterilize instruments.”

Her decision was a prudent one. Medium-high concentration alcohol mixtures disinfected surfaces best—a cautionary measure for an environment abound in potentially unknown microbes.

Dimitry reached the operating table in the tent’s center and examined the illumina surgery lights overhead. No trace of saliva, mucus, or urine remained on either. “And I’m guessing you did the same here?”

“Yes.”

For a girl who didn’t know what a germ was less than a month ago to come so far impressed him. “You did a fine job. There’s nothing for me to complain about.”

“Then you admit defeat, Mr. Dimitry?”

A chuckle escaped him. If defeat entailed competent employees, he couldn’t complain. “I do.”

“Glad to hear it.” Although Lili wore a playful smile, it vanished before long. Only shaky fingers that fiddled with the pink ribbon at her ponytail’s end remained.

Was she frightened? It made sense. Until now, her achievements had been to prepare for the night of repentance, when flying devils would soar above, and crawlers would slam into Malten’s walls with increasing ferocity. Their responsibilities to injured patients meant they couldn’t hide. They would both remain here, prey to deadly beasts.

Dimitry’s expression morphed to one of concern. “Thanks to you, the operating room is ready. But how about you? I might ask for your help during a procedure—think you’d be able to handle it?”

Lili looked up from the floor, a devilish grin creeping across her face. “I can’t wait.”

Dimitry’s brow furrowed. Did he misread her? Who in their right mind anticipated working under stressful conditions intensified further by impending heathen raids? “I… see. In that case, I’ll be expecting your best.”

“Hey, Dimitry!” an impatient sorceress shouted outside.

“That is Angelika, no?” Lili asked.

“Yep. My cue to leave.” Ducking out of the tent, he glanced back. “I might have to step away from the clinic for a little while. Would you?”

“I’ll handle matters while you’re gone, Mr. Dimitry.” She bowed. “Safe travels.”

“Thank you.”

The same frigid winds and gloomy gray skies met Dimitry when he emerged onto Malten’s streets. However, unlike before, the crowd’s attention wasn’t on him. They clamored over the gold-glowing rifle strapped to a sorceress’ back.

“That’s it!” said a man glancing out from a window. “Zera’s Thunder!”

“I know her! She’s the apostle’s combat mage.”

An elderly woman lowered her head. “Celeste guide you, young one.”

Although Angelika frowned, her haughty posture and folded arms hinted at boastfulness. “Damn refugees won’t leave me alone.”

“To see my baby sister all grown up and popular,” the enchantress accompanying her said. “How long until some lucky person whisks you away to their riverside manor? Home won’t be the same without you.”

“Leona?”

“Yes?”

“I hate you.”

Dimitry massaged his chin. Angelika mentioned she went home to get something, but she never mentioned that something was Leona. He approached the sorceresses. “Good afternoon.”

Angelika waved. “Yo.”

Leona curled her crimson robe’s bottom to curtsy. “I pray you are doing well.”

“I’m well,” Dimitry said. “Are you here to enchant equipment?”

The enchantress hesitated before brushing wavy scarlet hair back behind her ear. Leona glanced at her sister. “You didn’t tell him?”

Angelika shrugged. “It’s not a big deal.”

“What’s not a big deal?” he asked.

“So, remember when that flying devil nearly killed some people?”

Angelika referred to this morning. The sorceresses on Malten’s walls missed their shots at a heathen, which proceeded to spread its stony wings and swooped down like a fighter jet preparing for a strafing run. If it wasn’t for her well-timed shot, several would have died.

Dimitry nodded. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Even though I managed to shoot the fucker—”

“Mind your language,” Leona said. “You represent our family and Dimitry now.”

“Oh, shut up.” Angelika sighed. “As I was saying, it’s only going to get worse. There’ll be a lot more of them, and I might not be able to kill them all on my own. That’s why I brought Leona. She won’t admit it, but she’s a pretty decent shot.”

Leona bowed. “I can’t promise excellence, but I’ll do my best.”

Having another sorceress’ support would put Dimitry at ease. It allowed him to focus on work instead of scanning the skies for murderous beasts or the grounds for assassins. However, as someone who always relied on the Vogels’ help, he didn’t want to seem overbearing.

“Are you sure that’s fine?” he asked. “Don’t you need to watch the shop?”

“That’s not a problem,” Leona said. “Now that the wall’s fully enchanted, our mother has time to rest at home.”

“I see. If you’re okay with it, I’ll gladly accept the help. Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank her,” Angelika said. “She’s been begging to test enhanced rifles ever since that day we killed that chicken. She’s doing this for herself as much as she is for us.”

Like a politician, Leona appeared unfazed. “It’s only natural for an enchantress to have experience using her own products.”

“Bullshit. I’ve never seen you wield a rock hammer or wear plate armor.”

“You’d betray your beloved sister?”

“Yeah, I would.”

After a moment grinning at their antics, Dimitry glanced up at darkening clouds. This peaceful lull might be the last before the night of repentance, and he still had to meet with Leylani. “Would you two mind escorting me somewhere?”

In a small chamber of chiseled stone brick, egg yolk’s rich smell permeated every corner. The fatty, mineralized odor wafted from bottles filled with tempera paints and bristles loaded with lapis lazuli and lime. Carrying their combined pigments, a brush stroked across an oak canvas. Deep azure melded with pure white to create beautiful aquamarine depths fit to depict the late duke’s irises.

Klaire slowly inhaled, taking a moment to appreciate art’s blessing. She then met the gaze of what she considered an unthinking beast only two weeks ago and pointed to newly birthed ocean waves. “Blue.”

Yellow eyes tracked her finger’s every movement. “Blumn.”

“Blue.”

“Bloon.”

“Blue.”

“Blue.” Leylani patted her long, white hair. No longer the unkempt mess of braids and loose strands, today it fell neat and lustrous. “Klaire brush hair. Klaire brush… blue.”

Excited tingling surged through Klaire’s legs, almost causing her to jump in cheer. She was teaching a demon! It was strange. Ever since she was a baby, she listened to priestesses and bishops preach that corrupted creatures lacked rational thought. Like swine acting on primal urges, the gospel claimed they sought to raze humanity’s achievements.

How wrong the scriptures were. Leylani showed intelligence. Her learning capacity was no less than a human’s, and the language she spoke held similar complexity.

But that wasn’t all aquatic demons offered. They were an unexplored avenue to limitless wealth. The ability to reap deep waters’ bounty despite heathens allowed for the procurement of ingredients so luxurious that not even King Gregorius of Amalthea could afford to eat them daily. Sturgeon and shark. Tempestwyrm and salmon.

By comparison, ore was nothing. Fishing was Malten’s future. No longer would Klaire have to auction priceless treasury artifacts to afford crop and textile imports. No longer would she have to part with irreplaceable vol when purchasing spices. For the first time in a decade, the city’s finances could be secure.

However, despite the benefits an alliance brought, something nagged at Klaire. A damning miasma contaminating her heart. If the gospel lied about aquatic demons, what else was untrue? Were gargoyles genuinely evil? How about faeries? Did the matriarchs hear Zera’s voice or only claim they did? Why was it humanity’s duty to cleanse Remora of corrupted creatures?

How many aquatic demons did Klaire, her mother, and the rest of the Hofmann lineage senselessly slaughter after centuries handling logistics for coastal crusades?

She didn’t know.

And it terrified her.

Klaire shied away from the thought. Instead, she focused on her two favorite things: painting and establishing novel trade routes. Perhaps they alone could mend old grievances.

“Lmyoan.” Leylani pointed to the bottle of lapis tempera paint with a translucent, pink finger. “Lmyoan.”

Realizing lmyoan meant blue, Klaire reached for the dip pen resting on her ear and a parchment notebook functioning as a Wairan dictionary. Overcoming language barriers prefaced friendly relations. She prepared to scribble the word under a hundred others. “Lmyoan?”

“Lee-myo-ahn.”

“Leemyoahn?”

Leylani’s lips curved into what might have been a smile. “N’shan.”

That was a familiar word—one of praise. Filled with pride, Klaire loaded the brush with green, copper resinate paint before offering it to her guest. “You try?”

“Thank.”

A knock on the door.

Leylani’s head shot back.

Klaire froze. Who dared violate Her Royal Majesty’s order forbidding passage into the library’s depths? If someone discovered an aquatic demon within the queen’s domain, chaos would ensue.

Ignoring her trembling legs, she rose slowly and pointed to a cloak. “Leylani. Please.”

The aquatic demon swiftly concealed her inhuman skin and horns.

Thankful for her understanding, Klaire approached the door. “Yes?”

“I apologize for bothering you when you’re so busy,” a man said, “but I need to speak with both of you.”

Oh no.

That voice.

It was his. The surgeon who strove to either save Malten or launch it into another era of feudal squabbles and civil strife. Like the devil broodmare that stole Celeste’s will, he manipulated all with knowledge unknown for equally mysterious ambitions. One hand displayed miracles for all to see. The other lurked beyond sight, molding both gentry and noble hearts.

Klaire’s mother always said, ‘If you buy a loaf cheaper than the weight of its flour, pray your teeth can chew through rock.’ There was not a person who bestowed gifts out of kindness. Every magnanimous act had its price.

With all his wondrous deeds, what price did Dimitry come to collect today?

Klaire scoured the room for an excuse not to let him in.

There wasn’t one.

As if no longer concerned, Leylani continued to scribble stickdemons on an oak canvas.

Shit. Klaire was trapped. Neither the aquatic demon nor Her Royal Majesty knew of the Jade Surgeon’s trickery, and as a mere stewardess, Klaire had to play along. She exhaled deeply and shook her hands. She could do this. She dealt with scammers daily. What was one more? “This one apologizes for the wait.”

The door opened, and a man with indecipherable pale green eyes stood beyond. “Hello. I hope I’m not intruding.”

“No.” Klaire forced a laugh. Damn. It sounded fake. Did he know? “We were just making art.”

“I see.” He smiled. “May I come in?”

Another fake laugh. Why couldn’t Klaire act natural? Act natural, damn it!

“By all means.” She hopped aside.

When the door closed, only demonic gurgles too quick to grasp escaped his mouth. Leylani, continuing to paint, responded in kind.

Despite Klaire’s struggle to decrypt their conversation, she understood only a few of the words she thought she heard.

How did Dimitry speak Wairan so effortlessly? Where did he study, and why? For a man no older than twenty to command a language so distinct from Eorsian, Melvum, and Roslen puzzled her. Young age gave Dimitry little time to master it. And his achievements didn’t end there. In a single month, he cured the plague, developed ‘Zera’s Thunder’, and the so-called ‘sticky bomb’ with ‘science’.

Perhaps the rumors were true.

Maybe Dimitry was the apostle.

Klaire shook her head. Unlikely. If aquatic demons patiently painted, and surgeons wielded Church magic, why should the apostle exist? Either all the gospel held truth, or none of it did. No. Dimitry was something else. Someone beyond her understanding of the world. But what exactly did that entail?

She glanced up from her slippers to discover pale green eyes and yellow eyes that watched her in silence. Klaire’s spine snapped upright. How long did she zone out? Was a question asked? Did she make a mockery of herself?

Dimitry cleared his throat. “Klaire, may I ask for a favor?”

“Um, yes?”

“I’ve spoken to Leylani, and she wants to watch us fight heathens. Could you accompany her to the gatehouse tower on the night of repentance?”

Did he seriously expect Klaire to hide an aquatic demon while heathens roamed nearby? Nope. That wasn’t her job. “I apologize, Jade Surgeon, but I’m quite busy with… important things.”

He displayed a wicked grin. “I may be mistaken, but the queen mentioned you would be free to help.”

Damn! Why did Her Royal Majesty always do this to Klaire? First, she sent her on a diplomatic voyage across demonic waters, and now she had to survive heathen raids?! Since when did stewardesses risk their lives? “If the c-crown demands my presence, then… then…”

“I know it’s dangerous,” he said, “but if we don’t show the myrmidon our bravery, they’ll look down on us. I’m sure you know why that’s bad. The kingdom’s counting on you.”

Leylani looked on, her glare shedding respect by the moment.

With trembling arms and a soul screaming at her to refuse, Klaire sighed. She was trapped once more. If she declined now, she would compromise Malten’s future and sully the Hofmann name. “I guess I’ll do it,” the words slipped out of her mouth.

“I appreciate it.”

“Thank,” the aquatic demon said.

Just as Klaire accepted her fate, a horn resounded from the west. Her eyes shot open.

Oh no. It was far too soon.

“What’s that?” Dimitry asked.

“C-carapaced devil.”

91. Carapaced Devil

Green moonlight leaking from amongst black clouds guided Dimitry through chaotic streets. The ground intermittently rumbled beneath his feet, and another frantic horn sounded from the western gatehouse to warn of an impending catastrophe. A heathen horde accompanying a carapaced devil charged towards Malten. After demolishing the wall, their first target would be the field hospital.

Although the damage would cost Dimitry much invested gold, tents containing supplies were insignificant. He worried more about the medical personnel stationed there and the homeless huddled nearby. If the city’s defenses fell, and people remained out of misguided duty, tragedy would ensue. An outcome he could not allow.

More athletic than him and her sister, Angelika ran ahead. “Can’t you two hurry up?”

Leona trailed in back, gasping for breath. “I…I can’t!”

“We’ll catch up later,” Dimitry said. “Just make sure non-essential people evacuate the field hospital. Don’t worry about abandoning surgical tools or anything else that’s easily replaceable.”

Angelika nodded and hovered her palm over her feet. “Hastia.” She soon vanished from view.

Every few seconds, shock waves from distant stomping shook carved roads. Rivets adjoining beams to rusted iron buildings rattled. Panicked screaming echoed from alleys. Although refugees’ heads darted side to side, scanning for a haven to take refuge in, their options ran short.

A tailor’s doors slammed shut, and ceramics shattered in an overcrowded alehouse struggling to fill beyond capacity. There was nowhere to hide. Some darted towards the central market, while others rocked under metal awnings. However, not everyone sought physical shelter. Many knelt beside the hospital tents at west main street’s end.

The crowd parted when Dimitry and Leona rushed through.

Angelika was already there. “Move, you idiots!” she shouted. “Why are you all just sitting here? There’s a heathen raid coming. You could die!”

Her warning went unheeded. Instead, the pious mumbled prayers asking Zera to purge the heathens stampeding towards them. Neither threats from the queen’s guards nor a combat sorceress’ pleas could shake their faith. Without the Church to commune through, their frail hopes fell onto a single man. A man who held not a hint of holiness.

A boy dashed past distracted halberdiers to tug on Dimitry’s cloak. “Will Zera save us?”

Unsteady after a mad dash from the castle, the question caught him unaware. Dimitry didn’t come prepared to spew Zeran musings. His goal was to clear the road for emergencies and evacuate people, not placate a religion-starved public.

Still, expectant glares stalked him from all directions. One belonged to a man whose expensive clothes tore after days laying against rough stone walls and polluted streets. His eyes pleaded for a miracle, as did those of the woman sitting beside him. And they weren’t alone. Although the crowd was only half the size of this afternoon’s, it numbered at least a hundred.

The devout remained in harm’s way.

Was Dimitry to blame? He intended to market himself as the apostle, but for several rumors and kind deeds to earn him unfaltering belief and stalwart followers exceeded his expectations. His plan worked too well. Did lies hold that much power?

As a common man, was he prepared to seize it? If only there was more time to prepare. Authority brought wealth and potential, but it invited responsibility and envy, too. There would be those who sought retribution.

Unlike the necessity that urged Dimitry to plot his religious takeover, only creeping dread and inadequacy accompanied him now. He insinuated his role as apostle prior, but if Dimitry cited Zera to command the believers to aid him, he would remove all doubt. There was no going back. Was he ready to take the plunge? Could he overcome the ramifications inherent to usurping holy power and leading the destitute in a time of crisis?

It would be nothing like managing a surgical team. Nothing like a hospital. Nothing like how the Earthly man envisioned a king sitting on a gilded throne. There would be strife. Death. Endless glances over shoulders and decisions that could never be undone despite Dimitry’s best efforts and planning.

At the same time, new opportunities would arise. With a labor force of a hundred, he could change medicine, warfare, and the world. Dimitry would usher forth an era of centuries advanced ideology. A modernized army specialized in dispatching heathens. Highly efficient agriculture. Pharmaceuticals that saved countless lives and unlocked humanity’s potential for life spans beyond fifty.

Fear of the unknown couldn’t restrain him.

His decision was obvious. And the first use of his power would be to pacify a restless people while putting them to use.

Dimitry calmed his nerves with a deep breath and met the boy’s fearful gaze with a smile. “Zera will save us.” He glanced away to scan a surrounding crowd that waited breathlessly for his next word.

“Zera will save us all, but only if we stop relying entirely on her. Our lives are our responsibility, and it would be an insult to her to throw them away. If you agree, you will listen carefully to my instructions.”

Refugees quit their pious mumbling, and guards and watchmen ceased to hurl threats. All speech went silent. Only shouting from towering walls and a carapaced devil’s distant stomping was audible, growing louder every step.

Dimitry pointed away from the gatehouse. “Everyone who isn’t part of the war effort will wait patiently at the market square. You will stay there until the city’s safety is guaranteed, which it will be. Do not rush, panic, or yell. If you see an injured person who cannot move, ask for their permission before bringing them to me. Celeste guide you all.”

After many shared glances, people stood to abide by their instructions. A mother grabbed her sobbing toddler’s hand and teetered down a dark green street. Like a silent parade, dozens marched to vacate space around the field hospital.

A slurry of emotion slithered into Dimitry. Fear of harsh rebuttal for speaking on Zera’s behalf, self-disdain for peddling false hope like a predatory salesman, and shame at resorting to complete lies. There was also something else. Something satisfying.

One of the queen’s assigned guards approached. Tired eyes peeking through a helmet’s visor, he bowed before returning to his post. Was his gesture one of appreciation of no longer having to yell at obstinate refugees, or praise for someone swinging around Zera’s name like they had a clue?

It didn’t matter. Dimitry had more pressing issues than guessing at a random man’s intentions. He faced his employees.

Most stood beside field hospital tents, fidgeting as if unsure if they should run or risk their lives for jobs they held for less than a month.

Dimitry walked towards them. “If you are a porter or a clinical assistant, wait inside the cathedral until the threat is dealt with. Come back immediately afterward. Only nurses and paramedics should remain here.”

A housekeeper carrying soiled blankets ran by with a lowered head. “Celeste guide you, Jade Surgeon.”

After a nod in response to her sentiment, Dimitry scanned the street for potential casualties. None remained in sight. “Angelika, can you quickly search the alleys for people injured by falling debris?”

“You got it, apostle. Be right back.”

Once Angelika dashed away, Leona glanced back at Dimitry with fiery orange eyes that resembled her reaction upon seeing accelall’s rainbow glow at Vogel’s Enchantments. “Apostle?”

The last thing Dimitry needed was a traumatic outburst mid-crisis. “Can we discuss this later?”

She paused, and after taking several deep breaths, her tense shoulders and glare eased. “My apologies. I have already made a mockery of myself in front of the man who saved our mom once, and I don’t intend to do so again. Rather, there’s something I must say.”

“Now isn’t the ti—”

“Listen a moment. I don’t know what Angelika told you, but she used to be in Archbishop Fronika’s choir. Even when the Church abandoned us eight years ago, she kept singing Zera’s praises. And then when dad left to fight in the Gestalt wars, she sang even more. Do you know how much it hurt to hear the same damn gospel verses get more desperate every single day? I listened to her pray and beg from behind closed doors for dad, grandma, and granddad to come home, only for her to one day fall silent. When mom and I checked her room, we found her…”

“Found her what?”

Leona inhaled deeply. “All I’m saying is that Angelika isn’t as tough as she seems. I don’t know whether you’re the apostle or not, but don’t give her hope just to rip it away. I can’t bear to see her like that ever again.”

Dimitry’s gaze lowered. The chinks in Angelika’s armor, her lapses into emotional vulnerability; they revealed the girl wasn’t the badass she pretended to be. However, for her to have gone from Zeran fanatic to heretic went beyond his expectations. Did he push her too hard? “I’ll be more careful around her.”

“Please do. She’s too loyal for her own good.”

“She’s also lucky to have a caring older sister.” He forced a smile, wondering if his own still thought of him back on Earth. “Thanks for letting me know.”

Hair untidy after their rush here, Leona brushed loose scarlet strands back under her robe’s crimson hood. “Lose as much family as I have, and you’d be clingy, too.”

“I said caring, not clingy.”

“Aren’t they the same thing?”

“One’s a little healthier than the other.”

Even as the ground’s rumbling worsened, they shared hasty laughs.

“Can I continue to rely on your protection?” Dimitry asked.

“I’ll never be forgiven if I let you die.” She reached for the rifle strapped to her back. “Besides, I can’t afford to lose someone so good for business. You’re quickly becoming our favorite customer.”

Seeing Leona regain her collected disposition relieved Dimitry. “Does the prestigious title come with discounts?”

“Maybe we can pull a few strings.”

“My lucky day.”

Another frantic horn resounded from atop the western wall. Sorceresses from the castle district poured down main street, rushing past Dimitry and towards the western gatehouse.

Angelika ran out of a gloomy alleyway. “There’s no one. I looked all around, and I didn’t find anyone.” She took a moment to heave for air and looked up at a dozen moonlit figures standing on the wall. “Shit. That’s the second alarm and there still aren’t enough sorceresses.” Her pleading gaze fell to Dimitry.

Her desire to reinforce the city’s defenses became clear. Although Angelika’s job was to guard Dimitry, there would be no point if a carapaced devil breached Malten.

“Be careful,” he said.

“You know I will.”

“Wait.” Leona reached into her cloak for a gold-embroidered book smaller than a matchbox. “Take this.”

“Dad’s prayer book?”

She leaned forward to kiss her younger sister’s forehead. “Give it back when you return. Okay?”

Angelika groaned. “Why do you always have to be so embarrassing?”

The unblessed lands west of Malten.

During her youth, Mira often admired them from atop this wall. Elk roamed alongside pristine river waters, and squirrels climbed splendorous willow trees while she practiced spells under her mentor’s supervision. The few heathens that circumvented the Church’s barriers were shoulder-high. They polluted the wilds then, too, but few thought them a cataclysmic threat.

How times have changed. Laura was dead, the forest had lost its bounty, and a carapaced devil charged towards the city before the night of repentance.

When Mira heard the five thousand stride alarm, she assumed the scouts used the wrong signaling illumina canister. But they didn’t. The second alarm sang soon after, announcing the devils’ fast approach. They were now less than two thousand five hundred strides away. Although her vision deteriorated since the splendor of youth—reducing the incoming heathen raid to a blurry mesh of aquamarine among dark emerald—Mira didn’t need sight to know the danger. Heavy footsteps’ intensifying tremors sufficed as proof.

However, despite an abrupt awakening, insufficient time to brush her hair, and a desperate march from the manor, Mira didn’t show fear. She stood unflinchingly like her predecessors had always done. Crisis was an opportunity to grow stronger—for her and her darlings.

Already a dozen crimson robes surrounded her and more rushed closer from all directions. Along city walls, across the streets, and through murky alleys. They huddled close to exchange frenzied prattle.

Their cantankerous chatter ended when Mira spoke. “Lenne, where is the cannon?”

The head channeler knelt. “My humblest apologies, madam. It remains within the north-western tower. As it would have taken too long to carry here, and my squad has yet to arrive, I decided to leave it.”

A prudent choice. Aside from troublesome logistics, the burden of casting propelia with sufficient power to fire a cannonball was too high for a single sorceress lacking channeling support. Overload was inevitable. Mira would never endanger her girls with such sacrificial maneuvers. Unfortunately, it was the only weapon that reliably dispatched carapaced devils since the heathen archetype’s first appearance six years ago.

But that might have changed.

Mira’s gaze fell to a pipe-shaped golden glow strapped to a combat sorceress’s back. Underneath lay the surgeon’s creation. While her darlings uncovered little of accelall’s origins, its precise effects, or why a long and curved core seal was necessary for its function, the so-called Zera’s Thunder’s utility could not be denied. Its ammunition lacked the mass of a voltech cannon, but a barrage of pellets with overwhelming velocities held countless possibilities. Could concentrated fire injure a heavily armored beast?

Two illumina orbs rose from decimated lands and shot into cursed green skies. A horn’s immaculate song followed shortly—the third and final alarm, indicating that the invaders were only one thousand strides out.

Mira squinted but still couldn’t distinguish the heathens marching closer. “Lenne, darling, would you tell me what you see? I’m afraid my youth has escaped me.”

“It’s a class one raid in a tight formation. Eight fliers and five crawlers centered on a carapaced devil, approaching slower than normal.”

Sluggish movement was to be expected. Only a night of repentance’s surge could empower a heathen’s forward advance. Still, it was odd for a full raid to assemble before the night of repentance. Perhaps the devils devised novel methods of attack? “Continue to monitor the enemy. Report as they pass each milestone.”

Lenne stood. “Yes, madam.”

Pondering the optimal allocation of resources to deal with the threat, Mira looked down at her growing crowd of sorceresses. Half wielded Zera’s Thunder. As carapaced devils negated magic in a wide area, and their shells deflected weak projectiles, only accelall enchanted rifles had a chance of harming the beast. Everyone wielding antiquated weaponry would have to target fliers and crawlers instead. Hopefully, her limited forces could eliminate the threat.

A man shrouded in a black cloak climbed nearby stairs. They had a familiar face—one of Lukas’ thugs. He knelt. “An urgent message from Lord Pfeiffer, my lady.”

“Speak.”

“My lordship says he will eliminate the crawling devils soon after they enter the two hundred and fifty stride zone. The rest he leaves in your capable hands.”

Lukas was never one to take to the field—another change the surgeon’s innovations wrought. Although strange, his assistance could ease the burden her girls carried.

“Very well,” Mira said. “You are dismissed.”

He vanished from sight as a common brute should.

“The devils have breached the seven hundred and fifty stride marker,” Lenne said.

Mira frowned. They ran short on time. She counted her assembling sorceresses—twenty-three in total, including two that had just arrived. One was the firing squad director, Grite, and the other the combat mage who spied on the Jade Surgeon.

“Good evening, Angelika.”

The girl who shared delectably pinch-able cheeks with her enchantress mother bowed.

“Shouldn’t you be observing that man?” Mira asked.

“Y-yes,” Angelika said. “But I figured this was more important, madam.”

Which took priority? Keeping watch over a man commanding Zera’s wisdom, or a beast a third the castle’s height?

“The five hundred stride marker!”

In the distance, enraged stomping tossed dust into the air, concealing pale blue heathen circuits and mixed stone appendages. Fliers darted across putrid skies.

The enemy would arrive soon.

Idle chatter would wait until after Mira distributed orders. “Those equipped with Zera’s Thunder will fire on the carapaced devil on my command. Grite will lead everyone else in removing the airborne pestilence. Crawlers aren’t our immediate priority. Is that clear?”

“Yes!” two dozen voices chanted.

“Ready your ammo,” Grite drilled. “Those who miss their shots will spend next month sweeping the armory.”

Like many others, Lenne organized vol and iron pellets onto stone shelves protruding from battlements.

One of the younger sorceresses approached with a carved antler comb in outstretched arms. “For you, madam.”

Mira laughed. “Thank you, darling.”

She bowed and skipped away.

Brushing her neglected hair, Mira glanced down at Angelika. “So, have you uncovered anything unusual about the Jade Surgeon?”

The girl fit her rifle’s muzzle through a battlement loophole. “Um… it kind of shocked me when he told me he had visions right before the summit.”

“He told you nothing else in confidence? Perhaps of his bombs or truth-detection spells?”

“Not really,” Angelika said. “Dimitry doesn’t talk more than necessary.”

Mira straightened her gold-embroidered cuffs. Angelika wasn’t one to conceal the truth. Either Dimitry was more secretive than anyone had anticipated, or there was obfuscation magic in play. “Continue to watch him. I want to know anything strange as soon as it happens, especially if it concerns this ‘science’.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“I’m confident you will.”

“My lady,” Lenne shouted. “Two hundred and fifty strides!”

Curious if Lukas could fulfill his promise, Mira glanced over the battlements.

Blurred thugs in dark green camouflage hid perpendicular to the heathen raid. Half dashed toward their crawling devil targets, tossed ‘sticky bombs’ onto spherical torsos, and retreated. The others remained behind decaying trees, holding up their palms.

They chanted spells too distant to hear.

One by one, deafening lightning bolts and fiery infernos erupted from the wastelands. From clouds of occult, pale smoke, crawlers tumbled to the withered ground one by one, blue blood pouring from devastated cores. Spear-like legs twitched, then lay eternally still.

Five crawling devils died near instantaneously.

Mira’s soul melted as she hid two trembling hands behind her back. This was the discovery she hoped to make when she left her family’s countryside villa all those years ago. Why she sacrificed her youth to study under Laura’s tutelage.

True arcane power.

To think her search would end with a surgeon’s advent. The sight consumed her at the court summit, then again every day since. Although she sought to harness this strength, to learn of chemistry’s mystic might, part of her wished that bombs were little more than choreographed exhibitions.

Unfortunately, the past two days proved otherwise. She watched them combust into wrath and flames from atop these walls many times, each with devastation exceeding a squad of advanced channeling sorceresses.

How could a cast-iron orb conceal such fury function without vol? Mira’s explorations uncovered nothing. All she found within were black nuggets of frail sand that momentarily smoldered before vanishing. Perhaps the source of their strength was Zera’s intervention.

“Madam,” a voice pierced the clamor of earth-shattering thumping. “One hundred strides!”

Mira decided she would question Dimitry during their private meeting. For now, a trial of Zera’s power drew near. She raised her hand. “Fire on my mark.” Her eyes focused onto the fifty stride divider carving across the bleak landscape.

The carapaced devil crossed it.

“Mark.”

With an immaculate chorus of ‘propelia’ and crackling like that of taskmaster whips, iron pellets showered down from the battlements onto a massive stone shell. Although not every shot met its mark, the results surpassed typical rifles. Every thunderous volley punctured a dozen bleeding chinks into the beast’s back.

“Kill the nearest fliers first,” Grite commanded. “Let not a single one enter the city!”

A flying devil with a severed spine plunged to the ground.

Its carapaced cohort bellowed a resounding screech—a sign that the neutralization barrier activated.

The walls lost their green aura, and several rifles their reflectia glows.

It seemed not even the Jade Surgeon’s magic could contest the heathen’s most formidable power. Mira looked back. “If your enchantments are undone, hide until they regenerate. Don’t be brave. Leather armor cannot repel toxic feathers without protectia.”

A breathless darling nodded and stepped aside. The cloth entombing her rifle gradually regained its golden color, but she fell when overwhelming force collided into the gatehouse, sending powerful ripples through the wall.

Angelika pulled her to her feet. “Get up!”

“Thank you.”

Mira glanced down at the devil. Despite blood oozing from its countless pores, the carapaced beast continued to ram with identical strength. This couldn’t continue. If the wall fell now, the city wouldn’t survive the night of repentance.

The heathen needed to bleed to death soon.

And Mira knew only one way to accomplish her goal. She would employ the same maneuver as last month, except without a cannon. Hopefully, Zera’s Thunder could sever stone appendages.

“Darlings!” Mira stumbled and dropped her comb as the gatehouse hinges squealed terrifying cries. “Aim for the base of the neck. Chop off the bastard’s head!”

“Yes, madam!”

Pellets punctured holes into where the carapaced devil’s throat slithered underneath its shell. Slowly, small cracks combined to form ravines gushing blue blood.

A flying devil soared overhead, tracing circular trails among obsidian clouds. It swooped down.

Mira grabbed a vol pellet from the battlements. “Dropia.”

The monster crashed into a boulder.

A sharp metallic clang echoed from below.

“One of the hinges is gone,” a downstairs infantryman yelled. “The door is loose!”

With a crumbling thud, the carapaced devil’s head fell, shattering upon collision with a lifeless dirt floor. A waterfall of volatile liquids rushed down from its abdomen’s gaping wound to pool around the legs. But the beast wasn’t dead. It continued to barge its massive weight into the gatehouse gate.

Despite eight years of fending off heathens, Mira held her breath. She had to defend the city. However, there was little point in shooting the wretch. It would die from blood loss soon. Damage mitigation was her best choice.

“Hold your fire,” Mira commanded. “Barricade the space between the heathen and the city!”

Many protectia chants resounded from across the battlements.

Like a wine-drunk merchant, the carapaced devil teetered from side to side as it pummeled forward. Its strikes grew weaker, and the wall shook less.

Mira examined her sorceresses.

Some leaned against stone, struggling to remain upright.

“Just a little longer, my darlings!”

The headless corpse slammed forward, then pushed forward, and before long, it fell forward.

It was dead.

Quiet at first, cheers echoed from across a nighttime city. They grew louder as civilians rushed into the streets, refugees clapped, and guards pummeled the blunt ends of their spears into dark green roads.

Mira smiled. “Well done, everyone. You honor me with your valor.”

Two dozen sorceresses stood tall, just as they should. They earned this moment of respite. Unfortunately, it was just that—a single moment. The night of repentance did not start until tomorrow, and there would be no rest until the following dawn. Tonight was a mere taster of the horror to come.

Her heart sank at the thought of the worsening raids. What terrors would tomorrow bring if a carapaced devil began striking the city walls already? Mira prayed she wouldn’t have to lose another darling this month, but when her gaze fell to the miraculous ‘Zera’s Thunder’ Angelika cradled in her arms, a sliver of hope glimmered within her soul.

“Angelika.”

The gaze of the young combat sorceress shot up. “Madam?”

“Do me a favor and ask Dimitry and your darling sister Emilia to try inscribing one of those core seals for the cannon. I want my Fire Leaders to train with them starting next month.”

An ailing gatehouse stood at west mainstreet’s end. Before last night, it was the pinnacle of medievalesque architecture. A tower flanked the structure on either side, each comprising stone bricks that masons painstakingly crafted into identical rectangular blocks. The walkway above and the road passing through below were smooth and level. A massive central gate with stacked iron layers defended the city street it towered over.

But after a carapaced devil’s siege, observers would sing the gatehouse’s praises no longer. Dented walls crumbled brick fragments onto a caved passageway, and a thick metal hinge burst open, destabilizing one of the gatehouse doors such that it creaked with every howling gale. Pale blue ponds—mixtures of heathen’s blood and the water guards added to neutralize it—spilled onto the road and into the dead wilderness beyond.

In the macabre liquid’s surface was Dimitry’s azure reflection, distorted by his boot’s ripples and a murky afternoon sky. He plodded across, through the gatehouse, and emerged beyond Malten’s walls. Although he initially intended to determine whether the gatehouse could survive another heathen raid, curiosity and a concerned sorceress’s prodding compelled him to examine the deceased carapaced devil on the other side.

“Is it safe?” he asked.

In front marched a girl whose red-brown curls leaked from a crimson hood to sway with the wind. Angelika cradled a glowing, pipe-like weapon in both arms. “No problem. If one of those fuckers so much as looks in our direction, I’ll kill it.”

Dimitry stepped around the tortoise-monster’s decapitated head. Just like other heathens, the monstrosity had no eyes. “How can you tell if they’re looking at us?”

She groaned. “You know what I mean. I’ll kill anything that comes near. Better?”

“What if this thing moves?”

“It’s been like half a day since it died. It’ll be fine.”

Recalling Angelika’s story about how the headless carapaced devil slammed into the gatehouse last night, an icy chill shot down Dimitry’s spine. He preferred not to be here if it awakened. “Let’s be quick. What did you want to show me?”

Her head shot up to scan the gatehouse walls and towers, then at the guard stood beside the gates. She pulled in close to whisper. “So, remember we went to that aquatic demon place?”

“Waira? It’s hard to forget when it’s been less than two weeks.”

“Yeah, but I’m talking about the weird red thing we fought in that giant room.” Angelika paused, dread in her orange eyes. “It looked a lot like this one except it didn’t neutralize magic—it stole it. And I think it was healing itself, too.”

Dimitry stroked his chin. Her point was clear—if combat sorceresses struggled to kill a regular carapaced devil, how would they fare against the ‘species’ from Waira’s cache? The more powerful, goop-covered variety would probably absorb protectia and accelall enchantments from nearby walls and Zera’s Thunder rifles. An insurmountable enemy for a city that relied on magic for survival. But that was only part of the issue.

Unlike Angelika and Dimitry, who had the luxury of maintaining their distance while combating the self-regenerating red carapaced devil, city guards wouldn’t be so fortunate. Retreat wasn’t an option. If any wall segment fell, so would Malten. To run was to sentence their friends and families to death.

Before implementing precautions, Dimitry had to consider two factors: how likely was it for a red carapaced devil to attack, and should he inform the queen? The first had no evidence-based answer, and the latter posed problems. Her Royal Majesty would either demand evidence, or transmit that information to every sorceress, knight, and noble in the kingdom.

Both outcomes earned Dimitry more suspicion than he could afford. His grasps at apostleship already made earning trust difficult and worsening his reputation further with wild claims wouldn’t help. Involving the algae relic he retrieved from Estoria or Angelika as proof weren’t options, either. As someone with inexplicable, Church-like magic, others would sooner consider him a psychological manipulator and doomsayer than a purveyor of truth. He needed to establish himself amongst the political hierarchy before taking such drastic measures.

“Well?” Angelika whispered. “What should we do?”

“There’s not much we can do. Without knowing if what we saw inside the cache exists outside of it, it’ll be a waste of time and resources preparing for red carapaced devils. It’d create unnecessary panic, too. Enough people fleeing Malten as is.”

“Are you saying we should just do nothing?” She elbowed him with too much force. “Come on, you’re a smart guy, right? Figure something out.”

Irritated with her prodding, Dimitry pressed a hand to her crimson hood and rubbed vigorously to ruffle the red-brown curls underneath. “Don’t jab me. I never said we’ll do nothing.”

Angelika flailed an arm to defend her scalp. “Okay, okay, I get it! Can you stop?”

With a satisfied yet childish grin on his face, Dimitry turned his gaze to a massive shell. Comprising the devil’s obscure exoskeleton were several shades of stone sewn together like blunt-ended jigsaw pieces. Many crossing and swerving pale blue lines decorated their mended surfaces.

What organs lay inside the mysterious creature, and how did they help heathens function? Could Dimitry weaponize the information? What if targeting specific areas disabled the vicious automatons without needing overwhelming firepower? Judging by their similar builds, red and regular carapaced devils shared weaknesses. The ability to efficiently kill one species would likely help dispatch the other.

“I have some time.” He approached the beast. “Let’s see if we can learn something about this thing.”

Angelika leaned forward. “Do you think you can science something useful out of it?”

Dimitry did. If dissection led to groundbreaking discoveries on Earth, why wouldn’t it here? But a sudden thought gave him pause. As someone pretending to be Zera’s divine representative, would the populace consider him unclean for performing an autopsy on a devil?

He glanced back. “Think people will hate me for cutting it open?”

“Not really. The guild’s been digging through carapaced devils for quite a while.”

“Find anything useful?”

She shook her head.

Hoping for better luck in his investigations, Dimitry tapped his cloak pocket to confirm his trusty number ten scalpel’s presence. Unfortunately, the expensive steel blade and its fragile edge were too precious to waste unnecessarily. How he longed for disposable surgical tools. “Can you get me some sticks and sharp rocks?”

“To poke around inside?”

“Yeah.”

Angelika scanned the horizon for oncoming heathens. “Sure, I guess.” She ran off into the decimated woodlands.

The first thing Dimitry did was kick the monstrosity to confirm its death. Relieved by its stillness, he peeked through one of the many holes in a broad carapace.

Smelling like decayed dirt, only blue blood, iron pellets, and the sea of translucent cartilage that entombed them filled the subcutaneous layers. What strange connective tissue. It resembled a mix between synthetic resin and rubber. Were heathens living beasts like many thought, or was someone producing them? If so, they used technology distinct from Earth’s. There wasn’t a factory capable of melding varied stone into mobile creatures.

Dimitry’s hand slid across the carapaced devil’s smooth shell as he approached the severed neck.

A volleyball-sized gap remained where it once connected to the torso. Inside was a cavity that had lost all but a small pool of blood, leaving the contents exposed for examination. Like the bright blue lines cutting across the exoskeleton, they decorated the cadaver’s interior, too. Thin sacks, armored husks, and more of that resin. Although it lined only the edges of the corpse, it was voluminous and porous.

Curiosity growing, Dimitry leaned in for a closer inspection. What function did the resin serve? Did it hold ‘organs’ in place? Was it connective tissue?

“I got some stuff,” an enclosing voice called. It was Angelika’s. She carried pebbles, long-dead twigs, and rocks with jagged edges.

Perfect.

Dimitry thrust his hand back. “Stick.”

“Do you have to talk to me like I’m one of your nurses?”

Unable to contain the excitement of digging into an alien corpse, he wiggled his fingers.

A stick fell into his palm.

“Thanks.”

Angelika sighed before plopping the rest of her cargo onto an inverted stretch of shell.

Dimitry prodded various ‘tissues’, palpating each organ with his extended limb. “You said Mira investigated carapaced devils before, right?”

“Yeah, but that’s not to say she found very much.”

He poked the translucent resin, which bounced back like robust gelatin. “Did she mention anything about this stuff?”

“You mean heathen gel? We have a big slice of it.”

“Where?”

“On the floor back at the guild.”

Recalling his visit to the cheesecake-shaped building, Dimitry realized what Angelika referred to—a carpet. Like stiff jello, the furnishing led from the Sorceresses Guild’s entrance to the front desk. An innovative yet strange use for a devil’s organs. “Is it purely decorative?”

“Nah, it came from a carapaced devil that killed two sorceresses. We stomp on it every time we enter for revenge. Also, magic doesn’t affect it.”

Dimitry threw a rock into the carapaced devil torso. The projectile pierced a thin limestone pouch. “You mean it negates spells the same way dispelia and reflectia does?”

“Nope.” Angelika leaned against the heathen like a smug high schooler with gnarly gossip. “You ready to hear this? It’s pretty weird.”

”I’m listening.”

“When we tried casting ignia on it, the gel didn’t heat up at all. But check this out. If there was anything inside the pores, that stuff got hotter. The same happened with floatia, shockia, and every other spell Mira knows.”

“So the gel completely ignores magic?”

“We think so.”

Wondering whether the substance had uses aside from helping sorceresses vent stress, Dimitry carved several slices of resin with his scalpel. He let them fall to the ground. After the night of repentance, he would inspect the tissue in a way no person from Remora could. “How about the blood?”

“What about the blood?” Angelika asked.

“I saw priestesses and bishops collect it in Estoria. I’m guessing it has some use.”

She shrugged. “Probably some ceremonial bullshit.”

“Jade Surgeon,” said the gatehouse guard, who had listened to their hushed whispers with furrowed brows. “Clewin is back with two more crates. Should I tell him to leave them beside the field hospital?”

That must have been another delivery of bombs from the lab. Along with Dimitry’s preference not to leave explosives in public before handing them off to Lukas, he wanted to meet with Clewin. There was a task only the chemist-in-training could do. “Can you direct him here?”

The guard gave a weary nod and turned away.

Before long, a gray-haired man and his wide-eyed apprentice tread across a pond of neutralized heathen blood. They carried microwave-sized crates. Covering them were gold-glowing, lumpy blankets that hinted at the cast-iron spheres underneath.

Clewin struggled to divert his attention from the carapaced devil while navigating around it. “H-hello, Dimitry… madam sorceress. These are the last batch. Where should I leave them?”

“Here is fine. I’ll handle them.” Dimitry met the man’s gaze. “How about the other thing I asked you to do? Is there enough?”

The chemist lowered his cargo while staring into the heathen’s belly. “You mean leaving some black powder for those other ‘projects’? I think there’s enough. I even set up that one thing like we’ve been working on—you know, cause there’s not enough guards.”

“What thing?” Angelika asked.

Although Dimitry trusted the girl with his plans, this wasn’t the place to divulge sensitive information. Several watchmen listened in from the gatehouse towers above. “It’s nothing interesting.”

She rolled her eyes. “Doubt it.”

Her perceptiveness elicited a chuckle from Dimitry. “What’s more important is that I have another job for you, Clewin. I’ll be testing new ways to combat heathens, and the first step is to determine the safety and reactivity of their organs. Bring some vials so we can collect samples.”

“With the Night of Repentance happening tonight,” Clewin said, “isn’t it a little late to test? People are saying it’s gonna be a lot worse than usual.”

“No. These are preparations for next month. Rest while you can so you can begin working at dawn.”

Clewin glanced at the carapaced devil and shuddered. “You mean assuming Malten is still standing after a much bigger heathen raid than this one?”

“Surely there can't be many more of them out there, right?”

92. Anterior Shoulder Dislocation

The moon, plump tonight like a luminescent bladder gameball amongst bleak skies, vomited ghastly green hues onto a decade-abandoned dirt path. Foreboding starbursts flickered in the night, revealing the corpses of massacred trees and an overgrown trail.

Praying the crawlers skittering through the emerald forest behind him couldn’t hear the trotting of his mount, the scout gripped his horse’s reins tighter. He urged Sally towards the beach, across forsaken sands, and closer to the collapsed heathen barrier on Malten’s coast. His eyes darted past Church rubble and towards the ocean.

They had to be lurking in those dark, azure depths.

The night of repentance had just begun, and judging by the heathen swarms roaming the wilderness and yesterday’s unprecedented heathen raid, which struck a day too early, an even more massive heathen raid would assault Malten today. Or so the guard captain said.

But that made little sense. The sorceresses, Celeste guide them, slaughtered an entire raid yesterday. Only one carapaced devil attacked every month, so another couldn’t appear to lead a second raid tonight. Right?

Still, although a raid couldn’t coalesce, the scout’s duty was to alert Malten whenever coastal heathen numbers exceeded hazardous limits. A duty he regarded with utmost importance. But not because he gave a shit about keeping his job. The scout only took this suicidal post because his family lived in the north-western district, which heathens typically besieged first. He vowed to be the aegis that defended his daughters, twelve and fourteen, who were probably gazing out the window, waiting for daddy to return home victorious.

And he had never failed them before. The scout always delivered the warning siren with haste, giving Malten’s sorceresses and knights ample time to prepare for war. Tonight would be no different.

The ocean stirred. A vast gray trunk, covered in heathen circuits burning blue in the abyss of night, rose from the murky depths.

Heart drumming in his ears, the scout’s hand shot to the hollow bull horn at his hip.

The flaps on the carrier devil’s back burst open, and two stone birds launched towards a blackened sky. They slithered under livid clouds towards Malten as the carrier devil submerged back into gloomy waters.

Two fliers. Not a big deal. The scout moved his hand away from the blowing horn. However, despite every reason to feel relief, he could not shake the sensation of being watched. Hunted.

The scout uttered a hasty laugh. Heathens didn’t stalk people, and even if they did, their gargantuan statures and blue circuits would reveal their silhouettes in the night. No reason to worry. Just his nerves acting up as usual.

Two hundred strides away, a crawling devil emerged from the ocean, brine dripping down its six long and sharp limbs. Oddly, the beast did not charge towards Malten. Stranger yet, the crawling devil pivoted, and its spherical core seemed to glare straight ahead.

Right at the scout.

He froze. That… that had never happened before. What was he supposed to do? The scout couldn’t abandon his post, but he had to do something! Hoping to frighten his adversary, he puffed out his chest and bared his teeth, gripping Sally’s reins in case the devil charged.

The crawler turned around and retreated further into the ocean until frantic waves swallowed it whole.

Ha! Pussy!

While the scout grinned in celebration, another crawler skittered onto the beach. And another. Then several more. They stampeded past the scout and towards Malten’s protectia enchanted walls. Eight of them! All at once!

The scout’s hand shot towards the medium-sized bull-horn at his hip. Should he sound the alarm? Could the knights and the holy bomb lobbers handle this many without regrouping?

Moments later, carrier devils dotted the ocean like miniature islands, flying devils soaring from their spines and into the sky, swarming in circles, layered screeches piercing the night.

At least fifteen heathens. Twenty. No—thirty! F-forty?

Dread sinking into his stomach the longer he watched on with glazed-over eyes, the scout grabbed for his blow horn, but pounding sand behind him sapped the vigor from his arms. His grip loosened, and the warning horn plopped onto the beach. He glanced back.

Crawlers encircled the scout in a wide arc, their sharp legs piercing and thwacking dirt and sand. They scuttled closer.

They didn’t leave to assault Malten!

They plotted to surround him!

Mind scrambling to make sense of the aberrant heathen behavior, the scout slammed his thighs into the horse’s flanks, and Sally galloped. With all direct routes to Malten blocked off, he circumvented the clustered crawling devils by riding towards the shore and around them. A mistake.

Flying devils soared in from the ocean.

He was surrounded.

“Sally! Go! Go!”

Although Sally sped up at his desperate plea, galloping faster than all but a noble’s warhorse, her pace could not outmatch that of a flying devil. Over a dozen gained on him. Every moment saw the gap cut short several strides.

The scout gritted his teeth. Where the fuck did he go wrong? He kept his distance, carried no enchantments, and couldn’t afford to cast spells let alone learn them! Why were the heathens targeting him?

Fliers soared overhead, dropping feathers from their wings.

As the scout swerved Sally to the left, stone projectiles dug into the dirt behind him. First volley dodged. A few more to go. If he reached the forest, the abandoned villages and leafy oaks would provide enough cover to flee!

Sally let out an ear-piercing shriek.

The scout looked back, and his heart dropped. A feather pierced the horse’s stifle, flesh above her hind leg melting away into a widening wound. Sally limped and shook to shake the scout off her back.

“I know it hurts, girl! Just a little further!”

The flying devils launched volley after volley.

“Sally! C’mon Sally! Stay with me!”

She huffed and brayed, but despite doubtlessly horrific pain, Sally recovered. Overwhelming joy coursed through the scout even as frigid winds pounded into his wide-open eyes and his head grew fuzzy from holding his breath. He rode through a deserted village, praising Zera for his good fortune.

But his relief was short-lived.

A deafening screech echoed from the coast. That of a carapaced devil.

The scout’s gut sank to his waist as the scattered crawlers and fliers that plagued Malten’s north-western territories began retreating towards the coast.

They were organizing.

A raid was coming!

A raid more horrific than the scout had ever seen!

He cursed himself for losing his blow horn—endangering his family—but swiftly resolved to reach Malten. He had to deliver the warning no matter the cost!

The booms and crackles of holy weaponry atop distant walls went silent as heathens vacated the forest. A glance back revealed that most of the crawlers and fliers hunting the scout had retreated, too, with only three beasts in pursuit. He would make it!

Two flying devils soared above, unleashing a barrage that made Sally utter a pitiful shriek. She collapsed.

The momentum of the fall flung the scout from her back and across a ravaged forest floor, his spine slamming into a split tree. He winced, and, scampering away, glanced back.

A crawling devil sliced its claw through Sally’s belly, both fliers circled above him, and beyond dark clouds hovered a sprawling blue silhouette. The scout squinted to make sense of the blurry figure until a violent fire burned into his calf. He screamed and fell, clawing at the stone feather burrowed in his leg, searing heat coursing throughout the limb.

Wielding rock hammers coated in blue blood, a gaggle of knights upon armored horses neared.

“Scout!” a voice much like Lord Valter’s said. “Can you walk?!”

“M-my Lord! There’s a massive raid gathering! At least forty! Mira and the guard captain must know!”

As a feather shattered against the armor of Valter’s warhorse, the young lord lifted his visor, revealing a handsome face mired only by a scar. “Meier, Wendler. Slaughter that crawler! I’ll deliver the warning!”

“Yes, my liege!”

Having fulfilled his duty, the scout’s vision blurred as he slipped into an endless slumber at Zera’s side, a hopefully long wait to see his family again, only for a steel gauntlet to grab his arm and shake him into consciousness.

“You’re not dead yet!” Valter said. “Stay awake and the holy ambulance shall cure you!”

A sorceress accompanying them, two men carrying a stretcher ran closer.

The Jade Surgeon’s servants.

A pained smirk spread across the scout’s face. Perhaps Zera had granted him another chance to embrace his daughters in this lifetime.

Ephemeral ‘stars’ fazed in and out of existence within the field hospital’s operating room tent. They illuminated random crevices with green light. A dozen would materialize every instant, appearing within a crate of surgical tools, under the operating table, or lodged halfway through a leather wall. Nowhere was off-limits. Not even a patient’s wound.

Like unreliable endoscopes, the phenomenon would occasionally brighten red flesh that heathen’s blood melted through recently—an injury resembling liquefactive necrosis from deep, alkali burns. Fortunately, this sorceress would sustain minimal scarring. Combat medics neutralized the corrosive liquid before it could consume her upper arm, and Dimitry was already suturing her skin. The wound would heal without issue.

But not everyone was so fortunate. As the supersonic crackling of rifles and black powder explosions grew frequent and severe, so did injuries. They had ever since the night of repentance began hours ago. Medical emergencies occurred in bursts, leaving Dimitry little time between surgeries. One patient inside usually meant another waited outside. And there was no one else who could do his job. Some nurses knew wound care basics, but they needed experience before they could work on their own.

So Dimitry worked swiftly. He surged from patient to patient like a busy evening at a trauma center. However, instead of treating endless car crash survivors, heart attacks, or penetrating bullet and knife injuries, he was the backbone of a people fighting for survival against stone beasts.

And he loved it.

This rush was one Dimitry longed for ever since cancer left him bedridden. For the first time in months, he was content. Joyful. Even while cutting the thread of his patient’s final suture, Dimitry couldn’t help but adorn a weary smile. “You’re almost done, madam Elze.”

“No need for formalities,” the sorceress said. “I’m already bashful for taking up the Jade Surgeon’s time with trivialities.”

“Don’t be. Even a small wound can be deadly. After you’re finished here, you can return to your squad. Stay safe out there.” Dimitry nodded at a freckle-faced nurse to finish the job.

Lili knelt to wrap Elze’s sutures with bandages. “Keep the stitches dry for two days, then come back in a week to—”

Her advice drowned in a mist of jumbled ramblings, shouts, and prayers when Dimitry stepped outside to scout his next patient. He was just in time.

From the gatehouse and through a terrified yet enthusiastic crowd that swelled to twice yesterday’s size, approached a man in rusted iron armor. Behind his gargantuan stature trailed a second paramedic, a stretcher, and the decorated knight lying on top. The leather bed Milk hauled lowered to the carved street floor.

Not seeing a heathen feather in the creases between the knight’s steel plating or dents from a crawler’s swipes, Dimitry crouched for closer examination. “What’s the issue?”

The paramedic, huffing after a doubtless frantic race through the western wilderness, shrugged. “He couldn’t get up when we found ‘im, but I think he hurt his hand.”

“It’s my shoulder,” the knight said. “It got fucked up when I smashed a crawling devil’s guts into a tree, and my damn horse spooked at a little heathen’s blood. Can you fix me?”

The flexed elbow of an externally rotated arm that pressed into the knight’s abdomen confirmed his condition. It was a telltale sign of an anterior shoulder dislocation. They often occurred when a raised and outwardly turned limb suffered a blow, just like a knight’s arm would when he slammed a massive, overhead rock hammer into a towering heathen’s core.

As the most common manifestation of shoulder dislocation, Dimitry encountered the injury many times. Although treatment was usually simple, there was potential for complications. Fractures in nearby bones could debilitate soldiers for life. They often resulted from high-velocity collisions, which included people riding their galloping horse into a stone adversary.

To confirm his diagnosis, Dimitry dropped his hand onto the patient’s steel vambraces. “I need to check something. This might hurt.”

“Get it over with.” The knight struggled to suppress his guarded, right-leaning posture.

Dimitry tugged his injured arm.

His eyes slammed shut. “Fuck!”

“You have a dislocated shoulder.” Dimitry pointed back at the operating room tent, which glowed green under a full moon and countless ‘stars’. “I’m bringing you inside for—”

“Don’t believe the surgeon’s lies!” a man holding a tattered scroll yelled. “He seeks to sully Zera’s—”

Others amongst the crowd swiftly silenced him.

“Looks like you don’t have it easy either,” the knight said as the paramedics carried him into the field hospital.

Dimitry shook his head. That wasn’t his first decrier, and he wouldn’t be the last. Their complaints became more frequent since the night began. As his supporters grew in number, so did the opposition. He shot a glance at his guards.

Leona nodded back to reassure him they would eliminate any threats, and Angelika scanned the sky for flying devils.

When he passed through the field hospital’s door flap, Dimitry discovered a knight lying on the operating table wearing only underclothes. His bevor, pauldrons, vambraces, plackart, breastplate, mail, and gambeson stood in a pile beside a satisfied Lili.

She smiled. “What next, mister Dimitry?”

Thrilled to have a nurse that took the initiative, he rinsed his hands in a bowl of ethanol-water. “Could you carefully take off his shirt? Try not to hurt him more than necessary.”

Lili guided the knight’s arm through his sleeve.

He yelped and pulled back. “Daughter of Jung, would you just cut my shirt off? The pain is unbearable.”

“As you wish, son of Schwarz.” She sliced away cloth scraps with scissors.

“You two know each other?” Dimitry pulled the patient’s arm, and a dimple appeared near their clavicle. A positive Sulcus sign. Along with a shoulder that lost its rounded appearance and an acromion that protruded like displaced bones did, they confirmed glenohumeral instability. The joint fully dislocated.

The knight grit his teeth. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Of course he does,” Lili said. “To answer your question, Sir Schwarz and I met at a banquet once.”

“Sounds fun.” Dimitry checked for breaks in the skin—signs of humerus fragments and, therefore, open fractures. They would be challenging to treat with limited technology. Thankfully, there were none. At least none he could find. On Earth, he would have ordered X-rays or an MRI to determine the full extent of the damage, but a physical examination was his only option.

He continued to distract the knight with small talk while beginning a painful musculoskeletal exam. “I’m personally not one for banquets, but—”

“The Jade Surgeon is none other than the ancient evil!” someone yelled outside. “Her Royal Majesty must execute him at once if she wishes to rescue the souls of—”

His calls for murder ended with a wooden thud and a muffled cry.

Lili giggled. “You must have been really naughty before you came to Malten.”

Unlike her, Dimitry didn’t find the humor in his situation. “Sir Schwarz, tell me if you feel any pain.” He pressed into the knight’s clavicle, working through the supraspinatus tendon, subacromial space, scapula, chest, elbow, and forearm, wrist, and fingers. Although the patient begged for mercy several times, there weren’t any palpable step-offs, fractures, tendon tears, or ligament injuries.

Fear in his eyes, the knight glanced up from the operating table. “Perhaps the rumors are true. Maybe you are the devil.”

“Maybe I am.” Dimitry brushed a cotton ball against the patient’s deltoid, checking for axillary nerve injuries. They often accompanied dislocated shoulders. “Does the sensation feel normal, decreased, or is it completely absent?”

“Normal, I think.”

A good sign. “Extend your wrists and fingers.”

Sir Schwarz did.

The ease with which the knight mobilized his extremities made radial nerve injuries unlikely. Continuing his neuromuscular exam, Dimitry looked for hematomas and diminished pulses, then examined the skin’s color and temperature. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

All that remained was for Dimitry to decide on a course of treatment. “Have you ever dislocated your right shoulder before?”

“Don’t think so.”

Dimitry stroked his chin. Should he schedule surgery for the knight? Left alone, young men with physically demanding occupations like him were likely to have recurrent dislocations after the first. With each repeated injury, Bankart lesions and Hill-Sachs defects would appear or worsen, decreasing shoulder stability further. There would come a day when Sir Schwarz could no longer wield his weighty rock hammer without dislocating the ball-and-socket joint. He would be out of work, and Malten would lose yet another warrior.

Stabilization surgery, however, was not without its own risks. Inadequate equipment, untrained personnel, and a world containing unknown pathogens made open wounds lethal. Success wasn’t guaranteed.

Closed reduction was the best choice. Setting the joint back into place gave a chance for a full recovery without further intervention. Although the knight would have to rest for several months, it was better than suffering a botched operation or losing a limb to infection.

Dimitry stood by the patient’s side. “I’ll be fixing your shoulder now.”

Lili stepped closer, her eyes full of curiosity. “I saw it done before. Will you shove the bones back into place?”

Sir Schwarz hyperventilated.

“No,” Dimitry said. “Never force a joint into place. This is an anterior dislocation, and there are over a dozen methods for handling them. I’ll be using the external rotation technique.” He glanced at the knight. “Try not to worry too much. Your injury is still fresh, meaning your muscles haven’t tightened up yet. While it’ll still hurt, you won’t need sedatives. Ready?”

“Fuck.”

“Just lie flat on your back, take deep breaths, and relax. The calmer you are, the less pain there’ll be. I promise.”

Sir Schwarz squirmed before holding still. “I’m ready.”

Eager to learn all she could despite distant explosions and the amplifying shouting outside, Lili leaned in.

Dimitry flexed the knight’s forearm until the elbow was at ninety degrees. “No sudden movements, no matter what.” Supporting the arm, he externally rotated it away from the body. Whenever the patient’s face distorted and his muscles tightened, Dimitry paused to let his pain dissipate. Several yelps and grunts later, he felt the ball-and-socket joint snap into place. “We’re done.”

Unfurling his fist, Sir Schwarz’s eyes relaxed. “T-that’s it?”

“Yep.” Dimitry pressed the arm back to the patient’s stomach. “I’ll put on a sling, and you’ll let your shoulder heal for two months. Don’t do any heavy lifting or heathen killing.”

“As long as the Jade Surgeon wills it.” He smirked at Lili. “I’ll be in my Amphurt manor drinking wine and practicing offhand spear counters if anyone needs me.”

“So tough.” She smiled. “Bragging about your vacation while your peers fight against devils.”

Sir Schwarz’s flirtatious expression vanished.

Fitting the sling, Dimitry sighed. His romanticized image of a knight’s chivalry crumbled with every passing day. It didn’t matter. As long as patients listened to his orders, he couldn’t complain. “You’re all set.”

“Your skills are as the rumors say. My family will return for the armor and provide payment at a less chaotic opportunity. I hope that is well.”

“Not a problem. Just stay warm and try to take it easy on the wine—too much will slow down your shoulder’s healing.”

“Very well.” The shirtless knight bowed and left.

“Next!” Dimitry shouted.

No one entered.

Lili glanced at him, and he looked outside. There were no more patients waiting for him. A welcome respite after five in a row. He fell onto the operating table’s leather surface, using the opportunity to rest his aching feet and reflect.

And he lay there.

And he lay there.

Gradually, voltech rifles quit their supersonic roars, bombs no longer rocked the ground with shock waves, and the screaming of those assaulted by flying devils came to a halt.

Silence veiled the night.

An odd silence.

A discomforting silence.

Lili peeled back the tent’s leather flap, and confused whispers leaked in from the streets. “Mr. Dimitry, you need to see this.”

He examined the green spark bursting at the tip of his nose. “It’s still the night of repentance, right?”

She nodded. “But I’ve never seen it this quiet this early. Not even as a child in Einheart.”

“Is something going to happen?”

“I’m… I’m not sure.”

Dimitry jumped off the examination table and peeked outside.

Sorceresses conversed atop the western walls, the movements of their robed silhouettes slow and uneasy. Mounted knights trotted in through an unstable gatehouse gate and scoured the streets as if for a clue. Royal guards shot each other unsure glances.

“Did they mutate again?” a refugee’s whisper pierced the night.

Hushed voices deliberated throughout.

The franticness of the night vanished, taking on the form of anticipation instead.

Dimitry’s heart skipped a beat.

Lili poured herself a cup of distilled water and held it in a shaky hand.

A frantic horn resounded from atop the northwestern wall, signaling the start of a lethal night.

In response to the oncoming heathen raid, sorceresses rushed across battlements, knights returned to the battlefield, and refugees hid beneath metal awnings.

Dimitry marched outside and clapped, attracting over a hundred gazes. “The real deal is starting, and we’ve got a long night ahead of us. Let’s do what we’ve set out to do.”

93. Calculating Opponents

The iron vambraces of an oncoming royal crossbowman slammed into Saphiria’s shoulder as he ran past, reaching for a bolt from his quiver. He didn’t apologize. There wasn’t an opportunity. Hundreds rushed through carved stone streets to escape or fight the oncoming heathen horde after the horn sounded moments ago.

Saphiria darted up a ladder affixed to an inn, stepped past a group of shivering refugees cowering upon the roof, and leaned over a waist-high railing.

In the distance, fliers and crawlers crowded around a carapaced devil as they stampeded towards Malten’s northwestern battlements. Dark green dust rising from a barren forest disguised their exact numbers, but the intensity with which the city shook suggested no less than forty heathens assaulted the city. Most likely fifty.

A class four raid.

When Saphiria lived in Estoria, she regularly saw waves this massive, but Amalthea’s capital had more than two hundred thousand residents and millions more in the surrounding cities, towns, and villages. Abundant supplies and the Church’s assistance brought a swift end to any danger.

But Malten was different.

There were fewer watchmen and sorceresses than eight years ago, and reinforcements wouldn’t come. Heathens likely overwhelmed the countryside. Without the survival of their own territories guaranteed, most lords couldn’t afford to lend assistance to the capital.

Would Mother, Richter, Lukas, and Mira’s joint army hold?

Saphiria’s grip around the iron railing tightened. Flames surged within her legs, demanding she surge forth to reinforce the front lines, to help where she could, but her duties lay elsewhere. She promised Dimitry she would watch over his hospital while he tended to the wounded. Enemies lurked within Malten as well as outside, and the surgeon’s cathedral served as a promise of Zera’s blessing. To allow it to fall would be to eviscerate her countrymen’s hearts.

The red-sleeved hand of a disguised court sorceress grabbed her shoulder.

“Your Royal Highness,” Leandra whispered, catching her breath. “I’m afraid I am no longer capable of chasing after you whenever you flee your duties.”

Saphiria did not glance back at her childhood caretaker. Although the court sorceress used to be her guardian and playmate, she was now but a shackle upon her throat. “You can return to the castle.”

“That won’t do.” Leandra’s piercing glare fell to a shirtless refugee shivering in a rag-coated crate. “Come now, the commoner quarters are unsafe. We have wandered these streets enough.”

“Mother allowed me to observe the city.”

“Only for as long as I can keep you from danger.”

“There hasn’t been any yet.”

“There’s no need to take the risk when there are better views to be had from the castle towers.”

Although Saphiria sought to make amends with Mother, obtaining her reluctant permission and a protector before leaving home, she never intended to silently watch on as others defended the city. Leandra couldn’t convince her otherwise.

Refocusing on pertinent matters, Saphiria pointed at the mass of heathens rapidly enclosing, a full moon’s power hastening their approach. “Has this become normal?”

“Tonight’s raid is larger than that of last month.”

“How do you predict we’ll fare?”

Leandra shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Will west main street be safe? And of the Jade Surgeon’s field hospital tents—will the heathens reach them?”

“The city never fell before, and it won’t tonight. Now let us return to where it is safe.”

Peeling her gaze away from the horror, Saphiria turned around. “I wish to visit the cathedral once more.”

“We have a dozen times already.”

“And we will do so again.”

Leandra’s amethyst eyes narrowed, and the wrinkles on her forehead deepened. “I cannot allow you to pointlessly endanger yourself while fliers soar closer and unpredictables line the roads. You are the—”

Shouting and metal clanging echoed from nearby.

Saphiria’s head shot to the side.

A crowd raged outside the cathedral, shoving at the two royal halberdiers defending the entrance. Was someone targeting Dimitry’s hospital just as Lukas predicted? Did they seek to eliminate plague-curing blankets once again, or did they intend to cause even greater harm?

“Your Royal—”

Before Leandra could finish her sentence, Saphiria slid down the ladder. She dashed towards the cathedral.

Outside the granite double doors, a riot grew larger. Cloaked figures, the homeless, and even children assaulted the hospital staff and guards repelling them. Deafening yelling and masses of refugees on both sides made differentiating aggressors from the victims difficult.

A man raised his makeshift bludgeon against an unarmed nurse.

Channeling her forward momentum, Saphiria rammed her foot into his gut.

He clutched his belly as he fell.

Another man grabbed her cloak.

She elbowed him in the throat and retreated.

There were too many.

At least a hundred crowded the three-way intersection outside the cathedral, pushing and shoving. A woman with braids born from neglect shrieked that Zera would never forgive the pretender, three bony men clawed forward while blaming the Jade Surgeon for the heathens, and a girl too young for marriage forcefully tugged on a royal halberdier’s greaves.

The homeless, citizens, and even children! Just how far had her home declined in her absence? Saphiria could not stand idle, but she couldn’t draw her dagger or vol either. To impose lethal harm on a child was unthinkable.

Could she do nothing?

As another horn echoed across the city and the stomping of heathens rattled the awnings and support pillars of buildings with greater force, Saphiria’s eyes darted across the mayhem. Every idea she conjured was no more feasible than the last. The attacking swarm seemed too chaotic to have a mastermind, incapacitating only those with weapons wouldn’t prevent others from arming themselves, and Malten’s watchmen were too few to help.

Gnawing her lower lip, she grew more desperate.

And then Saphiria noticed it.

The ephemeral bursts of a night of repentance—they enveloped large swathes of rioters more thickly than the surroundings. Whenever those green specks appeared voluminous, either they coalesced around a powerful enchantment, like Malten’s protectia walls, or around a mage casting spells and their target.

It was the exhaust that accompanied vol consumption.

Someone manipulated the crowd with magic. Did they use incitia? Incapacitating the caster would end the senseless bloodshed.

“You haven’t changed,” a voice lectured from behind. “Your Royal Highness remains as whimsical as she had always been. It is too dangerous. We’re returning to the castle.”

“A thaumaturge is casting incitia on the crowd. I need you to nullify the effects until I find them.”

Leandra frowned. “Do you expect me to let you assault a mage? Alone?”

“People are dying. Children are getting hurt.”

“Your life is more valuable than a few commoners and a cathedral. You are this kingdom’s hope. If you reconsider, I vow to handle every matter tomorrow. Personally.”

“Tomorrow will be too late.”

“At dawn, then.”

“Do it whenever you wish.” Saphiria darted away, lingering exhaust in the air acting as her guide.

They led to a residence with boarded doors and windows. Green specks fluxed from the third floor, hinting that her target was inside. Deemed corrupt by a plague doctor, red crosses decorated the walls, and planks barricaded every opening.

How did they gain entry?

Saphiria hadn’t the time to pry away planks or retrace footsteps. Looking for a faster path to neutralizing the mage within, she rushed into an adjacent alley and glared at a couple sitting beneath a window. “Leave.”

The gentleman grabbed the lady’s hand and scampered away.

With shaky fingers, Saphiria retrieved a vol pellet from her cloak pocket. She focused on infusing her hands and wrists with power. “Hastia.”

Warmth rushed into her arms, followed by a seemingly endless vigor that yearned to lift the world.

Howling winds drowned out the creaking of loosely bolted beams as Saphiria scaled the building wall. The exhaust of vol grew thicker the higher she climbed until she found her target on the top floor.

Targets, rather.

Two cloaked figures huddled beside an upstairs window. Sacks of supplies lay scattered on the floor, suggesting they prepared for the assault days prior, and their magical talents hinted at a master wealthy enough to equip them with protectia and reflectia apparel beneath their cloaks.

Saphiria guessed she couldn’t target them with spells directly, leaving only their heads and limbs vulnerable to projectiles. Killing both wasn’t an option either. One had to survive for questioning. Whoever invested mages into this ploy wouldn’t surrender after a single attempt.

Hanging from a sill with one hand, Saphiria absorbed a pure vol pellet and pulled a loose nail from a plank. She fit it into her palm’s center and aimed through a chink between window shutters. “Propelia.”

The nail’s iron tip pierced the mage’s forehead.

As one cloaked figure collapsed to an uneven timber floor, a female voice chanted, “Dropia!”

Sharp wood and bricks plummeted over Saphiria’s head.

Swinging around her hand and to the side, she dodged debris with masses many times heavier than normal, only for weighty slush to crash down onto her knuckles.

Agonizing pain shot through her pinkie.

Her grip loosened.

Saphiria plunged towards the alley floor.

Before she splattered onto the ground, her uninjured hand grabbed a protruding iron beam, which detached from the wall. Saphiria swung her center-of-mass forward, and the beam crashed into the paved bricks behind her with a deafening metal rattle.

Saphiria knelt and clenched her fist to check for injury. Swelling—a minor issue. Without the reflectia linens she wore beneath her cloak, her abdomen would have torn in two. Partially amplifying the weight of a person’s body with dropia was a common and effective combat tactic.

From above came the sound of shattering wood and footsteps growing distant.

Was the sorceress fleeing? Saphiria ignored the pain consuming her hand and lifted a brick that weighed as many as a dozen. Hastia still empowering her arms, she launched it into one of the boarded windows.

The planks broke.

Saphiria squeezed past jagged wood, dashed into the residence, and rushed upstairs.

Flames consumed the tables, nightstands, and dressers within the tiny parlor where the mages once were, and a hole in the wall marked the target’s escape route. It led through adjacent homes.

Covering her face with her cloak to fend off blistering heat and poisonous fumes, Saphiria grabbed a handful of brass leather studs from the table. She darted through black mists and peered out of an open window.

The rogue sorceress barreled down Tailor’s street, shoving away huddling masses as she escaped.

To slow her down, Saphiria consumed two more vol pellets and held out her arm. “Propelia.”

Brass studs shot from her palm and barraged the rogue sorceress. Most bounced off her torso, impeded by a protectia enchantment hidden from sight, yet others pounded into her calves and shoulders. She tripped. The vol pouch she carried fell from her hand and rolled across the ground. A refugee with an overgrown beard snatched it greedily.

The third and final heathen alarm sounded as Saphiria jumped out of the window and clutched the post of an illumina streetlight, searing pain engulfing her injured knuckles as she slid down to its base.

The rogue sorceress glanced back, but without vol on hand, she was harmless. She swerved towards the cathedral, perhaps hoping to blend into the chaos of frantic rioters outside the doors.

Heavy miasma lingering within her lungs and the stench of smoldering cinders in her nostrils coaxed harsh coughs from Saphiria as she slid around the corner. She gripped Father’s silver dagger within its sheathe, balanced its weight in her palm, and aimed forward.

The green of an overhead full moon reflected off the blade as it flashed through the night and past civilians. Its pommel hit the back of the rogue sorceress’s head, and she fell onto her face.

Saphiria lunged forward and pressed her knee into the rogue sorceress’ neck. “Move and you’ll feel agony unlike any before.” She patted the woman down for hidden vol.

Several strides away, an avaricious hand reached for Father’s silver dagger, only to be pushed aside by a court sorceress’s boot. “That doesn’t belong to you.”

“P-please forgive me, ma’am,” the refugee moaned as he retreated from his prize.

Leandra picked up Father’s memento and stepped closer. “I have pacified the crowd as per your demands, but would you mind explaining that?” She pointed to the plumes of smoke rising from a row of buildings.

“There were two mages inside,” Saphiria said. “I killed the first, but this one tried to escape. She set furniture ablaze to cover her escape.”

“… You fought two mages on your own?”

“I don’t expect you to take the blame for my foolishness. Once we return, I’ll tell Mother the decision was my own despite your many protests.”

“My life is unimportant compared to yours. Are you injured?”

Saphiria glanced down at her swollen knuckles. Dimitry would treat her when he was less busy. “I’m fine. How are the children and nurses? Did you guide them to safety?”

“We’re doing what we can.” Leandra frowned. “But let it be known: although a princess must be strong and sympathetic, she must also be wise. Look around you. You risk your life to douse flames while a raging inferno consumes the city.”

A glance at a watchman restraining a boy’s withered arms—only skin and bone—told Saphiria that the court sorceress’ lecture held truth. This city sank further into an enlarging void.

Visions of the prosperous paradise Malten had been enamored Saphiria too much for her to see its problems. She struggled to mend symptoms, like decaying metalworking infrastructure, when dwindling defenses and food crippled the foundation on which industry could emerge.

However, unlike blast furnaces and waterwheels, even the wisest ruler could not rebuild his people once they had perished. Every death spread apathy, and just like Father’s death had encumbered Saphiria, the deaths of blacksmiths, miners, and even charcoal burners handicapped Malten.

“A countryman’s life saved is never in vain,” Saphiria said. “One day, I will ensure their safety, allow everyone to live without worry, but until I extinguish the inferno consuming the city, I must continue to douse the flames or only ash will remain by the time I’m done.”

Leandra paused, and a crooked grin spread across her face. “My understanding was that Your Royal Highness fled from her duties with every passing whim, but perhaps I was wrong. Maybe there is hope for—”

A heavy mass slammed into the northwestern walls, and discombobulating tremors rattled the ground.

Dread slithered down Saphiria’s neck. Not because of the carapaced devil's assault, but because eight flying devils flew between buildings in arrow formation. She had seen nothing like it before. Not even in Estoria. Usually, fliers whizzed straight towards the Sorceresses Guild or the castle, but tonight…

Tonight, the heathens were organized.

Leandra’s stern eyes opened wide. “Celeste guide—” she uttered, not finishing the phrase.

A refugee screamed as she tried to break into a home for safety, only for the person on the other side to lock her out. She hid alongside dozens of others in a cramped alley instead.

Then an explosion. A deafening boom bellowed across the city, and smoke rose from the direction of the market square—the location of Dimitry’s laboratory.

Was it another riot?

Although Dimitry told her to avoid the church where he developed black powder, Saphiria could not let the destructive technology fall into enemy hands. Before she could dash forth, a tug on her shoulder pulled her back.

“Wait,” Leandra said.

Saphiria brushed away the court sorceress’ hand. “I must go.”

“So I’ve figured.” Leandra pressed Father’s dagger into Saphiria’s palm. “You’re as stubborn as you’ve always been, Your Royal Highness, but this flame you will douse with me at your side.”

Angelika aimed her rifle at a cluster of flying devils, which split and merged whenever they strafed through city streets, launching stone feathers with every pass. Normally, fliers rushed towards the castle or traced the enchanted walls, stopping only to circle over wherever one of their asshole friends died, but not tonight.

What the hell were the fliers thinking? Why were there so many? How many fucking carrier devils were birthing them beside Malten’s coast?

She absorbed a vol pellet and targeted one of five flying devils swooping down towards the window of the house Dimitry commandeered to treat an injured scout after the tents became unsafe.

“Propelia! Propelia!”

Two loud cracks erupted from the end of Angelika’s enchanted voltech rifle, each accompanying the exit of a lead ball. The first projectile chipped a wing. The second split a stone torso, the halves slamming into the roof and edge of a building.

Under a nearby awning stood Leona, who leaped away from heathen blood splashing off the wall. She flashed a triumphant smile.

Though Angelika grinned in response, in truth, she regretted involving her sister in guarding the field hospital. She never thought shit would get this crazy. Clouds of black smoke rose from near the cathedral, an explosion rattled the market square, and a raid more massive than she had ever seen struck the city.

Seriously.

What the fuck was going on?

As the flying devils retreated, refugees peeked out from alley corners and civilians peered out from behind ajar windows. A portly lady in an evening gown exited onto her doorstep to mutter prayers towards the abandoned field hospital tents. Her hand remained on the doorknob to thwart anyone who might rush into her home for cover.

Angelika clicked her teeth. How could people suck up to Zera even after she abandoned them and left Malten in the shit?

“Do you madams need anything down there?” a man yelled from a second-floor window. “Maybe a hot cup of milk?”

“We’re fine!” Leona shouted back. “Thank you!”

The warmth of appreciation brought sensation to Angelika’s numb fingers. Although her job sucked, citizens frequently offered woolen blankets or vol or antiquated weapons as aid while they defended the ‘apostle’.

The flying devils reemerged once more.

Absorbing a vol pellet, Angelika tightened her grip around the voltech rifle’s reflectia cover. She aimed towards dark green skies.

Loaded crossbow in hand, a man in a ragged shirt dashed onto the streets and aimed up. Yet another idiot offering the Jade Surgeon aid to appease Zera.

“We said we’re fine!” Angelika yelled. “Get off the fucking road, or a flier might fall on you!”

He didn’t listen.

“Fine, go die for all I—”

A flying devil swooped in for another strafe.

“Propelia!”

The lead pellet struck the beast’s head, and it crashed into the road, blue blood leaking from the neck and into crevices between carved bricks.

“Angelika!” Leona aimed her rifle at the crossbow-wielding man.

Weapon loaded, he ran towards a house—the one with Dimitry in it.

Angelika’s eyes shot open. How could she have been so fucking stupid? She slammed a lead ball into her rifle, and with the remnant vol surging through her circuits, cast propelia.

Her bullet pierced the man’s thigh as he aimed into the window. His dismembered leg launched to the side as he fell, light from his shocked eyes extinguished.

“Protectia!” Leona chanted.

Three bolts whizzed from above into an unseen barrier, while another projectile flew into the house.

Angelika pivoted to see cloaked figures peering from the roofs behind her. Did they plan this shit out? Were they waiting for a distraction before killing the Jade Surgeon? Was Dimitry hit?!

A royal guard rushed from an alley to toss a javelin into one of their chests, but the three remaining assailants dropped their crossbows and began tossing small wooden kegs instead. The obscure containers burst against the hospital tents and the building Dimitry operated within, splattering black tar everywhere.

They were starting another fire!

Without time to load another pellet, Angelika dropped her rifle, absorbed vol, and held out her palm. “Freezia!”

An assailant’s neck stiffened, broke, and sent his head tumbling towards the ground. Icy fragments of hood and skin and eye shattered as the skull collided against brick. A spell canister fell from the man’s bony hand.

He was starving; how did he buy vol if he couldn’t even eat?!

“Propelia,” Leona yelled across the street, killing another.

The final assailant chanted with a canister in outstretched hands. “Ignia! Ignia! Ignia! Ig—”

A friendly cloaked figure silenced them from behind, but it was too late.

The fire rose.

94. Misdirection

The supersonic crack of an enhanced voltech rifle echoed from west main street and through the window. Dimitry did not look outside. Although heathens soared between buildings, he excised contaminated flesh from the liquefactive puncture wound in his patient’s calf—the first casualty since the stone monsters resumed their assault.

“Lili, check on Angelika and Leona!”

“Yes, Mr. Dimitry!” The freckled nurse lowered the jug from which she poured distilled water onto the scout’s partial-thickness burns and glanced outside.

“Protectia!” Leona shouted.

Iron clanged as if ricocheting against nothing.

A bolt darted over Dimitry’s head and shattered a ceramic pot on a shelf.

“Lili,” he shouted. "You alright?!"

"I'm fine, Mr. Dimitry!" She inhaled a tense breath. "The sorceresses are fighting some people outside! They have crossbows and—"

Basketball-sized barrels flew in through the window. They burst, splattering tar onto furniture and all over a woolen carpet.

Using his back to shield the patient, tar drenched his red and gold uniform.

"Ignia, ignia, ignia, ig—" a man’s voice chanted frantically before sudden silence.

Flames flared across the room, drawing nearer.

Dimitry’s fears manifesting into reality drained all sensation from his hands. Hoping whoever tried to kill him would give up, he threw his uniform aside and hastily entombed the scout’s bleeding leg with gauze. “Lili, find the homeowners and guide them to the cathedral. When you get there, tell the porters to bring as much distilled water as they can carry. I’ll handle the patient.”

“Yes, Mr. Dimitry!” Her boots stomped up carpeted stairs.

Angelika kicked down the door and rushed closer. “I’m so, so sorry. I fucked up. I didn’t think there’d—”

“We’ll talk about it later.” Dimitry lifted the scout from under his shoulders. “Grab his feet carefully.”

“Got ‘em.”

The scout screamed.

“I said carefully!”

“I’m being as careful as I can! Hop off my—”

The window shutters burst open. Leona’s alarmed face appeared beyond them. “The tents are on fire!”

Dimitry glanced past her, and his heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t care less about the field hospital. Goods were replaceable. What concerned him most was the crate of bombs that Clewin delivered that evening. Lukas never came by to collect them. They remained inside the supply tent, and, if detonated, the resulting shrapnel would kill hundreds. He had to clear the streets now!

“Should I bring water from the well?!” Leona asked.

“No!” Dimitry said. “Get the hell away from here and take everyone with you.”

“What if they don’t listen to me?”

“Make them listen! What’s inside that tent will kill hundreds if it goes off.”

Leona nodded hesitantly and rushed into a dark street illuminated by flames, moonlight, and ephemeral green sparks. “The apostle proclaims west main street to be unsafe. Everyone must leave!”

“Wait.” Angelika’s eyes locked onto Dimitry’s as they carried the scout outside and towards a roofed alley. “You mean the bombs are still inside?”

“I do.”

“Why the fuck does everything have to go to shit all the fucking time?!”

“My thoughts exactly.” Dimitry dropped the scout onto a carved brick floor. “We’ll come back for you once it’s safe.”

The scout waved him away.

Refugees stampeded from the alleys, a few civilians left their homes, and three flying devils soared overhead. They shot feathers as they passed.

“Protectia,” Angelika and Leona chanted with outstretched palms.

Every projectile dropped to the ground.

“Good job.” Dimitry glanced back at the field hospital.

Unfazed, the pious remained beside the aflame tents, muttering hasty prayers. Did they intend to just stand there? Dimitry turned to Angelika. “Leave with your sister.”

“Are you telling me to sit back while you heroically pull bombs out of a burning tent so those morons don’t get blown up?”

“Yes.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“No you’re not.” Dimitry pushed against the tides of people rushing past him. “If I’m too late, I don’t need you to die with me. You’re young and you have a family that loves you.”

“I’m young?” Angelika trailed behind him. “Stop talking like you’re some wise fucking hermit beyond your years.”

“I’m not joking.”

“As your guard, do you know how bad it’ll look if you die before me? While I’m on duty? The sorceresses at the guild’ll never let me live it down! And what if more idiots try to kill you? There are flying devils too!”

Leona’s warning rang true; Angelika was too loyal for her own good. However, as Dimitry lifted the entrance flap of a tent engulfed in flames and prepared to dive into the blistering heat, he had only gratitude for her accompaniment. “Stay low, cover your face, and grab the surgical tools. I’ll get the bombs.”

“Yup!” Angelika tossed her rifle and flammable red robe aside, revealing toned arms and glowing leather armor beneath.

Dimitry heard only deafening fiery roars while crouching past cindering woolen blankets, tent poles, and smoke. His goal lay below a bed with burning covers. A crate full of explosives. He knew not the autoignition temperature for black powder, but if he didn’t bring the bombs outside before the heat intensified, he would never find out.

The inhalation of scorching fumes accumulated mucus in his throat, coaxing from him several coughs. Dimitry grabbed the crate. Although the wood hadn’t caught fire, the heat seared his palms. He grit his teeth and ignored the pain as he dragged the bombs past shriveling leather and onto the streets.

“Angelika,” he yelled. “You alright in there?!”

As a burning tent pole collapsed and the rest of the structure followed, the girl emerged with the tool crate. She coughed.

Did she sustain a thermal injury to her upper airway? A chemical injury? Maybe superheated carbon monoxide and cyanide resulted in hypoxia. Dimitry leaned in to check for early signs of inhalation injury. A lack of facial burns and carbonaceous deposits in her nostrils provided some relief.

“Stop staring into my nose, you weirdo.” Angelika spat onto the ground. “I’m fine.”

He examined her saliva. Thankfully, it was clear and without soot. “If you develop a fever or have trouble breathing, I want to be the first to know.”

“I said I’m fine!”

“You don’t know if you’re fine. Most symptoms don’t start to appear until—”

Another horn rang from atop the western gatehouse.

Angelika’s head shot up.

Dimitry froze.

Was another raid coming?

Two in one night?

A robed woman’s dark silhouette raced across the northwestern battlements and rushed down the steps of the nearby gatehouse. It was Elze—a sorceress Dimitry treated earlier that night. She stopped in front of them, heaving for air. “The guildmistress… she says to clear the streets and retreat to the castle. We’ll stage an offensive there.”

“Wha—” Angelika stepped forward. “Is everyone okay?!”

“We can’t defend against two raids at once. We’re still dealing with the first!”

“Do you guys need me back? If you don’t have enough—”

“There isn’t time!” Elze’s voice cracked despite a mostly composed posture. “Mira sent me here to vacate the city before the carapaced devil comes. You two must help me.”

Dimitry cursed under his breath and kicked away a burning plank. If the first heathen raid was predictive of the next, another carapaced devil would siege the walls within minutes. He couldn’t empty main street in time, and civilians would remain behind to pray despite his authority as the apostle. An evacuation wouldn’t work. They hadn’t the time or manpower. Worse still, the heathens were behaving erratically tonight. What if they roamed the city and slaughtered every civilian before targeting the castle walls?

He glanced down at the crate of bombs by his feet, the two sorceresses in front of him, and then at the market square, from where Leona and Lili would eventually arrive with porters in tow. A plan brewed in his mind. “How big is this raid?”

“Class three.”

“That’s around forty heathens and a carapaced devil, right?”

Elze nodded. “We must hurry.”

“I understand the rush, but regrouping won’t work,” Dimitry said. “It’s too late. If we don’t hold the line here, I fear there won’t be much city left by morning.”

“Hold the line?! With all due respect, Jade Surgeon, Mira can’t spare anyone else!" Elze lifted her sleeve to display the bandaged stitches on her forearm. “The only reason she sent me as a messenger was because of my injury.”

“Can you still operate your rifle and cast magic?”

“Shall I cover your retreat?”

“No. I want you to fight with us.”

“Just us three?” Elze uttered. “My duty is to die for this kingdom, but we’ll perish for naught.”

“I understand your hesitation, but I’ve got an idea.”

Angelika’s eyes gleamed. “Is it more of your crazy magic?” She shook his shoulders. “Can you kill those bastards?!”

Dimitry peeled away the girl’s fingers. “Take a deep breath and relax.”

Angelika’s belly swiftly expanded and deflated.

“Good. Now listen carefully, both of you. Here’s what I need you to do.”

A market square full of cowering refugees grew further congested. The stench of sweat and unwashedness intensified as hundreds rushed in from west main street, escaping smoldering clouds rising from what was once the city’s third-most prosperous district.

“There’s gonna be a second heathen raid,” said a man coiled in matted rags to a similarly dressed woman.

She hesitated to speak. “It’ll… it’ll be fine, yeah? The apostle stayed behind. He’ll banish ‘em.”

“What are those sorceresses doing at a time like this?!” a senior shouted from a second-floor window to their neighbor.

“I hear they’re still fighting off the first wave.”

“Then why do we pay taxes if they can’t even protect us?!”

“Are we going to die like dad?” A boy asked, looking up at his mother as he sat on her lap.

The mother slowly rocked back and forth. Her terrified eyes absently stared at the opposite alley wall. “N-no. We’ll be fine. We have to be fine, but let’s recite Celeste’s prayer of parting just in case.”

Saphiria’s home was falling.

It was falling.

Dashing past endless subjects, her vision grew blurrier with every forward step, but what concerned her most was not the impending collapse of the western walls. She worried about the knights that fought on the front lines, charging in to kill a crawler before it could reach the walls. She worried about the sorceresses, who fought with unguarded flanks.

And she worried about Dimitry. Saphiria’s fists clenched tighter, and her nails dug deeper into her palms. Knowing him, he remained to treat the injured despite being unable to defend himself.

Leandra ran beside her. To keep Saphiria’s identity as royalty hidden, she wore red robes instead of the customary yellow garbs that announced a court sorceress’s authority. People would normally bow before her might. Now, however, the decorated war hero shoved aside refugees rushing in the opposite direction.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Leandra said, “but we absolutely cannot reinforce the front lines.”

The words sundered Saphiria’s heart, but she didn’t dispute them. “Having to defend the princess would only distract Malten’s protectors. I will not burden them further with my presence.”

“Glad to hear that Your Royal Highness has sense.”

Saphiria looked up at the white smoke rising from across the market square. “And we have our own duties to attend to.”

“I can only hope Her Royal Majesty agrees.” Leandra palmed away a face covered in grime. “When she learns that I permitted you to rush into danger after eight years of hearing her pray to reunite with you, she would have my head.”

“Mother prayed to reunite with me?”

“… Just mindless musings. Ignore me.”

Even as Saphiria’s limbs burned with urgency, a warmness within her chest battled against icy memories of Mother barking order after order. Did she merely wish for the return of the heiress she invested endless resources into raising or did more lay behind Mother’s distant glares?

The heartening thought dispersed when Dimitry’s chemistry lab came into view. Sparse smoke filtered through a gap in the granite wall, and outside the archway entrance lay a royal guard with a cavernous dent in his steel helmet. Scattered around him were many makeshift iron bludgeons and four corpses that bled from disemboweled torsos.

“Move!” Leandra bellowed, her voice carrying powerfully amidst harsh winds.

Refugees muttering prayers shoved into alleys and against each other to vacate space.

Saphiria lifted the helmet’s visor to discover a familiar face. It was that of a man who once carried her to the castle in his arms when Father fell drunk at a banquet, but now had brain and bone bashed from his skull.

Heaviness sank and festered within the depths of Saphiria’s belly. “Riquin is dead.”

“Lord Riquin?” Leandra uttered. Face awash in barely suppressed rage, she turned to face the refugees. “The first to tell me who killed the royal guardsman and where they fled will receive one gold mark!”

“That way, m’lady!” a masculine voice uttered.

“I saw them too, madam sorceress!”

“There were four of ‘em!”

While Leandra questioned witnesses, Saphiria explored the church for clues.

Atop granite tables rested cast iron fragments, glass shards, and partially intact vials and beakers. The base of a pillar upholding the roof broke as if from an overpowering force. Blood showered the walls and shattered stained glass windows. Limbs lay separate from a dozen corpses, some blown across the church.

On the clothes of the dead were crudely stitched insignias. Those that belonged to gangs. Like the ones that plagued Estoria’s slums.

Saphiria’s eyes widened. Did Tenebrae infest Malten as well? She had never looked, usually wandering nostalgic streets for glints of the past instead. However, with swathes of disenfranchised peasants populating the streets, she should have expected some to organize into criminality.

In all likelihood, someone hired them to ransack the Jade Surgeon’s facilities. Whether their goal was to strike fear into the apostle or steal his chemistry equipment was unclear.

And their deaths were even more mysterious.

Saphiria’s gaze fell to the remnants of an obscure contraption on the floor. It resembled a shattered cast iron pot interlaced with flint and steel fragments. Was that the source of the white smoke and the explosion? Did Dimitry leave it here?

Another horn sounded from the western wall.

She froze.

The second heathen raid drew near.

“I have tracked the culprits!” Leandra shouted through the entrance. “If you wish to quench this flame, we must move swiftly!”

Quelling extraneous thoughts once more, Saphiria rushed forward. She wouldn't allow the survivors to escape.

Behind Dimitry stood Malten’s western gatehouse. In front of him, green-tinted dust rose as over forty heathens encroached. There were no walls between him and them.

On this open field was Dimitry, a flock of stone birds, more than a dozen oversized daddy-long-legs, and in the center of the heathen swarm, a tortoise beast half as tall as Malten’s castle. Whenever each of its massive feet stomped forward, shock waves shook the ground, each tremor louder and heavier than the last.

Feeling the vibrations traverse the sole of his boot and rattle his legs, Dimitry froze. He stared unblinkingly despite icy winds slamming into his eyes. The nightmarish horrors amazed and paralyzed him, and the speed with which they approached exceeded his most hopeful expectations.

Countless questions whizzed through his head. Why did moonlight empower heathens? How did they organize into raids? Could they communicate amongst each other, or were unseen entities controlling them like pieces on a chessboard? Perhaps the lull earlier in the night was them halting their attack to organize into larger waves. Angelika mentioned there weren’t more heathens than usual. What if—

A crunch in the night.

Dimitry’s head shot back.

He saw nothing. Nothing except the frantic commotion around Malten’s northwestern walls several kilometers away. Crawlers clawed up at the battlements and swiped at the knights circling them, who charged in upon their steeds to bash their massive rock hammers into a spherical core. White smoke rose from a carapaced devil, who continued to ram into the wall despite countless explosions and blue blood pooling from its decapitated neck. Fliers attacked in formation, one occasionally dying midair only to crash into a crowd of shrieking sorceresses.

For fuck’s sake.

They had enough shit to deal with. Dimitry couldn’t burden them with another raid. He briefly paid his respects to every heroic warrior before swinging the last set of bombs onto a tree as if they were bolas.

In groups of five, cast iron orbs hung from the boughs of withered oaks, swaying with every gale like upside-down cluster balloons at a hectic midnight carnival. Intertwined suturing thread tethered sets of bombs together and around a thick branch. Four such clusters surrounded Dimitry, forming the corners of a lopsided quadrilateral half the size of a basketball court.

The idea came to Dimitry upon realizing his only armaments were surgical tools and a chest of bombs. Without the manpower to cover them with sticky lomnent and toss them onto heathens before they reached the walls, Dimitry considered deploying them like land mines.

But that wouldn’t work.

Ground-level blasts from low explosives like black powder would do little more than chip away at dense stone like that of a carapaced devil’s leg. Most bombs would probably be crushed underfoot instead. Even if the payload detonated successfully, the shrapnel couldn’t pierce thick stone, let alone strike a flying devil with enough momentum to deal damage. The only way bombs could harm heathens was with a direct hit to their thinly shielded cores.

Unfortunately, heathen cores hovered at least three meters off the ground. That was why Dimitry suspended explosives off of trees directly in the path of the approaching heathen raid. The bombs dangled at the same level as a crawling or carapaced’ devil’s core. Once the enemy passed through, Angelika, Elze, and Leona would cast ignia on each cluster, setting off every detonation from the relative safety of Malten’s walls. The distance would eliminate any chance of friendly fire while dealing maximum damage.

But Dimitry’s trap wasn’t ready.

Not yet.

Until the heathens marched close enough, Dimitry couldn’t ice the cake. The last addition, the one that would obliterate his enemies with frightening force, had a duration too short to use in advance.

So he waited.

He waited while the horde stomped closer; the ground shaking with adrenaline-spiking ferocity. If Precious were with him and not sleeping in the cathedral, she’d probably be shrieking for him to flee.

“Hey!” A silhouette much like Angelika’s frantically waved from atop Malten’s western gatehouse fifty meters away. “You shitting yourself out there?!”

“Not yet!” Dimitry lied, waving back. “Just watch for my signal and be ready!”

“Don’t die!”

“I’ll try not to!”

“Good!”

Angelika wasn’t the best motivational speaker. Whether their brief interaction left Dimitry alert or anxious was unclear. His teeth chattered, his arms shook, and his eyes tracked the heathens stampeding closer only to discover something severely wrong.

The flying devils flew ahead of the raid, swerving to the sides, rapidly enclosing from all sides.

They would reach Dimitry in moments! That wasn’t what Angelika told him to expect! She said fliers stayed with the group until the raid had reached Malten’s walls.

“Get the fuck out of there!” Angelika’s distant scream echoed in the night.

Leona and Elze yelled equally foreboding warnings.

Dimitry couldn’t abide. If he fled now, Malten would fall. Stalling the fliers until the entire heathen raid entered the blast zone was his best bet. With a trembling hand, he grabbed ten pure vol pellets from beneath his red and gold uniform.

When the kneecap of the tortoise slammed into a collapsed cottage fifty paces away, and a dozen fliers soared close enough to launch projectiles, Dimitry consumed a pellet.

“Accelall.”

The heathens’ advance slowed to a crawl. Many stone feathers neared with the velocities of toddlers’ baseball pitches. The tremors of twenty land-based heathens’ stomping rumbled deep and protracted.

Dimitry dashed around the blast zone, sidestepping feathers pummeling into dirt in front and beside him, corrosive blue puddles forming wherever they landed. He hopped around the blood while monitoring the carapaced devil.

It too did not behave as he had hoped.

A massive tortoise leg, movement protracted and powerful, decimated a tree upholding a bomb cluster. All five cast iron orbs shattered beneath monstrous stone flippers.

Shit!

If Dimitry waited much longer, he wouldn’t have a single bomb left! He tightened his grip around the pure vol pellets, sliding beneath a swiping crawler’s leg to reach a bomb cluster hanging from a thick branch. “Accelall.”

Three pellets surged through his arm as feverish heat flushed across his body.

Dimitry ignored the discomfort and darted under the carapaced devil, which pummeled its torso into the ground a moment too late to crush him, to reach the second bomb cluster. “Accelall.”

Feedback seared through his limbs like electrocautery pens when he touched the last. “Accelall.”

Leaving time-accelerated explosives behind him, Dimitry limped away from the crawling devils chasing him. He forced his drained body into a jog, then a sprint, regaining his balance as he rushed to the safety of Malten’s western gatehouse.

The wobbling terrain, an escalating migraine, and his overindulgence in vol made him lean over to retch. This evening’s salmon roast poured from his mouth. Dimitry spat out the sour remnants and continued running.

Right before he entered Malten’s gatehouse, Dimitry grabbed another pellet. He imagined double-bonded oxygen atoms accepting vol’s energy and releasing it in a burst of light. “Illumina!”

Dispersed specks of fluorescent blue light, the signal flare, shot from his palm and merged with the green sparks of the night of repentance as they rose into the sky.

Something terrifying erupted behind him. Slow and deep vibrations rocked the ground like a magnitude eight earthquake. A bellowing blast crashed into Dimitry’s ears as if to rupture his tympanic membranes and murder every hair cell on his cochlea.

The explosion Angelika, Elze, and Leona had set off with ignia.

A glance back revealed a blurry image of a flier with shrapnel-shattered wings plummeting to the ground. A crawler lacking limbs. And a carapaced devil oozing blood through countless chinks in its shell.

Overwhelming relief coursed through Dimitry.

Muffled hoots cheered from the battlements above.

The carapaced devil raised its head to the sky.

95. Last-Ditch Defense

Ground-shattering quakes more powerful than any before rocked Malten’s streets, and plumes of white smoke pulsed unnaturally across the sky.

Saphiria’s heart skipped a beat. She knew not what calamity struck the western gatehouse, if the city would remain standing after tonight, yet she could not stop. The gangsters who assaulted Dimitry’s chemistry laboratory were escaping.

She suppressed her worries and continued her mad dash across Malten.

Leandra held out her palm.

Without a word, exhaust coalesced around Saphiria’s legs like green mists, and seemingly endless vigor propelled her every stride. Her pace more than doubled—the effects of a court sorceress’ hastia.

Awe welled within Saphiria. “Where to?”

“Those vermin escaped to the east!” Leandra vaulted over a panicked man’s shoulder. “I believe they seek to escape through the gatehouse and into the wilds.”

A prudent plan. Most devils emerged from the ocean to the west or from the northern lands, leaving the wilds east of Malten safer than the city itself. Her targets would fare comfortably once they fled beyond the wall.

“These vermin are organized,” Saphiria said.

“Indeed.”

“Does Mother confront gangs often?”

“Gangs?” Leandra shouted between heavy breaths, her words barely audible amongst the rush. “No. Only lowly scoundrels like these and the bandits that pillage the countryside. The occasional hedge knight as well.”

Saphiria bit her lip. Yet another nuisance ransacking her home, and few seemed to know they existed.

But she did now.

Buildings melded into dark green blurs as they flashed past, and the utterances of observers became meaningless whispers upon hammering winds that blew into Saphiria’s hood with terrifying force. The walls ahead grew taller as they neared.

But when the gatehouse came into view, the doors stood shut, and the portcullis was lowered. Not a gangster in sight. Only two archers watched down from the battlements.

“You!” Leandra yelled.

“M-madam Leandra?” one archer mumbled and knelt. The other stumbled while following his example.

“Speak quickly. Have you seen four cloaked men approach?”

Both archers pointed south.

Saphiria and Leandra pivoted, white bricks rushing by.

A rope ladder brought their sprint to a halt. It hung from an unguarded stretch of wall wedged between the eastern and castle districts. Three men stood on the battlements, tossing shattered vials and rusted iron plates to the forest beyond the city.

Their haul didn’t resemble Dimitry’s technology. Did they burglarize the chemistry laboratory in vain, with Dimitry moving his black powder manufacturing equipment in anticipation of this?

Saphiria glanced back. “I’m taking one alive for questioning. Don’t cast ignia and cover me.”

“You mustn’t endang—”

Leandra’s protest faded amongst deafening winds as Saphiria dashed away. Her palm gripped Father’s knife, but she didn’t throw it yet. Alerting the enemy now would lower her odds of preserving a witness. She had to get closer.

Saphiria jumped up and latched onto the ladder’s roughly hewn rungs, climbing with massive leaps.

A gangster looked down. “Sorceress!” He glanced over the wall. “Go, go! You know what to do with my share!”

“And mine!”

“I vow to Zera herself!” someone yelled from beyond the city walls, their voice growing distant.

All three gangsters grabbed crude longbows from the battlements.

One notched an arrow, but before he could launch it, his belly tore from his chest, bloody entrails bursting onto the battlements, the stench of raw excrement fouling the air.

Praising Leandra’s well-timed dropia, Saphiria swung from the ladder and latched onto the wall. She threw her dagger into the furthest man’s heart.

An arrow whizzed towards her forehead but clanged against a protectia barrier, dropping with an iron rattle.

The last gangster dropped his bow and stabbed forward with an arrow.

Saphiria twirled around the makeshift weapon. She grabbed his arm and tossed the gangster over her shoulder.

His face slammed into white brick.

She pressed her knee to his neck and looked to the forest.

A horse cantered between trees towards emerald horizons. Atop the animal was a cloaked man carrying two full sacks over his shoulders. The curvatures of his loot hinted that glass shards and assorted debris lay inside.

Saphiria absorbed a vol pellet, snapped the head of an arrow from its shaft, and fit the barbed iron head into her hand.

“Propelia.”

The arrowhead launched from her palm and lodged into the cloaked figure’s back. He shouted incomprehensible slurs as he disappeared into moonlit woodlands.

Saphiria clenched her fist as he escaped. Blatant thievery, children forced into assaulting the hospital, the public murder of royal guards.

Malten was ailing.

And she would neglect her duty as princess no longer.

After the blast, Dimitry kept running. Even as the world swerved and his head rang and lungs heaved and a shaky ground sought to disrupt his balance, he darted through ajar gatehouse gates, which sluggishly shut behind him.

Vision blurry, he clambered up a gatehouse tower.

A low and loud screech echoed from the wilderness.

In an instant, the supersonic crackles of voltech rifles regained their crispness, the movements of three sorceresses atop the battlements hastened, and Dimitry stumbled under the pressure of a worsening vestibular migraine. His arm shielded his face as he fell.

“That was fucking awesome!”

“Is that… the Jade Surgeon’s holy power?”

“I-I think so. I still don’t understand how it works.”

“Hey! Can you hear me?!”

Someone pulled his arm.

Dimitry vomited green and yellow bile onto tattered boots and looked up to see a sorceress, curly red-brown locks falling to her waist.

She aimed at an overhead flying devil. “Propelia.” A lead pellet soundlessly shot from Angelika’s no longer glowing rifle.

The beast plummeted into the roof of what was once a luxurious tailor shop.

Angelika kicked his puke off her shoes. “You alright?!”

“F-fine!”

“Then get up!”

Dimitry stumbled to his knees and glanced sideways.

The carapaced devil rammed its shell into the gatehouse, and the battlements quaked. Blood oozed from countless pores in its vast shell and neck. Further back, nine flying devils lay disassembled on the ground alongside twelve crawlers. Several more limped or dragged across the dirt, swinging their remaining limbs forward. Around twenty heathens still lived.

If the carapaced devil broke the gatehouse gate—which remained damaged since last night’s raid—how many would die? Crawling devils would maim everyone huddling on the streets!

A catastrophe he had to prevent.

Hoping to cast accelall once more, Dimitry used Angelika’s arm to pull himself up. He reached for a pure vol pellet, only for her to slap it out of his hand.

“Oh no you don’t!”

“You need—”

“No! You need to stay still and behave! I’m not letting the hope of Malten die from overload. Let the professionals do their damn job!”

Although Dimitry sympathized with Angelika, accelall was the only way they would survive tonight. Between all of them dying or only him getting hurt, the choice was simple.

“Dimitry!”

His head twisted to the side.

Approaching him, Leona cast protectia to thwart a barrage of incoming stone feathers. She threw aside her red robe to reveal the leather armor beneath. “Hurry!”

His eyes shot open. Of course!

The carapaced devil whipped its blue-streaked shell into the gatehouse, and the battlements shook once more.

A panicked shriek came from a nearby watchtower.

Who was that?

Dimitry ignored the question, instead fitting his palms onto the cores of Leona’s upper back. “This might hurt!”

“Hurry!”

“Accelall!”

Four vol pellets vanished from Leona’s hand. She grimaced, enduring the spell’s feedback just as she did when channeling accelall enchantments onto voltech rifles. Her arms fell limply to her sides.

Angelika and Elze shared a glance, and after exchanging indecipherable time-accelerated babbles, aimed through holes in the battlements. Their rifles thundered with every lead ball fired.

Elze purged flying devils and carapaced devils.

Angelika punched hole after hole into the carapaced devil’s neck as it slammed into the walls.

“Jade Surgeon!” a man shouted.

An ambulance ran closer, carrying a sorceress on a stretcher. She moaned and squirmed as blisters formed on her arm, abdomen, and leg, some peeling away like thin rubber to reveal bright pink dermis beneath. Second and third-degree burns covered a fourth of her body.

Electrolyte imbalances and dehydration would kill her soon.

Despite inflamed organs and dizzying nausea, Dimitry displayed the calmest facade he could muster. “What happened?”

The bald and muscular giant Milk shook his head.

His paramedic co-worker dragged his eyes away from the carapaced devil. “A f-flyin’ devil popped right over madam sorceress’s head. We mopped up all the c-corrupted blood, but—”

Stressed metal resounded from below.

That of hinges.

Massive gatehouse doors squealed across their iron frame before crashing onto west main street with a deafening metallic rattle. Crawling devils darted onto the road and past a smoldering field hospital. Flying devils provided air support from above.

The heathens had breached Malten.

“No! No!” Leona shouted. “Propelia!” She shot a crawling devil limping between buildings, two remaining legs pushing it forward, but the bastard kept trucking on, leaving a trail of viscous blue liquid wherever it went.

Another magic-purging screech resounded from the carapaced devil, which rammed its shell into the city walls only to be decapitated moments later. Endless blood poured from the neck. The blue liquid seemed to want to drown the city. Although the mountainous beast tried to squeeze through the gatehouse, its movements swiftly came to a halt.

Angelika’s movements returned to normal. Without a moment to spare, she rushed to the downed sorceress’s side and grabbed her hand. “Cedany! Can you hear me?!”

Cedany responded with hushed murmurs.

“She’s worried about her grandmother,” Elze said. “She lives near the market square.”

“I’ll kill any heathen that so much as looks in her direction!” Angelika rushed down the gatehouse stairwell. “Don’t you worry about a fucking thing!”

“Wait!” Leona pointed to sorceresses rushing in from the northwestern battlements. “The reinforcements are almost here! We should wait!”

Her words came too late. Angelika was already dashing across heathen blood-drenched roads and towards the market square, where over a hundred refugees stampeded past stalls and buildings, hoping to flee incoming beasts.

Elze chased after Angelika, sparing a moment to glance back. “Jade Surgeon. Take care of our friend.”

“I will.”

The sorceress hastily bowed and rushed away.

Leona’s fingers fiddled with the reflectia fabric around her rifle, which had yet to regain its glow.

“Aren’t you going to go with them?” Dimitry asked.

“They can only fight because I’m here with you.”

Dimitry sighed a relieved breath. He couldn’t watch his back and treat a patient at the same time. “In that case, follow me. Milk, bring the stretcher downstairs and help Raltz and the others make a path of neutralized heathen’s blood through the gatehouse. Signal the knights to come. Angelika and Elze will need all the support they can get. Let’s move!”

Angelika pressed a hand to her legs and muttered a chant through heavy breaths. “Hastia!”

Her pace quickened, but not by enough.

Two crawling devils darted towards the crowded market square. People were trying to escape, but the congestion provided little space, leaving many trampled or trapped. The prelude to a fucking massacre.

Angelika had to stall the heathens. She absorbed two vol pellets and held out her hand, focusing the power surging through her arms and chest into a wide yet thin barrier thirty strides away. “Protectia!”

One of the six-legged assholes rammed into an unseen wall—only green mists of exhaust hinting at the barrier’s existence—and rolled wayside into a shoemaker’s shop, the impact shattering a central limb.

The second crawler waited for the barrier to dissipate before proceeding.

Shit.

For as long as Angelika could remember, the morons would rush forward even after watching their asshole friends fall into a trap. What the fuck was going on? First a lull in the night, then flying devils started moving in squadrons, and now crawlers predicted the future. Were they actually getting smarter?

Or worse.

Maybe they were learning.

Frantic refugees shoved aside a woman, who tightened her grip around the baby she cradled as both fell to the ground. The woman’s eyes slammed shut as a heartrending plea for Celeste’s guidance escaped her mouth.

Approaching her was a crawling devil. The front limbs rotated into sharp horizontal pincers, slicing like overlapping scissor blades while drawing nearer.

Angelika clenched her jaw.

Now was a poor time for bullshit rumination.

She had to focus!

Her gaze fell to the rifle cradled in her arms. The golden glow of reflectia still hadn’t returned since the crawling devil purged the magic, meaning Accelall’s enchantment fared little better. Her weapon was useless. A single unenchanted rifle wouldn’t cull the threat in time, and casting magic directly on a heathen was ineffective.

The circumstances necessitated a swifter solution.

Angelika’s eyes scanned the surroundings for environmental weapons. A lack of roofing to collapse onto the advancing crawler eliminated dropia, freezia couldn’t shatter the stone of a dry core, and liquefying the road with meltia to trap its legs would take too long for her alone.

A single option remained.

Vol pellet burning into Angelika’s arms, the heaviness of feedback accumulating further, she targeted a stretch of road twenty strides away. “Slipia!”

For a moment, the crawler’s sharp and slender legs glided across the street, no longer able to support a heavy body. It fell sideways. The bottom pincer snapped off, sliding forward, and the spherical core crashed to the ground, newly developed chinks spluttering heathen’s blood everywhere.

Angelika smirked, proud of her work, but her joy was short-lived.

The flying devils soared back towards her.

And the crawler that crashed into the cobbler’s shop was clambering to its spear-like feet.

She absorbed another vol pellet and aimed at the roof. “Dropia!”

Super-heavy bricks pummeled into the bastard’s body, pulverizing him into rubble and flowing blue blood creeks.

“That’s right! Stay the fuck down!”

A volley of feathers.

Unable to grab a pellet in time, Angelika raised a hand to shield her face.

“Protectia,” Elze’s voice chanted from behind.

Stone projectiles shattered against an unseen barrier in front of Angelika’s face, the blood within the quills splashing to the sides.

Before she could thank her savior, the flying devils split into two: a group that strafed towards Elze, and another headed for the market square.

“Go!” shouted Elze. “I’ll manage!”

Angelika suppressed the dread in her gut, which warned that she was leaving a comrade to die, and rushed ahead. She cast as many protectia barriers as she could, saving all the lives she could, refugees and citizens alike. But she wouldn’t last. Feedback burned through her body, taking its toll after the seventy-eight pure vol pellets she consumed that night.

And then the crackle of a voltech rifle. And another. Dozens shot in volleys.

Lead ball after lead ball murdered flying devil after flying devil.

Sorceresses emerged from alleys, the windows of buildings, and across the market square.

Reinforcements!

Then came the rhythmic beats of hooves hitting the ground.

Angelika’s head shot back to find dozens of knights riding closer. One rode ahead of Elze to absorb a wave of feathers with his green-glowing steel breastplate and helmet, while others spread throughout Malten, slaughtering crawling devils that lagged behind or diverged.

A man whose lustrous armor bore the red and gold crest of the Kuhn family approached her. Valter held up his rock hammer. “Vogel! Where’s the rest of the raid?”

A grin floated onto Angelika’s face. “They’re fucking dead! We killed the bastards!”

“Is that what—” The dense end of Valter’s weapon slammed into the core of a crawling devil struggling to stand, its legs twitching one last time before lying forever still. “Is that what the earthquakes and the thunderous rage was all about?”

“Blame that on Dimitry!”

“I’ll be sure to send the Jade Surgeon my warmest regards!” Valter laughed heartily as he rode away.

One by one, victorious shouts echoed from every corner of Malten. Iron hilts banged into walls and buildings and carved brick roads as thousands celebrated despite the most ferocious night of repentance this city had ever seen.

They were alive.

Realizing she too survived, the frantic fluttering within Angelika’s gut bubbled and morphed into an exhilaration that rejuvenated her entire body with an overwhelming burst of vitality. Rifle in hand, her fist pumped into the air. “Fuck yeah!”

As she celebrated, yelling every obscenity that came to mind, a gentle tug pulled back on her leather vest.

Angelika turned around.

A woman knelt by her boots. Baby clutched to her chest, she was the same one that almost died to the bladed legs of a crawling devil moments ago. She bowed. “I am in your eternal debt, madam sorceress.”

The man behind her knelt as well. “My savior!”

“Celeste guide you and the apostle!”

“Long live the kingdom loved by Zera!”

Watching a sea of refugees express their gratitude, the euphoria of victory drained from Angelika. She stood paralyzed. They were supposed to be the leeches that consumed Malten’s resources and crippled the kingdom, plotting to take all before moving on to the next country, and yet, a sensation snug and loving and cozy welled within her.

Mind desperately searching for the proper response, her gaze darted from a kowtowing man to his kneeling neighbor. What could she do to end their praise? To regain her dignity? If someone saw a combat sorceress crumbling under the gratitude of refugees, the resulting gossip would tarnish her family’s reputation.

However, despite every attempt, Angelika could not muster the esteemed posture of a Vogel. Her heart was melting, and she wanted to shout that none of them deserved to suffer. That Malten nearly ended up like the crumbling kingdoms they escaped from. That tonight, Angelika could have become a refugee herself.

That she was sorry for disparaging them.

But her quivering lips managed not a word.

Tears welled in her eyes, and she turned away, hoping no one saw them. “I um… I hafta go. The apostle needs me. Please be safe.”

Her forearm mopped her face as Angelika ran back towards the western gatehouse.

96. Apostle of the Damned

Leona aimed her rifle towards the sky, twitching at the slightest shuffle and sound. Although victory chants resounded across Malten moments ago, she could never be sure that every heathen had died. Especially considering one lay five paces away.

Front two legs shattered beneath its core, bright blue blood poured from holes in a crawling devil's body. The corrupted creature had lived a short while ago. It squeezed into the dead-end alley Leona defended and probed inside with long, sharp, and slender claws.

While the sight of a rabid beast pushing closer shook her every limb, an encounter an enchantress’ training never prepared her for, Leona had shot the crawler out of necessity. She was responsible for the lives of three people.

One was a surgeon with pale green eyes. He poured bucket after bucket of water onto a dying sorceress while an Einheart baroness’ daughter—a woman Leona once met at a banquet—refilled every receptacle at the only external well near west main street. Surrounded by the three stone walls of a narrow alley and a crawling devil, neither they nor Leona could escape.

"Keep the water coming, Lili!"

Pink ribbon bobbing at the end of her long ponytail as she tugged the chain of the well windlass, the noblewoman heaved for air. "Yes, Mr. Dimitry!"

Leona vowed to keep them alive. Fingers trembling around the voltech rifle's bumpy grip and iron barrel, she scoured brightening skies.

Something large and blue soared far beyond gray clouds, darting towards the ocean, but drowsiness after a sleepless day suggested the culprit was a hallucination. Not a single flying devil in sight.

Leona couldn’t suppress the urge to glance down at the alley floor.

Cedany lay undressed on a leather sheet. Bright pink flesh covered most of her left arm, leg, and belly, and clear liquids leaked from patches of loose skin peeling away like overmoist pastry dough. Some of her burns oozed goo thicker than a rottcoiler's slime trail, while others were whiter and drier than untanned pigskin. Snot dripped from the sorceress’ nose as tears streamed from her eyes. Cedany whimpered with every splash of water across her body.

What if Angelika was out on the streets, similarly injured?

The thought made Leona queasy.

"You alright?" Dimitry asked.

"F-fine! Focus on Cedany!"

He rummaged through a box of tools and retrieved an obscure knife with a rounded edge. "Lili, keep irrigating."

"Yes, Mr. Dimitry!"

Unable to suppress her nausea as Lady Lili and Dimitry did, Leona felt shame. But her dread—one so visceral that her skin seemed to tighten around her body—held merit. Massive heathen burns were said to feel as though the corruption consumed the victim from the outside, blistering heat digging deeper into the body, searing like the fumes of a bread oven. Watching her friend suffer so excruciatingly made Leona queasy. But she couldn’t idle anymore. Without the threat of heathens, she yearned to help however she could.

Leona knelt beside Cedany and cupped her unblistered hand. "Hey. You’ll be fine. You'll be playing the lute for your grandmother again soon! We’ll even go have your dress made at the tailor’s just like you wanted!"

She glanced past Leona’s face to stare at empty skies above.

"Don't worry about a thing. The Jade Surgeon himself is taking care of you!"

Cedany's lips moved, but her words didn’t manifest into sound.

Pretending to understand, Leona nodded. She smiled despite never knowing of a sorceress that had survived wounds so grievous. Body-wide burns from a heathen's blood made people swell up. Eventually, fluids would pour from flesh like ale spilling from a fallen mug—soaking the bed and floors. The danger of the job was one reason combat sorceresses couldn't find suitors. Not only were most the second daughters of a family, rarely inheriting land or property of their own, but they often died during heathen raids. Combat sorceresses didn't make for reliable wives.

Leona prayed Cedany wouldn't end up the same way. But if she did, a restful passing would be for the best. "Dimitry."

Cutting away peeling skin with his strange knife, the surgeon glanced up, offering an encouraging smile. "You're doing great. Keep talking to her."

"Shall I put Cedany to sleep?"

"Although I'd like that as well, unfortunately, we can't. I need her awake for a procedure. Try to keep her conscious."

"How about relaxia?" Leona asked. "If only to numb the pain."

Brows furrowed, Dimitry paused. "If you’re sure you can numb just the injuries and not the belly, head, or throat, please do."

Leona reached into the vol compartment within her leather vest and grabbed a cold and smooth pellet. She targeted Cedany's burnt limbs and envisioned them dropping limply to the floor, all sensation extinguished. "Relaxia."

Cedany's eyelids fell, and her jaw unclenched. Her lips curved into a fatigued smile before losing their strength.

"Well done," Dimitry said, "but I still need her awake."

"Leave it to me." Although Leona crouched in an alley smelling of bedpan fluids, guarding Dimitry with her life, doubts regarding his claims to apostlehood and Church-like magic invaded her mind. Even if Dimitry wasn’t with the Church, she had no guarantee that he wouldn't make the city rely on his spells and knowledge only to one day abandon them all.

Leona wanted to trust Dimitry just as Angelika did, especially since he had saved her mother’s life, but the echoes of the Church's betrayal haunted her still. Their benevolent deeds had earned the trust of all, and their sudden disappearance caused the Gestalt Wars.

Her father left to fight a prolonged battle.

When they learned he would never return, her mother and Angelika lapsed into non-responsiveness.

While no one else could work and to combat the prevailing despair that had threatened to collapse her household, Leona spent much of her adolescence doing every chore and running the shop in a state of forced positivity. All because of the Church. Fearing a return to that horrific past, she rejected any prospect of a blessed future.

But not all was lost.

There was something.

It wasn't salvation, nor was it trust, yet whenever Leona recalled those thunderous roars and purifying clouds of smoke, a miraculous blast that obliterated twenty heathens within a blink, something inside her stirred. A strength without an obvious source. What was it?

From beyond the alley, a horse’s metal hooves galloped closer.

The crawling devil plugging the alley twitched.

A knight's rock hammer slammed down onto the heathen's spherical core, which burst into bright blue guts that scattered in every direction.

Leona held out her palm. "Protectia!"

Heathen’s blood splattered onto the unseen barrier instead of coating and killing the temporary residents of the alley.

Dimitry’s eyes opened wide. "That's a hell of a reflex."

Lili curtsied. "I am in your debt, madam sorceress."

Although Leona was livid at a reckless knight and impressed by herself, she let neither emotion show. The Vogels kept their composure at all times. "Think nothing of it."

“Angelika definitely would’ve used that as an opportunity to brag,” Dimitry said. “You’re missing out.”

Leona sighed. Perhaps the Vogels weren’t as honorable as she had hoped. However, despite Angelika’s flaws, Leona could only worry about her sister’s safety. The hotheaded idiot ran off to fight heathens alone.

Hoping to get a glimpse of Angelika, Leona glanced back at the mangled crawling devil. She stood on the tips of her toes to see past the bulky core, yet the gargantuan corpse occluded her vision of west main street.

Many unseen pairs of boots marched closer. They stopped in front of the alley.

"Madam," a heavy voice much like Elze's said, "this is where the Jade Surgeon requested I lead you."

"Step back!"

"Yes, madam!" forty ladies chanted in unison.

As if completely weightless after a powerful floatia, the crawling devil slid back across the carved stone pavement and out of the alley. Holding the beast's leg was a wrinkled hand protruding from a red sleeve with gold cuffs—the robe of the guildmistress. Mira strutted closer.

Behind her, many concerned sorceresses peeked into the alley. Their concerned gazes locked onto Cedany.

Paying respect to her master, Leona knelt. "Madam."

Mira did not stop to greet anyone. Thinly veiled distress in the form of a scowl, she instead stood over the wounded sorceress. "How long does my darling have to live?"

"Assuming all goes well," Dimitry said without looking up from his patient, “she'll be fine.”

“Fine?" Mira uttered.

The sorceresses gossiped with hushed yet exuberant whispers.

"Lili, we need to prevent dehydration and electrolyte imbalance before burn shock sets in. Bring me the hypertonic saline solution we've prepared for oral rehydration therapy and the wound dressing supplies. I want Milk here as well."

"Yes, Mr. Dimitry!" The freckled girl dropped her bucket and rushed out onto the street, bowing as she passed the guildmistress.

Dimitry clicked his teeth. "What I'd do for some Ringer's lactate."

Mira's head shot back towards her sorceresses. "Bring me this Ringer and his lactate at once!"

Receiving an order they didn't know how to process, the sorceresses argued.

Leona stood equally confused.

"That's not what I meant," Dimitry said. "Let me worry about the lactate, Mira."

"Belay that order!" In a humbling display, the guildmistress crouched beside him in the filthy alley. "Jade Surgeon, if you can save this girl's life, I will have a sizable sum delivered to your cathedral before noon."

"Appreciate the offer, but I already have all the motivation I need to treat her after seeing what you guys have to put up with."

"Then consider it payment for holding the western gatehouse in my absence. Your so-called chemistry proved quite inspiring if I may say so myself."

Dimitry chuckled. "Maybe inspiring from far away. I thought I was going to die."

"Pssst!" a familiar voice hissed too loudly.

Leona glanced back.

With ruffled red-brown curls and smeared dirt beneath her eyes and across her pinchable cheeks, Angelika hopped to make herself seen amongst the crowd of combat sorceresses. "Is! Everyone! Fine?!”

Relieved to see her sister safe, Leona exhaled a deep breath. Then, upon realizing Angelika was making a fool of herself in front of everyone and the guildmistress, she pressed a finger to her lips and waved her away.

Angelika flared her nostrils and vanished from sight.

"Excuse me!" Lili shoved past the ladies while carrying a small box in her arms. The noblewoman knelt beside Dimitry, passed him a bottle of honey, and held a glass jar of clear liquid to Cedany's lips. "Madam sorceress, try to drink.”

Dimitry lathered honey onto Cedany's burns before entombing them in woven cotton sheets. He finished with the tremendous haste of practiced hands, wrapped her exposed and shivering body with assorted blankets, and beckoned someone closer by curling his finger.

The sorceresses parted when a muscular man with a scarred face and shoulders stomped into the alley. He lowered an obscure bed to the ground, laid Cedany atop, and with the help of another man, carried her away.

"Lili," Dimitry said, "go with Milk and keep a close watch on Cedany. Just like we practiced, keep an eye out for hyperchloremic metabolic acidosis and edema."

"Yes, Mr. Dimitry!"

The sorceresses hollered optimistic cheers as Dimitry’s men carried Cedany away.

"Hold strong, darling!"

As it did through all within the alley, an optimistic energy flowed through Leona. Only now could she put words to how she felt when the mass of heathens tumbled to their deaths.

It was a feeling that marked the difference between Dimitry and the Church. Unlike them, he didn’t cure ailments or defeat the heathens with secretive methods, clutching them greedily. He taught others to wield them. Leona didn’t comprehend his magics, but she did fire Zera’s Thunder, slaughter countless devils, and help save Cedany’s life. Malten’s people relied on Dimitry as he did on them, and the wall between the divine and the commoner had tumbled down. They had become one.

The merging filled Leona with hope. Hope that Malten’s people could prevent heathens from consuming the city, hope that Malten’s people could resuscitate Angelika if she ever sustained a grievous injury, and hope that normalcy would return.

After all, how could Zera’s blessing leave when all within Malten shared it?

The carbonized stench of cindered timber and linens assaulted Dimitry’s nostrils as he rushed down west main street and towards the market square. Medical bag's leather handle squeezed in his palm, he circumnavigated crawler and flier corpses and their corrosive bright blue innards, which leaked into the crevices between carved road bricks and down the front steps of damaged stone buildings.

A small group of women, half lacking red robes, accompanied him: Angelika, Leona, and the two combat sorceresses Mira temporarily entrusted to guard him. The guildmistress learned that assailants had targeted him and incinerated his field hospital. She reasoned that if they returned to kill him, Cedany would die as well.

And she was right.

The treatment Dimitry provided Cedany was a stopgap measure. Sustaining severe alkali burns that covered thirty percent of her total body surface area, the wounded sorceress would leak many liters of fluid through burnt flesh over the coming days.

Although the hypertonic saline solution she drank eased the symptoms of burn shock, without meticulous management, high sodium levels could cause hypernatremia, hyperosmolarity, and death. Deficient serum bicarbonate leading to metabolic acidosis proved equally worrisome.

Dimitry would struggle to balance electrolytes and pH buffers without pre-prepared IV fluids or blood replacements. Not to mention potential sepsis after irrigating Cedany’s wounds with unsterilized well water. Could antibacterial preservia alone curb infection? Maybe now was a good time to develop antiviral magic.

While he wracked his brain for solutions, his gaze fixated across the city—at the plumes of white smoke rising into gray clouds from beside his hospital.

Although Lili informed him that refugees had besieged the cathedral and that royal guards and watchmen stopped the assault, Dimitry could only brood over how many employees, patients, and uninvolved citizens sustained injuries in a rebellion against the 'apostle'. Were they dying without him around to provide treatment? His staff lacked the training to treat anything beyond a scratch without his guidance.

Regarding the cathedral, however, one matter concerned Dimitry more than any other.

Saphiria.

He asked her to watch over the hospital, but now he regretted the decision. What if Saphiria got hurt trying to end the panic? A single girl, even as competent as her, couldn’t defend against a rampaging horde. Unfortunately, she wasn’t someone who would retreat before fulfilling her promises.

Hoping Saphiria didn’t overdo it, Dimitry thrust his worries aside. He had to treat as many people as he could. The refugees that clustered in the market square while crawling devils crept closer and flying devils swooped overhead had the highest risk of fatal trauma.

Dimitry’s proximity to them and the potential urgency of their injuries made them the optimal candidates for resuscitation. With frantic fluttering in his gut, his pace hastened.

A pair of watchmen emerged from an alley, hauling a massive, bleeding stone leg. One dropped his cargo and knelt as Dimitry passed.

Unable to carry the stone limb alone, his co-worker teetered to the side. "Quit fucking around and help me!"

"No cussin'! Them's the apostle and the sorceresses who stopped the heathen raid."

"Horse shit. Five people can’t kill all that."

"You heard the miraculous thunder, dinchya? Besides, Lord Kuhn said so 'imself."

“Eh...”

The first watchman lowered his head to the ground, and the second followed.

Although religious praise made Dimitry feel off, like a salesman offloading malfunctioning cars onto unwitting customers at a shady dealership, he needed to expedite his plans. The sooner people accepted him as the apostle, the sooner he could bring about sweeping reforms without fear of backlash.

Among galloping horses, the shouting of emergency workers, and the reverent mumblings of kowtowing onlookers, another sound could be heard. Irritated boots pounding the stone road.

More assassins?

Dimitry's head jolted back.

A woman with frazzled blue hair bundled into a formal updo and a book pressed against her chest stomped closer. Two royal guards jogged beside her.

Leona knelt. "My Lady."

Angelika and the other sorceresses bent the knee as well.

Realizing his pursuer was the Queen's stewardess and that she probably wouldn't kill him, Dimitry exhaled a trapped breath.

Klaire caught up. She grabbed his shoulder and heaved for air. "Jade-Jade Surgeon!"

"Good morning, Klaire.”

"Do you realize what I went through when—" She glanced back at the sorceresses trailing behind them, and her voice lowered to a sharp whisper. "Why didn’t you tell me you were going to do that?!"

Dimitry's brows furrowed, but he soon recalled the reason for her anger. The terrified shriek that rang from a nearby gatehouse tower—it was Klaire’s. She was there to accompany Leylani so the myrmidon diplomat could witness humanity's war against heathens up close.

In his panic, Dimitry forgot about the task he assigned to the cowardly countess. “Sorry about that. The explosion was unplanned.”

"Unplanned? Unplanned?!" Lips quivering, Klaire's frown fluctuated between indignant rage and mental breakdown. "When the ground shook and scrap and dirt and whatever else flew in through the window, I thought I would die!"

"Good to see you healthy then. Where's Leylani?"

"Is that all you care for?" she hissed, struggling to keep pace with him. "What if I was hurt? Are you not a healer?!"

Dimitry didn't slow down. "You certainly seem full of energy to me."

Klaire mumbled something under her breath. "I had a trusted knight escort her to the river. She's swimming home to Waira."

"Did she say anything?"

"Aside from 'good' and 'fun' and 'home', I'm-I'm not sure. I think she was laughing when the fliers slammed into the walls and burst into bits! Those pointy teeth of hers when she smiles are terrifying. Terrifying!"

With his every facility catching fire and heathens breaching Malten's walls, Dimitry took solace in something going to plan. He seemed to have satisfied Leylani's curiosity. Hopefully, her testimony would convince the aquatic demons of humanity's merits. The fish and sulfur on their territory were integral to Malten's survival.

A group of mounted men, bantering upon their horses, cantered closer and rode alongside Dimitry.

One in a bright red cloak removed their steel helmet to reveal a teenager's face. "Lady Hoffman. The Most Reverend Jade Surgeon."

"The apostle isn't archbishop Fronika," an older knight said. "He has a different title."

"Your Wonderfulness?" another joked.

Laughing, all but one of the five men watched Dimitry as if expecting an answer.

Dimitry didn't have the luxury of worrying about titles. He had a better use for the cavalry than exchanging pleasantries. "Are you gentlemen willing to fulfill a sacred duty?"

The older knight lowered his head. "Give us the word, Bringer of Miracles."

"I need you to search the edges of the city for anyone hurt. Rich or poor, bring them to the cathedral."

A knight who watched silently until now pointed to the others. "You three search along the western walls. Schwarz and I will cover the north.”

"Yes, Lord Meier!"

The men galloped away.

Thankful that the heathen extermination earned him pull with nobles instead of scorn, Dimitry marched into the market square to focus on the most urgent task: treating patients that may have been hurt during the wall breach.

Full of abandoned stalls and refugees recovering from shock, chatter erupted from all corners of the venue.

Wrapped in a torn blanket, a man and woman hugged, exchanging whispers. They looked up and fell silent when Dimitry and his entourage passed.

A watchman, splashing water onto the blue entrails of a dead flying devil, dropped his bucket. He fell to his knees and mumbled inaudible prayers.

A rift split around Dimitry as he ventured further into the market.

Angelika, her cheeks red and head darting in every direction, huddled behind Leona.

Two pre-adolescent boys nestled beneath a collapsed stall awning. The elder's dirty hands, which divvied a small chunk of horse bread, froze. His younger companion didn't complain about not receiving his share. Both boys watched on instead, eyes gleaming.

People retreated to form a path even as hundreds stumbled in from adjacent streets. However, despite the rising population density—over a thousand civilians and disenfranchised refugees—the atmosphere grew quieter. So quiet that one could hear the rustling of cotton fabric amongst interspersed murmurs.

Gazes brimming with hope, they all watched Dimitry.

97. Warm Berry Lady

Noon had come and gone since the night of repentance. Not a minute passed without Dimitry’s thoughts returning to the hundreds of refugees in the market square. Despite lacking basic needs, they had watched him, eyes brimming with hope.

So much untapped potential.

Most present had a profession before they had fled their homes. Farmers, watchmen, merchants, weavers, cobblers, stonemasons, brewers, blacksmiths, miners, forge workers. If focused, their talents could lead to a technological revolution that resurrected Malten.

Unfortunately, Dimitry couldn’t harness that potential. He hadn’t the infrastructure, the land, or the stability. Even if he somehow employed everyone, repurposing churches and monasteries to house every refugee and their workshops, more people would arrive next month. And the month after that.

Malten simply couldn’t provide. The overcrowded city lacked space. Dimitry’s only other option was to set up shop in the countryside, but building an army to defend vast stretches of land under siege by heathens would take months, and commandeering already stable territory from nobles would invite war. A war that neither he nor this country could survive. Not to mention that retreating to the countryside would cut him off from his sole source of income—the hospital—and leave him surrounded by potentially antagonistic parties. Someone had attacked him and his workers on the night of repentance. How much worse would he fare without Malten’s walls or the queen’s protection?

He needed a better solution.

But did such a solution exist?

Dimitry didn’t know, but as he rushed from patient to patient, treating everyone who passed through the hospital doors, his mind scrambled for a fix. He often struggled to focus on work. And there was lots of it.

While most people visiting the hospital had scrapes or minor heathen burns, likely visiting just to praise the apostle, urgent cases presented with everything from severe concussions and bone fractures to traumatic asphyxia—the result of residents trampling others as they stampeded across the city to escape the stone monstrosities that had breached Malten’s walls.

Among the deadlier casualties was a sorceress receiving regular doses of modified oral rehydration solution, a hospital employee injured in an assault, twelve refugees—five of which had passed away—and the decapitated corpse of an esteemed royal guard who died defending the chemistry lab.

A pointless death.

Thieves had raided Dimitry’s church, but all that lay within were the cracked vials and ceramic scraps he had Clewin plant to mislead anyone who tried to steal his technology. And after learning from Saphiria that terrorists were targeting his plague-curing blankets in Amphurt, he had set a backup precaution—an experimental landmine.

Dimitry thought hard about setting rigged explosives, particularly because the black powder contents could have been stolen, but he guessed correctly—ignorant assailants would detonate the mine instead. The shoddy flint and steel mechanisms were unlikely to activate with a misstep from an accidental discoverer. Only an overly curious idiot who tried to move the device or peruse its contents could trigger the blast.

His wager paid off. Dimitry discovered that such curious idiots existed, and that was what worried him most. A group of thugs couldn’t have coordinated such a well-timed heist alone. Someone controlled them behind the scenes. Who would steal technology no one wanted to buy just days ago? Was it an antagonistic lord? A foreign power? The Church? Someone else entirely?

He vowed to find out. That was why when a royal messenger requested his presence at the castle, Dimitry agreed despite endless duties.

Upon his arrival, two knights guided him to the dungeon’s twisting halls.

Without windows to vent the stench, the odors of human neglect and rotting food compounded, converting the space into pathogen birthing grounds. Cries for freedom whimpered from iron-barred cells on both sides of the rough cavern walkway, the glow of sparse lanterns illuminating the shivering lips of inmates.

The dungeon housed many more prisoners than the last time Dimitry visited. Judging by a nearby man's ghastly skin, fresh bruises, and protruding ribs, refugees comprised most of the criminals. Were they the ones that attacked the hospital and chemistry lab?

Although desperation made beasts out of the kindest men, Dimitry couldn’t sympathize with anyone who assaulted his ‘followers’ and employees. His stance wavered upon sighting a boy huddling in the corner of a crowded cell.

“You’re pitying these humans too?” a whisper came from under his uniform. “What if they’re the ones that attacked the cathedral?”

Dimitry retreated into a deserted stretch of dungeon to converse with Precious in private. “I’m surprised. I imagined you were enjoying the riots while I was out there trying to stay alive.”

“Well, I was until people started breaking down the doors to kill everyone inside, including me! My nap was ruined.”

“I know how you feel.” Dimitry massaged his eyelids, which felt heavy after weeks of interrupted sleep. “But that’s why we’re here: to make sure this never happens again.”

“How? Half the people here are praising you already. I don’t think telling them you’re the apostle is going to make them behave.”

It seemed gossip about Dimitry’s ‘miraculous’ deeds spread swiftly—even amongst prisoners. “They may praise me, but desperate people do desperate things. Besides, I think someone was egging them on.”

“I bet those angry nobles from the summit paid them to attack you. Let’s just ask Saphiria to kill them or something.”

“While not a bad idea, we have no proof it was them. Also, if someone just started randomly killing nobles, what do you think would happen?”

“They’d die?”

“Not quickly enough. Every powerful person in the kingdom would start to panic. Being the new suspicious guy in town, there’s a good chance they’ll blame me. Saphiria said their armies have hundreds if not thousands of troops each. I can’t fight them off, the queen can’t fight them off, and some of them might be more useful to me as allies than dead. We have to be smarter than that.”

“So you’re just going to let the baddies get away with it?”

“No.” He grinned. “We’ll make peace with whoever we can, round up the rest, then get rid of them while rolling out an alternate government to manage their land and prevent the anarchy that comes with suddenly masterless serfs.”

“Oh.” Precious paused. “And how are we going to do all that?”

“We’ll find out soon… I hope.”

A woman’s agonizing scream echoed from the dungeon depths.

"That's enough for now,” a distinguished voice said. “Our guest awaits."

"It is as you say, Your Royal Majesty."

Footsteps, slow and deliberate, resounded throughout the dungeon as they approached.

Four people turned a corner. Two wore yellow court sorceress robes, and a woman in front sauntered closer, straightening the black-gray hair beneath her tiara. Trailing behind Queen Amelie was a man lacking a pinkie. It was Lukas—the spymaster that hustled Dimitry when purchasing his bombs.

Dimitry still hadn’t forgiven him for that.

Walking past him, Her Royal Majesty flashed a smirk which seemed to say, 'how’d ya do it, you crazy bastard?'

A court sorceress’ amethyst eyes met his gaze. With a hand bearing the patchy scars of an old and patchy chemical burn, Leandra pointed to a reinforced door ahead.

Dimitry followed.

Lukas opened the iron door and lowered his head. "Your Royal Majesty."

Queen Amelie lifted the skirt beneath her gold-threaded mantle and stepped over the threshold.

Inside the room, six marble chairs flanked a matching marble table, which carried an illumina lamp, brass cups, and a teapot with steam wisps wafting from its snout. The silverware seemed to have been waiting for this specific meeting.

Once everyone entered the cramped space, the door creaked around its hinges and slammed shut.

The younger court sorceress pulled out a chair for Dimitry, while Leandra did the same for Queen Amelie across the table.

She sat down and glanced at Dimitry. “Tea?”

“Perhaps some other time, Your Royal Majesty. I have patients waiting for me.”

“I admire the discipline, but it would be catastrophic for the apostle to faint from tending to his flock with too much zeal. Even Celeste rested between pilgrimages.” She filled a cup with crimson liquid and pushed it forward. “And skip the honorifics.”

The all-too-familiar imagery of inexperienced nurses applying wound dressings with contaminated hands invaded Dimitry’s mind, but he suppressed the urge to run back to the hospital. “Thank you.”

After Lukas and the sorceresses received their tea as well, sipping in the quiet ambiance, Queen Amelie's expression grew grim. "How fares Sir Riquin?"

“Unfortunately,” Dimitry said, “resuscitating a royal guard who had his head splattered inside his helmet is beyond even me.”

Her crimson eyes, although stalwart and piercing, carried immeasurable fatigue. Queen Amelie’s gaze lowered. "I see."

“Wish I could say otherwise.”

“You’ve already done more than enough. Mira informed me of the sorceress under your care. Before you, she would have passed by midday.”

Yet another reason for Dimitry to return to the hospital. He had ordered a skin graft knife from Elias the blacksmith, but without testing and adjustments, the tool couldn’t safely harvest autografts from Cedany. The sorceress would need skin grafts from cadavers to cover the patches of excised necrotic tissue until then.

Reflecting on all the work awaiting him, Dimitry exhaled a weary sigh. His gaze traveled up and met that of Lukas—the conniving spymaster who meditatively sipped tea like a Buddhist monk free from sin.

A question that often bothered Dimitry burned within him once more. "Your Majesty, there's something I’d like to know."

"Then ask."

"When I was demonstrating my weaponry to the nobles, Sir Lukas did a lot more than just help me establish my role as the apostle. He lowered people's trust in me and my bombs to purchase them at a discount. I'm sure you know why that's problematic for someone who's running a hospital with limited funds and endless responsibilities. Is that the support I should expect from my ‘ally’?"

Like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, the count's eyes widened. He glanced at the queen.

Amelie lifted her chin as if to tell him to confess his crimes.

"Dimitry." Lukas' poker face returned. "As I haven't lied to you directly and you have not conversed with nobility since the summit, shall I assume your truth magic detects not only lies but misdirection as well?"

Who the hell apologized by trying to weasel out more information from their victim? "I'd prefer if you didn't change the subject.”

Lukas lowered his teacup and rubbed his hands. "There are three reasons why I did what I did."

"And they are?"

"The first is obvious: your wonderful technology intrigued me. Eight years have passed since Volmer's dungeon closed, and I haven't indulged in a novel artifact since. Your bombs are equally intriguing. Surely a man as astute as yourself understands my need for curiosities."

"Explosives are difficult to produce. They aren't toys."

"Of course, of course," Lukas said without an ounce of remorse in his voice. "The second reason was for your benefit."

"How's that?"

"As I’m sure you have realized, your deeds have earned you supporters as well as enemies. If the party that launched incitia-induced riots against your cathedral deployed sticky bombs instead, how do you think your subjects would fare?"

Dimitry furrowed his brow. "Incitia-induced riots?"

"Leandra," Queen Amelie said.

The court sorceress stood up. "On the night of repentance, I discovered that two mercenary sorceresses manipulated the populace from a plagued home near the Jade Surgeon's hospital. One fell in battle against me, and the other is imprisoned in this dungeon."

Precious pinched Dimitry’s neck once. She had detected a liar.

He glared at Leandra.

With pleading amethyst eyes, the court sorceress glanced at Queen Amelie and back at Dimitry. “I am not misleading or attempting to harm the Jade Surgeon.”

Three more pinches—Leandra spoke sincerely this time.

Dimitry stroked his chin. What was Leandra hiding from Her Royal Majesty? Aiming to purchase favor with the alleged war hero, he wouldn’t call out her bluff. The matter didn’t seem to concern him.

"We believe it was a diversion," Lukas said. "Our questioning revealed that your bomb production plant was the real target. The men I assigned to watch over your facility left to deal with the riots, leaving only Lord Riquin behind to defend the church. Whoever hired the mercenary sorceresses and thugs took advantage of our limited numbers."

"While I tracked down the offending criminals,” Leandra said, “one escaped with your machinations despite my best efforts." She bowed. "You have my humblest apologies, Jade Surgeon."

Dimitry leaned back in his chair. Lukas and the queen were protecting him all this time. Without them, another noble might have purchased his bombs and used them against him. Why did he attempt to auction off deadly weapons? Then again, he had little choice. Without an army to use the explosives, they would have wasted away in storage while a carapaced devil’s posse paraded through Malten’s streets.

"I appreciate the help,” Dimitry said, “but couldn't you have explained the situation and bought the bombs from me before the summit? It would have saved me a lot of grief."

Lukas shook his head. "Nobles panic sooner than wild mares. If we deployed your technology against heathens without showing it to them first, we would have an uprising on our hands.”

"You’re leaving out the part where you didn’t want to risk introducing Church-like weaponry yourself in case things went to shit. Easier to blame it on the new guy, right?”

"You must understand," Queen Amelie said. "Lukas and I carry the burden of half a million lives. If we perish, so does this kingdom. Malten cannot survive an insurrection."

“And I doubt you’ll fare much better without me.”

"Then think of it as a lesson. If you intend to get entangled with courtly affairs, you must learn the games we play."

"That’s what you say, but none of this explains why Lukas undercut me for the bombs."

The spymaster shrugged. "Another lesson?"

Dimitry massaged his forehead. How could he cooperate with nobles and royals who schemed to swindle him at every opportunity? He returned to an earlier subject. "Is the mercenary sorceress still in this dungeon?"

"We have learned everything she knew about her employer, but turned up little.” Lukas rubbed his hands as if preparing for torture. “Unless you intend to question her with your truth magic?"

Was she the source of the feminine screams from earlier? Although an investigation into the mercenary’s motives was part of Dimitry’s plan, his ambitions reached further. Why harm a perfectly good sorceress when magicians were rare and valuable resources? Especially since Dimitry intended to build an army. "If she's truly a mercenary, I want to hire her. Or did you hurt her beyond repair?"

"Do you believe us to be beasts?” Queen Amelie waved her hand. “Take her whenever you wish. I have no use for someone whose loyalty lies within a coin pouch."

If Precious determined that the sorceress held no animosity towards Dimitry or ties to her previous master, he would take her in. Last night proved that daily life would only become more treacherous. The burden was too much for Angelika to bear alone.

"Keep the mercenary healthy," Dimitry said. “I’ll deal with her later. For now, I want to speak about something else: land. I need lots of it.”

Queen Amelie glanced at Lukas, and he nodded back.

"Then this last matter will be of particular interest to you," she said. "Tomorrow, my vassals will assemble to handle affairs related to the night of repentance. Often, I take the opportunity to promote my subjects for their valiant deeds, and this month will be no different. I wish to assign you complete religious authority over my kingdom. Every church, cathedral, and monastery in this country will belong to you. Is that enough land for your needs?"

Dimitry paused. Although her support would solidify his status as the apostle, a power grab would brighten the red dot on his forehead. “Prove you won’t use me as a sacrificial pawn again.”

Lukas tossed a small pouch of vol onto the table.

Dimitry grabbed a pellet and pretended to cast his truth magic.

“Neither I nor Lukas intend to betray or mislead you,” the queen said. “You will have my complete support, and the political games between us will end. Permanently.”

Three terse pokes from Precious—she spoke the truth.

“Giving me that much power will earn you enemies."

"My every decision earns me enemies,” she said. “I have learned that it is more productive to focus on reliable allies instead. In the past month, you have brought us plague cures, enchanted rifles, explosives, and last night, you conquered a heathen raid with only three sorceresses at your side. I do not know what the future holds, but if I seize your services, my job of pulling this kingdom from its festering shithole will grow easier."

Precious squirmed beneath his uniform, but she didn't warn Dimitry of misdirection. Queen Amelie spoke earnestly. While her full support offered countless perks, his authority as the apostle was limited by her capacity to enforce it. Not only were several Zeran structures not enough to house thousands of refugees, but she also couldn’t guarantee their security across the entire kingdom.

Unless…

His eyes shot open.

Unless Dimitry’s authority as a beloved and royally approved apostle provided the solution he searched for. A solution so all-encompassing that it would remedy everything from overcrowding, idle refugees, and scheming hostiles to escalating heathen numbers. All with him in full control. Dimitry would have no one to answer to.

But this plan was more ambitious than any other he had, whether in this life or the last. “Just making sure—I get every Zeran structure?”

“From their perimeters down to the very foundations on which they’re built.”

“Sounds great, but can I get something a little extra?”

“Such as?”

“Nothing too important.” He smiled. “No one has been putting it to use, anyway.”

“I know that look.” Queen Amelie leaned forward in her marble chair. "Go on.”

"This might take a while."

Root knew adults couldn't be trusted.

Even if the big man promised them pork pie, she warned her friends not to anger the apostle. Why did Caterpillar and Oat insist that Zera wouldn't care if they did bad stuff outside the cathedral? They could have just waited until morning to dig up grubs like they always did!

But Root didn’t even get any pie. All she remembered was the watchman’s mean face when he pushed her into this cold and bumpy and wet cell. She hadn't seen her friends since, and her belly still grumbled. The rumblies started to hurt.

At least her toes didn't ache anymore. Before they always got prickly from walking barefoot on the snowy streets, but now that she huddled in the dungeon beneath the castle (the castle!) all day, Root couldn't feel them at all. She learned something her friends didn't know: if one waited long enough, the cold went away on its own!

Root hoped the shivers would as well. She wrapped the itchy blanket tighter around her body.

Slow footsteps came from further down the hall.

Root’s eyes widened. Did the adults come back? Whenever they did, screams echoed throughout the dungeon.

What if the adults wanted to make Root scream next? To punish her for being a misbehaving ragamuffin?!

She shook her head.

Calm down, Root. Calm down! Everything would turn out fine!

With slow and confident steps, a lady whose long black hair fell over her tunic emerged from the darkness.

Root prayed the adult would walk past her cell. Just keep walking!

The lady stopped.

Oh no.

She turned around. Big and angry dark purple eyes glared past iron bars and into the cell, almost as if the lady wanted to pierce Root’s face and strike her very soul!

Root huddled as far back into the cell’s corner as she could, rough walls poking into her shoulders and spine. The shivering got worser, and her teeth clickety-clacked against each other.

No!

She couldn't show fear!

Root puffed out her chest and put on a really brave face.

The Scary Lady didn’t seem to notice. "You will tell me why you assaulted the cathedral.”

In an instant, Root's chest deflated. Assaulted? Root didn’t steal any salt. Not recently. Hoping it would make The Scary Lady go away, she yearned to apologize, but Root knew the truth: adults didn't care about her or her friends. If The Scary Lady found out she was a street urchin who did bad things, she would kick her to the curb like the pasty vendors!

No one could break Root's spirit! "It-it wasn't me!"

Grabbing an iron bar and leaning closer, The Scary Lady frowned. "Don't lie to me."

"I'm not a scaredy-cat!"

"Speak now, or you will regret it."

Root instinctively glanced left and right, but her friends weren't there to help. "T-they showed us a tray of meat pies and told us we'd get some if we did the bad thing!"

"What bad thing?"

"Hurting people at the cathedral. Our tummies were hurting, and... and..."

"Who is 'us'?"

Root froze. "I'm not saying anything else!" She looked away. "My friends won't get in trouble because of me!"

"Your friends?" The Scary Lady paused. "How old are you and your friends?"

"I'm nine, and Caterpillar is eleventeen, and, and Vine is seven, and—" Root's eyes widened. She was an idiot. An idiot! "I'm-I’m done talking to you. Just hurry up and hit me and leave me alone!"

"Someone told you and your friends to hurt the Jade Surgeon?"

Root shook her head as hard as she could. "N-no! I'd never hurt the apostle. He gives us f-food every day and-and..."

The Scary Lady looked down at her boots, not saying anything for a while. "Do you and your friends hurt people often?"

"S-sometimes... I tell Oat I don't want to, but we g-get hungry and—"

"I once had a friend like you. She was twelve when she started hurting people. Although she often refused, she couldn’t choose to stop."

The Scary Lady’s story reminded Root of herself. The groaning of the other people in the dungeon drifted away, and Root could not help but listen.

"Even when she stopped hurting people, she spent all her time regretting it." The Scary Lady pulled a shiny steel pin from her pocket, shoved it into the cell's lock, and poked around until a loud clunk sounded. “Not a day went by where she didn’t wish she could undo who she became.”

Every word gentle, as if mommy herself had come back to life to read at her bedside once more, wonder welled within Root. "And then what happened?"

“To my friend?”

Root nodded.

“She realized that the world crumbled around her as she wallowed in the past. So, just as a close friend once told her she could, she began trying to change.”

Just as Root melted away into years past, where she warmed her prickly toes and fingers by the hearth alongside mommy and daddy, the metallic squeals of an opening cell door evicted Root from her fantasies.

Why did the door open?

Was The Scary Lady’s plan to trick Root into feeling safe just to hurt her? Root's feet peddled against the floor as hard as they could, pushing her further into the corner.

"Come."

"W-what are you going to do with me?"

"I’ll make sure you don't end up living a life of regret like my friend."

Root shook her head so hard that her clumpy and oily hair tapped her cheeks. Only a stupidface trusted adults. Even mommy and daddy. They… they!

"I won't hurt you."

"Prove it!"

She stepped into the cell.

"Stay back! I'll bite you!" Despite Root baring her teeth, a maneuver that always made mean boys step back, The Scary Lady didn't flinch.

She stepped closer. And closer.

Root’s mouth opened to scream 'leave me alone!', but when two arms wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her in, the words clumped in her throat. Warmness flushed across Root, and the sweet scent of berries filled her nostrils.

"I know what I must do now," The Warm Berry Lady said. “I’m sorry that it took so long.”

The dam within Root tumbled down, and tears poured from her eyes. Though she rushed to wipe them away, they just kept coming! Wails resounded throughout the dungeon.

"Hush now. You’ll never have to do a bad thing again.”

Root’s bawling thwarted her attempts at fighting back.

The Warm Berry Lady's hand wrapped around Root's. Tightly. Securely. "I know where you can be safe."

Teetering behind The Warm Berry Lady and out of the cell, Root’s itchy blanket fell from her shoulders.

"Let's find your friends. They can come too."

98. All In Gambit

The furthest end of Vogel's Enchantments’ second floor always reeked like someone had ransacked an oils stall. Citrus zest from Coldust, floral perfumes with suffocating and conflicting scents, and the horrid stench of dense lavender—so heavy that it lingered in Angelika's nostrils for days. Blegh!

She exhaled sharply through her mouth to ventilate the stink. Although her journey was perilous, today, Angelika would endure. She had to endure.

For here, in Leona's room—a bottomless pit of aromatic nightmares and scented candles—stood the only closet Angelika could raid for fitting clothes. Why waste time getting groped at the tailor's when your obsessive older sister already did? But she had to hurry. If the perfume goblin caught Angelika, she would yammer into her ears till midnight.

Angelika flicked through a dozen enchantress robes hanging from hangers before encountering a dress that looked like someone had shat rose petals all over its skirt. Although the scarlet frills matched Leona's oh-so pristine hair, they would make Angelika's dirty curls stand out even more.

Pass!

She pushed the rose dress aside to reveal a blue gown with ridiculously wide sleeves and a revealing chest. Angelika smirked. Was that Leona's new husband-hunting gear? Either she got desperate, or it was yet another case of the pretty ones jumping through hoops to make everyone else look even more like shit.

Pass!

The rummaging through endless clothes continued, and Angelika's impatient swatting hastened with every overly elaborate dress she encountered. Why couldn't Leona wear something normal for fucking once?! She pushed aside a dress, and its hanger flew off the closet rod.

A lethal mistake.

An icy chill ripped down Angelika's spine as she reached forward to catch the plummeting mahogany hanger.

It slipped through her fingertips.

Not like this!

Angelika kicked out her foot, a last-ditch effort to soften the impact, but the hanger flew right past and slammed into the floor.

A heavy wooden thunk resounded throughout the store.

"EMILIA?" Leona shouted downstairs.

"It wasn't me!" a muffled plea sounded from a locked door across the hall.

"ANGELIKA?!"

Heavy footsteps plodded up the stairs. The perfume goblin approached.

Holding her breath, Angelika pivoted and jumped away from the closet. She considered dashing out of Leona's room, but the hallway would lead straight to the beast. She had to hide. But where?

Her eyes darted past a central bed, a nightstand upholding endless glass bottles, and a dresser boasting a polished silver mirror. Maybe Angelika could take refuge under the candle shelves? No. They lay in open sight. How about the place she had often lurked as a brat?

It would have to do.

The fluffy wool carpet caved beneath Angelika’s hands and knees as she crawled under Leona’s bed. Although she still fit into the crevice between the floor and the frame, Angelika forgot a single, crucial detail: she had grown taller. Her feet stuck out. To conceal her extremities, she curled into a ball.

The livid stomping stopped outside the door. "I see you down there, you idiot!"

Crap.

Angelika peeked out from under the bed. "I, uh... I was cleaning your room. There's sooo much crap down here, you wouldn't believe it."

"You? Cleaning?" Leona's orange eyes burst into flames. She pointed to the closet, which had crumpled dresses on the floor and hanging over the door. "Let me guess, you cleaned this too?"

"Emilia did that."

"I didn't do anything!" another muffled plea rang from across the hall.

Angelika clicked her teeth. Couldn't Emilia at least take some of the heat? Damn traitor.

"For the last time," Leona said, "if you want me to have clothes made for you, just tell me! Stop stealing mine! They don't even fit you!"

"How the hell was I supposed to know that a royal messenger was gonna come this morning?"

"That's why I keep saying you have to visit the tailor ahead of time!"

"So that creep can feel me up?" Angelika scoffed. "I’m good, thanks."

“He’s just collecting measurements.”

“Uh-huh. Sure he is.”

Leona palmed her face. "You really are an idiot."

"Look, it's not like I planned on being invited to a banquet. You're the prim and proper heiress. It's your job to deal with the nobility."

"You rescued the court physician from thugs, killed a carapaced devil, and single-handedly prevented two crawlers from slicing every refugee in the market square like pork sausages! What did you think would happen? Obviously Her Royal Majesty and Mira would promote you!"

Willing a good retort to come to mind, Angelika glared at her sister’s forehead. Not a word came out despite an arduous brainstorming session.

Leona sighed, approached the bed, and collapsed face-first onto an overgrown stack of pillows. "So it's finally happening, huh?"

"Yep,” Angelika muttered.

How odd.

Angelika had always thought her reaction to a promotion would have been an enthusiastic ‘fuck yeah’. The Ranking Ceremony was her first step beyond an unranked combat sorceress, a landmark on her path to becoming a head channeler like dad once was, a promise to one day hear a voltech cannon fire at her command and obliterate any carapaced devil that threatened the city her mom and sisters lived in!

Yet when the royal messenger arrived, bearing her invitation to the castle, Angelika felt no ecstasy. No exhilaration. No joy. Not even a sense of accomplishment.

She felt nothing.

Leona leaned over the edge of the bed, her scarlet hair drooping down to tickle Angelika's nose. "You should reconsider."

"Of course you'd say that."

"Mom and I can teach you enchanting. You already know the basics, and you're a more talented sorceress than me. In a year or two, you can work here. With us. Where it's safe."

"Yeah, right." Angelika crawled out from under the bed and back towards the closet. "Not sure how you two deal with the boredom. I'd blow my brains out."

Leona lunged forward to grab her shoulder. "I'm serious! You saw how many heathens there were out there! Next month, there'll be even more!"

"And what the fuck do you expect me to do? Wait here until a carapaced devil breaks into the fucking parlor? Someone's gotta be out there. The refugees need me!"

"The refugees?"

Angelika froze. Everything within her demanded she swallow her words. "I-I meant the Jade Surgeon. You know, 'cause he'll die without me, and he's helping us out a lot."

"Ah." Leona uttered a short laugh. "So that's what it is."

"W-what? What is what?"

"You're making that face you make whenever you're worried about someone."

"Me?! I don't worry about anyone! Especially not you."

Leona jumped off the bed and rushed closer. Her fingers, clingy like the vines of a drain blossom, pinched Angelika's cheeks. "You think you're sneaky, but nothing gets through me!"

"Let go!"

"You want to help those refugees, don't you?"

"They can die for all I care!"

"Now you're blushing!"

Despite the endless drills Angelika ran as part of her sorceress’s training, the strength to fight back against the perfume goblin didn't come. "Leave me alone!"

Leona's smile transitioned into a confident, sisterly gaze. "You should do it."

"Do what, you jerk?"

"I see how happy you are working for the Jade Surgeon. You say you hate standing in front of the hospital doing nothing all day, but even Emilia can tell you’re full of it. I remember you’d always come home and go into a mad rant about Remora and all its ‘shitty people’, but ever since you began guarding the hospital and that soup kitchen thing, you've mellowed out a bit. I've even seen you smile."

Leona released Angelika's cheeks. "You're happy when you’re helping people, aren’t you?"

Angelika glanced down at her feet and wriggled her toes. So that was why the royal invitation didn't excite her. If she underwent the promotion, she would have to train closely under Mira while another sorceress took her place as Dimitry's guard. Could they keep all his plans and convoluted projects secret and keep him alive?

No.

That was Angelika’s job.

But that didn't mean she abandoned her ambitions. Angelika still yearned to become a powerful thaumaturge like dad, and defending Malten remained her highest priority. Rather, an alternative route for accomplishing both goals emerged—one she couldn't have fathomed a month prior: revitalizing this city.

Dimitry’s magic and inventions uprooted everything. Instead of envisioning Malten’s inevitable demise from plague, famine, and worsening raids, Angelika dying in some ditch as heathen’s blood seared her flesh from bone, she saw herself wielding insane magic to defend the weak and ailing while Dimitry tended to them.

Hope had come to Malten. For Angelika, her family, and every unfortunate soul in this city. She couldn’t fuck this opportunity up.

Angelika knew what she had to do.

Leona fell back onto her bed. "After seeing the Jade Surgeon treat Cedany, I’d feel better if you’re working for him. I want to believe in the apostle, too."

Right. The apostle stuff. Angelika pondered the idea with increasing frequency. Although watching Dimitry desperately study the gospel put his holiness in doubt, the blue mark on his wrist, those relics, his medicine, rifles with rainbow enchantments, the cache on Waira, a dead class three raid—they all hinted at something more.

Something Angelika couldn’t understand. According to Precious, neither did Dimitry. “Who the hell knows what’s true anymore?”

“Not me. As long as you stay safe out there, I’m happy without knowing.”

“I’ll be careful. Thanks, Leona.”

“You’re very welcome. Now get out of my room."

A scheme festering in her mind, Angelika smirked. "Sure thing, big sis."

“Good.”

Angelika strolled towards the exit, and at the last moment, darted to the closet, pulled a random dress from a hanger, and scrammed into the hallway.

“Not my silk kirtle!” a heartbroken plea rang out from behind. “Don’t ruin that one too! Please!”

Dimitry’s boots sunk into a narrow blue carpet as he stepped into the throne room.

Ladies in elaborate dresses and men in decorated uniforms froze. Standing guard alongside marble walls, sorceresses and knights lifted their hoods and visors. Every conversation lowered to scattered whispers. The scents of roasted meat and honey wafted in from the kitchen across the castle, yet no one spoke of the upcoming banquet. Every gaze found its mark.

To the hundred glares burrowing into his face, Dimitry offered a response one might expect from the apostle—a benevolent smile.

Several nobles returned the favor while others curtsied, bowed, or nodded.

The chatter resumed.

That went better than expected. However, while grateful for a warmer reception than the stabbing gossip Dimitry endured during his last visit to the throne room, he didn’t come here to revel in newfound respect.

Rather, three goals convinced him to halt his duties at the hospital: unveiling the scheme he conjured alongside the queen, meeting potential allies, and identifying anyone responsible for the assault on him, his property, or his staff. To ensure success, he brought along an emotion-sensing faerie that constantly poked at his kidney, begging to sneak a peek at the castle's interior.

However, just as the queen predicted, tonight’s banquet saw many absentees, among them Tylo Sauer and others who had despised Dimitry during the weapons demonstration.

And that was fine.

Lukas was investigating those who failed to attend while Dimitry handled the rest. He prepared to get to work when a sudden shout caught his attention.

"Surgeon!" A bubbly woman waved from a corner, bumpy scars on her palm from past overload. Raina hurriedly beckoned him closer.

Huddling behind her was her daughter. Angelika’s red-brown curls fell over a pink satin dress on the verge of bursting.

Dimitry furrowed his brow. The queen mentioned Angelika would attend the summit for her promotion, which fledgling sorceresses used to build their reputations and secure work contracts, so why squander the opportunity by wearing unfitting clothes?

This had to be good.

He approached. "Good evening."

"Jade Apostle." Raina hastily curtsied. "I apologize for my rudeness, but can you stand over here?"

“… Sure.” Dimitry stepped beside Raina, forming a wall that locked Angelika into the corner and out of sight of onlookers. "Here’s good?"

"Perfect!" She licked her thumb and ran it across Angelika's eyebrow, matting every unruly hair into a neat curve.

"Mom! Everyone's gonna see!"

"Stop squirming.”

Ah. Everything made sense now. In typical Angelika fashion, the girl half-assed the preparations for her own ceremony. Her cheeks redder than a ripe tomato, Dimitry knew what he had to do: embarrass her further.

He smirked.

"W-what's so funny?!"

"Oh, nothing."

"Why do both of you have to be like this?"

Raina ignored the teenager's frantic protests and swept Angelika’s curly hair over one shoulder. "I hope my girls didn't trouble you too much on the night of repentance."

"Not at all," Dimitry said. "Leona and Angelika have been a great help."

“Adal and I raised them right after all!”

Getting her satin dress straightened, Angelika hissed through clenched teeth, "Why do you always treat me like a kid? I'm nineteen. Nine. Teen."

"No matter how old you are, you'll always be my baby."

As if to find witnesses to her embarrassment, Angelika’s gaze darted left and right before falling to her slippers.

Dimitry chuckled. Watching a lethal sorceress who had recently murdered stone giants while mouthing off more swears than a sailor at sea crumble under motherly affection entertained him greatly.

Two sets of pompous footsteps stomped closer.

One belonged to a young knight with broad shoulders and a confident swagger in every stride. He walked alongside his father, a portly marquis and the third most powerful person in Malten.

Raina knelt. "Lord Valter. Lord Richter."

After stumbling over her platformed slippers, Angelika knelt too.

"Vogels. Surgeon." Like a star college quarterback leveling the popularity gap between himself and his fans, Valter Kuhn displayed a humbling smile. "I apologize for intruding on your conversation, but we came to ask about that bellowing roar and raging quakes that smote the class three raid outside the western gatehouse."

Marquis Richter glared at Dimitry. "Even the castle walls shook. Am I to believe you and Raina's daughters did all that?"

"I'm afraid that's a bit of an exaggeration," Dimitry said. "The sorceress Elze helped, too."

With a disgruntled humph, Richter reached beneath his uniform—baring countless medals and ribbons—and pulled out a hefty leather pouch. Hundreds of gold coins jingled within. "I'll buy your bombs and rifles. All of them and everything else you have."

The chatter within the throne room stopped, and nobles stalked Dimitry with hungry eyes. Were they waiting for someone else to stake their reputation in a conversation about purchasing holy weaponry?

Although the growing interest in black powder technology proved that the nobility approved Dimitry's products, their support came too late. With an army in the works, he no longer had to risk having his weapons being used against him or someone reproducing explosives with reverse-engineering magic.

But that didn't mean Dimitry should ruin this chance to peddle future wares. Why tell people his products were off-limits when he could push the scarcity mentality instead? Next time he had something for sale, even something as simple as anti-inflammatory drugs, he wanted nobles to clamor for a taste.

Funding always came in handy. Especially with the project Dimitry came here to unveil. "I'm grateful for the interest, but Mira and Lukas have already purchased my entire stock. Please accept my sincerest apologies."

"Ask me first next time!" Marquis Richter roared as he waddled away.

Trailing behind his father, Valter nodded. "Enjoy the festivities."

"We will. Thank you.”

After the two lords had left, a noblewoman lifted the edge of her skirt and rushed closer. She froze when a metallic ringing pierced the throne room.

Holding a reverberating steel spear, a royal guard stood at attention. "Her Royal Majesty Amelie Pesce, and Her Royal Highness Saphiria Pesce.”

The crowd parted to make way for the two royal ladies and two court sorceresses striding down the central blue carpet.

Although the queen carried herself as powerfully as always, it was the girl at her side that caught Dimitry's attention. Saphiria walked with overwhelming confidence. Or perhaps confidence wasn't the right word. Unlike the desperation she showed on the night she offered Dimitry her protection, her stalwart gaze spoke of a determined impetus and ambitions more resolute than a medical student's oath to save lives.

What happened to her?

Dimitry hadn't heard from Saphiria since the night of repentance, and if he didn’t have schemes to plan or patients to treat, he would have checked on her. But it seemed his concern was unnecessary.

Queen Amelie and Princess Saphiria sat upon their thrones.

The queen’s crimson eyes scanned the crowd. "The nights of repentance grow fiercer, and the one that has most recently come to pass is proof. As if coordinated by the ancient evil itself, two raids struck this city in tandem, striking at the very core of Malten's foundations. The corruption penetrated our defenses, and in the chaos, we have lost another amongst our ranks. Sir Riquin of House Kraus has expired."

As if full of hope that suddenly shattered, a woman’s heart-wrenching wails echoed across marble walls and arches.

Was that Lord Riquin's wife? Dimitry lowered his head.

One by one, nobles approached the mourning lady to rest a compassionate hand on her shoulder. Their downcast expressions seemed to relate, and their orderliness hinted this was a frequent ceremony.

"But even as the light dims," the queen said, "we fight. The threat of annihilation reveals courage. Tonight, we have gathered to celebrate the valor of one of my most promising sorceresses. Angelika Vogel, step forward."

"M-mom," Angelika whispered. "Can you tell them I don't—"

"Celeste guide you, sweetie!" Raina pushed her daughter forward.

Angelika staggered forward, knelt, and glanced back at Dimitry with pleading eyes.

The poor girl must have been nervous. He gave her an encouraging smile.

"Angelika Vogel,” the queen said. “You risked peril to defeat a carapaced devil, and then, without rest and under the assault of flying devils, you sallied forth to exterminate the crawlers that had breached the western gatehouse. Your honor has been noted. May you continue to serve this kingdom as valiantly as Sir Adal of House Vogel did before you."

Only Raina’s suppressed clapping could be heard as a sorceress in red and gold robes stepped from the crowd. The lustrous green pellet resting on Mira’s outstretched hand drained into her palm.

Angelika winced when two parallel cuts sliced across her upper shoulder. Blood dribbled down into her dress.

Ceremony—a pointless reason to risk infection. Luckily, Dimitry brought his tools. He would clean the wounds later.

"As a Secondary Fire Leader," Mira said, "you will serve under a Head Channeler and receive field channeling training so that you may eventual—"

"U-um," a whimper brought the ceremony to a standstill.

Everyone glared at Angelika.

The girl's knee squirmed atop the central blue carpet. "L-lady Mira. Can I say something?"

"Now is not the time."

"W-well," Angelika said, her voice quavering. "I’m declining the promotion so I can continue serving the apostle!"

A hundred gazes snapped towards Dimitry.

Raina clapped no longer, Queen Amelie smirked, and Mira pouted as if he was stealing her most precious ‘darling’.

Angelika glanced back at him once more. Her expression was apologetic this time.

Ah, crap.

That wasn't in the plan Dimitry concocted with the queen.

Hoping to keep a trusted confidant and put his machinations back on track, he approached Angelika's side. "My apologies, Lady Mira, Your Royal Majesty. I know Angelika is indispensable to the guild, but without a brave and reliable sorceress like her, I could never have brought Zera's gifts to this kingdom. Her continued assistance is paramount to Malten’s survival. If necessary, I’ll pay for her vol and services myself."

No one spoke until a weathered yet confident voice rose from the crowd. “Your Royal Majesty, may this one say her share?”

“Euphemia. Although you are retired, a court sorceress’s words will always hold weight in my court.”

“I am obliged.” A gray-haired woman adjusted her eye patch and stepped forward. “Those who have served will know this tale well. Back when the Sorceresses Guild was still the Thaumaturges Guild and accepted men, we considered flying devils the great equalizer. Wizards were sturdier and healed faster than sorceresses, yet the splash of a suicidal flier’s entrails held enough corruption to kill any mage.

“Much has changed since those days. Vol shortages have made wizards inefficient to instruct, we’ve developed voltech rifles, and our tactics have improved. Yet the deadliness of heathen’s blood remains. No sorceress serves long without seeing an acquaintance perish to its penetrating flames.”

Standing along the walls, sorceresses and even knights squirmed, perhaps remembering trauma they would have preferred to forget.

Euphemia locked eyes with Dimitry. “But with the apostle’s advent, that too might have changed. I visited the cathedral, and although my granddaughter is gravely injured, Cedany still lives, breathes, and talks. She is the hope of the next generation—one that won’t have to lose as many sisters as mine. Your Royal Majesty, this one humbly recommends that the divine surgeon receives all the protection he requires.”

Though Dimitry lowered his head at the heartfelt praise, he couldn’t recall meeting Euphemia. She must have visited the hospital during his absence.

The queen's gaze traversed the sea of vassals. "Indeed. Not a soul in this castle is ignorant of the lives the Jade Surgeon has saved and the heathens he has slaughtered. I look forward to his future developments. His safety is to be guaranteed." She glared at Mira.

“This one is in complete agreement,” the sorceress guildmistress said. “While Angelika holds great potential under my tutelage, if she wishes to continue serving the Jade Surgeon, we will continue supplying her with vol and funds.”

“Then the matter is settled.”

Mira flashed Dimitry a defeated grin, collected her blood-stained steel threads from the floor, and vanished into the sea of onlookers.

Angelika looked up at Dimitry with a face that said, ‘I fucked that up, didn’t I?’

Although he would have preferred a more elegant solution, Dimitry couldn’t get mad at a girl who declared her loyalty to him in front of everyone she respected. He suppressed the urge to ruffle her ridiculously curly hair like a proud father might.

“Jade Surgeon,” the queen said, culling scattered prattle before it could sprout into debate. "There was a time the Church offered us guidance and aid against the demonic threat. Although they have gone, you have taken their place. It is only fitting that I grant you the title you deserve."

Dimitry feigned obliviousness. "What title, Your Royal Majesty?"

“That of the archbishop. As The Most Reverend Fronika of Olsten did before you, you will oversee all holy sanctuaries and ceremonies in Malten. Do you accept the privileges and burdens that come with restoring Zera’s blessing?”

Murmurs at first, sharp discussion soon filled the throne room. But unlike the day Dimitry revealed enchanted rifles and sticky bombs, not a single noble mocked him. They looked on as if expecting a miracle.

And Dimitry had just the one. "Zera calls for me to bring peace, safety, and prosperity to all within your domain. However, for my ambitions, a title alone does not suffice. There is another concession I need to banish the corruption.”

"And that is?"

"Land."

"Besides the land upon which the churches, monasteries, and the cathedral are built, I have no land to offer you."

"But you do," Dimitry said. "It is land that had always belonged to Zera but was squandered by the Church, now wasting away in ruin."

"Do you refer to the shrine in Amphurt?"

He shook his head. "The heathen barrier on Malten's western coast. I wish to rebuild it."

Sitting on her throne, Saphiria's indigo eyes widened. So did the orange eyes of the girl who knelt by Dimitry's side and those of countless nobles.

Chatter poured in from all sides, yet Dimitry continued. "The land west of Malten’s walls. The corrupted fields, the river, and the ocean. I will purify it all."

To win the sympathy of the more dubious spectators, the queen looked on, shocked. "And Zera will help you accomplish your ludicrous goal?"

"Zera, the refugees, and every willing man and woman. Like Celeste did before me, I will guide people to the coast so they may build a walled outpost. With holy weaponry, we will kill every heathen emerging from the ocean, allowing your knights and sorceresses to focus on those assaulting Malten from the north. Refugees will no longer starve and litter your streets with their corpses. Casualties like Sir Riquin and Cedany will become an exception and not the rule. That is my goal.”

The nobles' chatter escalated into a rabid debate.

"If he clears the streets of squatters—"

"—other holy weaponry—"

"—Zera's blessing truly returned?"

Dozens of voices competed to be heard. Their excitement was well-warranted.

Dimitry mentioned only the aspects of his plan that benefited his audience, but an outpost along the coast offered countless personal boons. Among them were direct routes for commerce and diplomacy with myrmidon, trade with foreign countries, and limitless access to the ocean—a plentiful and immediate source of food for a starving refugee populace.

Yet the location provided another advantage—safety. Malten was a short distance away, allowing for close cooperation and reinforcements from the queen if necessary. Her city also functioned as a buffer between the coast and the kingdom’s other territories. Were a noble to grow aggrieved with Dimitry, they would have to travel halfway across the country and past Malten to attack him. More than enough time to scout their forces and prepare.

Smaller groups of insurgents wouldn’t fare well either. Dimitry’s private army could vet anyone who entered his outpost. No longer would any thug with a crossbow be able to reach and kill him or his employees on a whim.

Besides freedom from harm, his autonomy as the founder allowed for limitless possibilities: the construction of sewers for waste collection and potassium nitrate production, aqueducts for running water and crop irrigation, laboratories for replicating secretive Earth technology, factories for manufacturing trade goods and medical supplies, schools for reading, math, and scientific thought, a hospital designed with modern medicine in mind, and a government handpicked by Dimitry to manage them all.

Until now, he had overseen every project. However, with the help of a thousand followers across countless disciplines, Dimitry could assemble teams to handle affairs beyond his expertise while he expanded health care and explored everything from the anatomy of heathens to the limits of modified magic. Progress would hasten exponentially.

Dimitry’s undertaking was massive. His gambit entailed great risk. However, with amplifying heathen raids, every month he waited would lower the odds of success.

When the discussion settled, the queen spoke once more. "Your ambitions are in alignment with the needs of my kingdom, and I am willing to offer my full support. Yet I worry your project will take too long to complete. When do you intend to start? At winter’s end? Mid-spring?"

"As soon as preparations are complete."

99. Reclaim Your Future

As of late, discord would poison the banquet hall following every Night of Repentance. A bard's sickly melody would play as lords and ladies laid blame to each other, cursing and brawling to vent the frustration of lost land or a trusted vassal, the kingdom crumbling further under the scourge of corruption. It was not a rare sight to see a peer storm from the castle, never to return.

But today was not like that.

Mugs of spiced wine clinked and laughter erupted along banquet tables. Guests sampled savory meats and nostalgic deep-sea fish as minstrels graced the atmosphere with cheerful melodies. And, on the dance floor in the center of the hall, nobles from across the kingdom mingled, voices abound in hope. While many amongst the peerage were absent, perhaps bemoaning the baseless rumors of the month prior, the banquet hall hadn't felt this lively since the days of the Gestalt Empire. The reason was two-fold.

First, the return of Her Royal Majesty's heiress, whose yellow felt dress frolicked with every twirl around Lord Valter Kuhn. Unlike the sulky glares she oft displayed in the court, Her Royal Highness Saphiria graced the guests with a stalwart visage becoming of Malten’s eventual ruler.

The second was a young apostle. Pale green eyes gleaming, he waltzed with Baroness Schwarz of Hankerfurt. Although The Most Reverend spoke distant words, unheard amongst prattle and the twanging of lutes, all knew his utterances as divine plans given voice.

Nobles danced closer to the archbishop and the princess. They raced to exchange social partners so they might negotiate business, arrange diplomatic marriages, and receive Zera’s blessing before night’s end.

Flies to shit—the lot of them.

Not that Warnfrid Meier was any different. He would have been first in line if he could grace that marble floor once more, but aged lords brandishing peg legs did not make for excellent dancers. Instead, he sat at a near-vacant table, spiced wine burning down his throat, hoping to numb the searing pain where his limb once was.

Ten years had passed since the battle of Rondal’s bridge, where the Demented Emperor had taken Warnfrid’s leg, yet the agony never ended. Aching. Twisting. Cramping. Warnfrid developed prosthetics, risked wearing relaxia enchantments, and even bought potions concocted with dungeon reagents. Nothing cured the pain of a possessed limb.

But perhaps the Jade Surgeon could. Who better to treat a leg possessed by the ancient evil than the apostle himself?

A week ago, Warnfrid would have thought himself a fool to pray to Zera again, to think a youngster—a man, no less—could carry her blessing, but how could he believe otherwise after hearing the holy thunder, that raging monsoon, the divine smiting on the Night of Repentance? And while fighting along the north-western walls, his son saw everything in person. No doubts remained.

If the Jade Surgeon could channel Zera's love into medicine, weaponry, and miracles, surely he could exorcise a severed leg.

But Warnfrid was unsure if he would get the chance to ask his favor. He couldn't compete upon the dance floor with his peers, and even after they had all spoken with the Jade Surgeon, others awaited their turn.

Among them was Gratius Schumacher. He sat across the table, eyeing the surgeon like a falconer's goshawk. The perverse baron planned to speak to the apostle as well.

Warnfrid had to eliminate his competition. He swigged some spiced wine and locked eyes with his enemy. "Gratius, I understand you have business with the Jade Surgeon, but you must let me go first."

"Oops!" Gratius overturned his mug, spilling red-brown droplets onto an obscure, emerald-bedazzled shoe. With slow and mocking gestures, the slimy baron knelt and dabbed away liquid with a handkerchief. "Allow me a guess, Earl of Canterburg. You'll bother even him with your pain?"

Warnfrid's grip around his mug tightened. He deserved praise for losing his leg to a ballista javelin in service of Malten, yet the fool—who knew not the difference between a pike and a halberd—mouthed only disrespect! "And you'll market your shoes to him?"

"Though a male archbishop is obscure indeed, even he will have bishops and priestesses. Surely the apostle has no need for commoners' footwear."

"So go pester him like those dancing vultures!"

"And crease my lovelies?" Gratius polished the pointed ends of his shoes with his thumb. "I just had them made."

"I'll buy two pairs of those... monstrosities if you let me speak to him first." Warnfrid massaged his thigh. "My leg is killing me."

"Forgive me for my ignorance, but how can a leg that isn't there hurt?"

Warnfrid slammed his fist into the table. "I’ll buy a dozen pairs if I go first and you speak no more."

"Fifty."

"Fifty?! Celeste and all her maidens couldn't have used so many gaudy shoes for their pilgrimage across Remora!"

Gratius grinned. "But perhaps the apostle and his faithful could, Earl of Canterburg. The flock herds to him even now."

A glance back proved the baron's words held merit. Nobles hounded the Jade Surgeon, each nearing to bark their piece, him listening and offering sympathetic nods.

Warnfrid paused. Only now did he realize he was witnessing the birth of a new era—a moment in history akin to the founding of The Holy Kingdom. One man sought to guide his followers to construct a hold upon the coast. Just as Celeste did centuries ago.

Though Warnfrid was unsure if this era would be of calamity or peace, one thing was for sure. “The world is changing once again, Gratius.”

“Of that, there is no doubt.”

Leaning back against a wall, Dimitry lifted a glass of ale to his lips and subtly stretched his calves, which had grown sore from hours of mingling. A rare opportunity to recuperate and rehydrate. He would have to take advantage before another—

"I hope the evening finds you well, The Most Reverend Dimitry." A middle-aged nobleman tipped his feathered hat as he approached.

And Dimitry's break was over. With newfound respect for politicians, who maintained false personas for decades, he emulated the saintly demeanor of an archbishop like the queen had taught him. "We praise Celeste for guiding us to another tranquil night."

The nobleman removed his hat and spent a moment in silence.

After waiting approximately four seconds, Dimitry nodded. “We may now speak.”

“To experience the Transition Prayer from a divine once more—it puts me at ease.”

His guise worked.

Again.

Dimitry thanked his past self for memorizing verses from the Gospel of Awakening. Not that he enjoyed regurgitating them. One day, when Malten was ready, he would carve all superstition from the scriptures and his mannerisms. Until then, Dimitry could only set the stage. "Prayer is good, but virtue is better. Don’t you agree, sir..."

"Ah, how rude of me." The nobleman knelt and held out an upturned hand—a gesture of religious praise. "This one is Volkmar Wendler, Earl of Astrea."

A weak yawn came from Dimitry's uniform. "Another schemer." Although being near nobles elated Precious at first—hushed 'oohs' and 'ahs' coming from the internal breast pocket she sat in—her elation turned to boredom hours ago.

And Dimitry knew why—predictability. Every noble spoke politely, but their flattery was almost always self-serving. Dimitry had even started playing a game: what does this one want from him?

Usually, the answer was access to bombs and enchanted rifles. Some had asked Dimitry to bless their keeps, while others demanded he feed the refugees on their territories by building soup kitchens. One viscountess had even offered her daughter's hand in marriage to secure her ties to the apostle.

But not everyone was opportunistic. Several of tonight's guests paid unnecessarily hefty sums for medical treatment, including a nobleman who was delighted to learn that his phantom limb pain could be managed or even eradicated. A select few offered to provide resources for the heathen barrier's construction without asking for anything in return.

This sea of greed had some pearls of altruism, meaning Dimitry had allies amongst the nobility. Would this one be another? "It's good to make your acquaintance, Earl of Astrea."

"Please, The Most Reverend Dimitry. Just ‘Volkmar’ is fine."

Not having to memorize honorifics—the best perk of being an archbishop. "Volkmar, if you don't mind, I prefer to cut pleasantries short."

"We are of one mind." The earl rose to his feet and straightened his mink-trimmed coat. "I come to ask a favor."

What a surprise. "Since my resources are limited, I can't promise much."

"Ah, it is nothing so grand. My youngest, Alerith, is the grandest gift Celeste has guided to me. But while I adore her immensely, she does not possess the qualities of an heiress. My wife and I would be humbled if you recited the blessing of fertility so that we may conceive a more suitable daughter.”

Crap. Dimitry had little time to study the gospel, so how the hell was he supposed to recall every prayer and chant? He envied people with eidetic memories. Not being so fortunate, Dimitry had to lie. "Although I would like nothing more than to help, I consider it blasphemous to recite Zera's prayers without the scriptures on hand.”

"But of course. Of course."

"Another time."

"Please, visit us in the market town of Astrea at your convenience. The pheasants are still plump, so bring your Thunder Rifles if you wish."

"As soon as I find the time." Dimitry offered a pleasant smile. "You can probably imagine that I'll be too busy to hunt for quite a while."

"Such is natural for anyone with responsibilities over man." Volkmar tipped his feathered hat. "Celeste guide you."

"Celeste guide us all."

As soon as the earl left, Dimitry nodded at a small cluster of lesser nobles watching him, doubtless eager to make his acquaintance. He placed a fist at his mouth as if coughing. "Anything?"

"He was testing you." Precious sighed. "These pampered brats aren't as fun as people make them out to be."

Testing Dimitry? An understandable reaction. Few would immediately accept a foreign-looking man as Zera's messenger in a world where women reigned over religion. At least Volkmar didn't despise Dimitry. He was unlikely to have been the one who attacked Dimitry or his facilities.

"Dumitry. I want a grape."

He pretended to cough once more. "Now's not a good time."

"I'm really, really hungry."

Although Precious deserved a reward for helping Dimitry, he decided against sneaking fruit into his clothes. An archbishop who packed his uniform with grapes was a damning precedent to set. The faerie would have to wait.

Dimitry's gaze returned to its most frequent spot within the banquet hall—at the princess whose yellow dress restlessly fluttered across the dance floor. Saphiria had watched his cathedral on the Night of Repentance, perhaps knowing something he didn’t. Before another noble could pounce on him, Dimitry approached her.

Upon seeing Dimitry draw near, the gray-haired nobleman dancing with Saphiria bowed and stepped back into the wallflower crowd.

Damn. Being the archbishop sure had its perks.

More proper than ever before, Saphiria lifted the ends of her skirt and curtsied. "It is my pleasure, Dimitry."

To keep up appearances, Dimitry knelt. "Your Royal Highness."

As was the role of a noblewoman in this kingdom, Saphiria took Dimitry's hands and initiated a two-step dance simple enough for any drunken noble to perform. She leaned in, the scent of assorted berry shampoo wafting closer. "What did Precious say? Does anyone here intend to harm you?"

"Not sure, but I'm pretty sure she's pouting at me."

"I'm huuungryyyy," an exhausted moan slithered from under his uniform, just loud enough for them to hear.

"See?"

"Come." Pulling Dimitry along, Saphiria glided closer to a table brimming with lemon pies and sweet rolls. "Ready?"

"For what?"

Saphiria launched into a twirl, the frills of her dress fluttering on the wind, skirt blossoming like a yellow tulip rotating at the stem. The dexterous display of grace elicited awes from onlookers.

As clapping barraged them from all sides, Saphiria grabbed his hand once more.

Feeling a grape in his palm, Dimitry realized what had happened. The out-of-work assassin employed her prior work skills—distraction and sleight of hand—to steal fruit in clear sight of an audience. "Impressive."

Saphiria pulled in close. "I know."

Using the princess as cover, Dimitry rolled the grape under his uniform.

Greedy hands slithered beneath his undershirt to grab their prize. Slurping sounds followed.

Dimitry grimaced at the thought of mushy fruit guts splattering inside his clothes, but his demeanor swiftly changed when his thumb glided over Saphiria's hand. It was swollen. He pressed down.

Saphiria winced.

He furrowed his brow and pressed down harder.

Saphiria sucked in air through gritted teeth and averted her gaze.

Palpating the back of her gloved hand, Dimitry found out why. The knuckle of her small finger, which should have been pronounced despite an inexplicably swollen hand, had lost its bumpy shape. Further examination past her depressed fifth metacarpophalangeal joint revealed a crooked pinkie—an apex dorsal angulation of at least thirty degrees.

"So that’s why you’re wearing gloves. When were you going to tell me about this?"

"We have more important matters to discuss," Saphiria said.

"More important than a broken bone? Who the hell did you have to punch in the face so hard? Was it during the cathedral riots?"

"I punched no one."

"This is a boxer's fracture—it means you hit something with enough force to break bone. I'm assuming it wasn't a wall."

Saphiria met his gaze with sharp, indigo eyes. "Snow fell on my hand."

"What?"

"I was hanging from the ledge of a building when a sorceress collapsed the roof with dropia. Although I dodged the oncoming bricks, weighty snow fell onto my hand."

Despite the baffling excuse, crush injuries infrequently caused boxer’s fractures. Hanging from a ledge would have left Saphiria's fist clenched, and a heavy mass from above could apply enough axial pressure to break a metacarpal bone.

Dimitry smiled and danced to appease onlookers, but he definitely wasn’t jolly. "Why were you fighting a sorceress? And you couldn’t bother to tell me you got hurt? It's been two days!"

"I was busy."

"... Fuck. I hope it didn't heal wrong. We're not wasting any more time here. Let's go."

"Wait." Saphiria squeezed his wrist. "We cannot leave yet. You as well as I must give my guests an impression of impartiality."

Dimitry froze. Not because Saphiria was right—that suddenly leaving together would propagate rumors of an 'intimate' relationship—but because she prioritized her royal responsibilities for the first time since they had arrived in Malten. "Fine. I'll entertain two more nobles. No more."

She nodded. "Then meet me in the kitchen."

"The kitchen? Why the kitchen?"

While Saphiria blended an obscure mixture of goat milk, yogurt, honey, and egg yolk, Dimitry reduced the angulation of her broken pinkie with the 90-90 method and immobilized the injured hand in a makeshift ulnar gutter splint. He didn't ask about the concoction she was boiling. Instead, Dimitry questioned her about the Night of Repentance.

Apparently, Saphiria had killed one rogue sorceress, arrested another, and chased bandits across Malten before asking Leandra to take the credit so that the queen wouldn’t learn of her reckless behavior.

Dimitry didn’t like her story.

He had warned Saphiria to avoid the chemistry lab; there was a damn land mine in the lobby! While thankful that the bandits activated the blast before she had arrived, Dimitry needed to stress the dangers of explosives. So he lectured Saphiria.

He lectured her as they left the kitchen and traversed the castle district. Dimitry stepped through a narrow alley and around a horseshoe that gleamed green under an engorged moon. "I can't reattach your legs if they're splattered across the walls and full of shrapnel. I'm not a miracle worker."

Eyes lurking in the shadow of her cloak's hood, Saphiria glanced back at a pair of conversing merchants. She pressed a finger to her lips. "Not so loud. What shall I do if the apostle was revealed to be a fraud? Besides, I do believe you to be a diviner."

"If I was a diviner, I'd be able to get you to listen."

"More than anyone else, I listen to you."

"Yeah. When it's convenient." Under the assault of icy winds, Dimitry's fist clenched tighter around the handle of the massive bag Saphiria made him carry. "Just tell me you understand. No more risking your life."

"I understand, but note that words of caution mean little coming from a man who would assault a bishop to free a Zeran Servant."

"That was a long time ago, and I didn’t have much cho—"

"We're here." Saphiria skipped ahead to knock on the door of a wide house.

Dimitry sighed. Although he enjoyed seeing the girl’s eyes full of determination, he was a decade too old to keep up with her whimsical nature. Where did she even take him?

Within the house, footsteps stomped closer. "Who is it?"

"Me."

The door creaked open, revealing a long hallway and an upturned chair in the parlor beyond. Barking and children's laughter echoed from deeper within.

A woman in a maid's gown stepped out from behind the door. She bowed. "Lady Julia. His holiness."

Dimitry recognized the woman. She brought a patient to the hospital last night. "Celeste guides you," the words reluctantly oozed from his mouth.

The maid bowed lower.

Rushing through the entrance, Saphiria held up a bag smelling of leftover meat, fish, and whatever else they had ransacked from the kitchen. "Annette, where are the babies?"

"By the fireplace, my lady."

"Bring them to me."

"At once."

Babies? Dimitry followed Saphiria into the parlor.

The tumultuous room paused. A girl, scribbling chalk doodles on a plank, glanced up. So did the boy tugging on her twin ponytails. They and eight other children stampeded Saphiria while a spaniel and a gargantuan poodle paraded around her legs.

Everything clicked into place.

Saphiria was a Disney princess.

As she patted rascals' heads and scratched furry chins, a greyhound lunged at Dimitry.

From the half-healed scars on the animal's spine, Dimitry realized he reunited with his former patient—the dog Saphiria brought to the cathedral for him to treat. He raised a hand to shield his face from the eager tongue lashing at his cheek.

Once the dog relaxed, Dimitry stroked its neck and glanced at Saphiria. When he saw her dignified demeanor at the summit, he thought she had recovered from grief so soon. But that wasn’t true. Saphiria hadn’t recovered. Her every gesture was a front in service to Malten's most vulnerable. She had found her purpose.

Wondering if he stood in Remora's first orphanage and animal shelter, Dimitry grinned.

"L-Lady Julia?" a meek voice called.

Saphiria glanced back at a young girl teetering closer and frowned. "Root! The physician gave you orders not to walk!"

"But I heard everyone having fun, so—“ The girl’s face brightened. “Jade Surgeon!"

The gazes of eleven wide-eyed children locked onto Dimitry.

He knelt to examine the feet of the little girl hobbling towards him. Blisters covered her toes alongside red-purple marbling—signs of mottled skin. Her symptoms were obvious at a glance: that of superficial frostbite warmed approximately one day ago.

Dimitry knew as much because he had treated Root. She was the patient Annette brought to his hospital last night. That, too, must have been Saphiria's doing. "How are you feeling, Root?"

"She'll feel badly if she doesn't return to bed at once!" Saphiria said. "Go! Now!"

"But I wanna talk to people, too."

Saphiria stomped forward, lifted the girl, and sat her on a silver-trimmed mahogany nightstand. "Don't move!"

The girl swung her swollen feet.

Dimitry smiled. "Quite the operation you're running here, Lady Julia."

"It is a taxing labor."

"A labor of love?"

"My aging has advanced thrice-fold."

"Sure it has."

Cradling a clumped blanket, Annette rushed into the parlor. She lowered it onto the nightstand. "I have laid out supper, my lady."

"Meat!” a boy's exhilarated shout echoed from an adjacent room. “Fish!"

The children and dogs rushed away.

"Annette, bring Root to bed and make sure she is fed."

"Yes, My Lady."

Being carried away, Root waved a small hand. "Bye-bye, Jade Surgeon! Bye-bye, Lady Julia!"

From a glance, anyone could tell that Saphiria suppressed an oncoming smile in favor of a reprimanding frown. "And stay in bed!"

"Like your anger is fooling anyone," Dimitry said.

"You are mistaken." Saphiria's lips quivered. "I am not angry. I am livid. Once I find the filth that ordered a child like her to assault your hospital, I will rend his limbs from his body."

So that was what happened. Dimitry's employees had mentioned seeing children in the riots. To think Root was among them. Strangely, he almost felt bad for the guy Saphiria marked for death. His position wasn’t enviable.

Meek squeaks eked from the crumpled blanket atop the nightstand.

"Yuck!" Precious squirmed beneath his uniform. "Keep those… those things away from me!"

"She doesn't mean that," Saphiria said, unraveling the clumped blanket. Inside huddled two newborn tabby kittens whose eyes had yet to open. She dabbed their butts with a towel, and urine blotted the cloth yellow. “Dimitry, your bag."

He retrieved two sandstone bottles containing the goat milk concoction they had prepared earlier. "You know, it's dangerous to have cats and dogs around children."

"Is even a blessed surgeon afraid of them? They shan’t curse you."

"I’m more worried about dander allergies than superstition."

"They're vicious beasts," Precious said. "Vicious, vicious beasts!"

Saphiria inserted a cloth nipple into the bottle's snout, lifted the kitten onto her splinted arm, and glanced at Dimitry expectantly. "Fear not. I'll lay down my life to protect you both if she grows violent."

"Very funny." Dimitry took the second kitten. The ‘vicious beast’ stabbed into skin and pulled at his blond arm hair as it suckled from the bottle's makeshift nipple. By comparison, Saphiria's kitten looked a lot calmer. "Is this why you brought me here? To feed stray cats?"

“No. I merely found them in passing this afternoon.” Saphiria headed towards the staircase. "Come."

"I'm guessing your mother doesn't know you're doing any of this?"

"Nor does she know I assigned two of my chambermaids to work here."

Dimitry doubted her secret would remain one for long.

Upon reaching the top step, Saphiria fumbled in her cloak pocket while balancing a kitten and a bottle. She retrieved a rusted key and jammed it into a lock.

The attic door opened.

Light flooded into a small room, revealing dust drifting in the air and four cobwebbed walls. Paintings with gold frames hung throughout. Each depicted a portrait of a noble in fine fur or upon a throne. At the furthest end of the attic stood a window whose filth-encrusted green panes overlooked a moonlit cityscape.

Saphiria left the door ajar and stepped through.

Precious glided from Dimitry's tunic and landed on the floor. Hands behind her back, she strolled through the room, examining every painting like an enlightened critic at an art gallery. "Hmm, yes. Very interesting."

"Not the place I expected to be taken," Dimitry said.

"I thought the same, once." Saphiria approached a painting of a black-haired man. Staring into his azure eyes—eyes that looked like they wanted to party and brawl all night—she knelt. "Father, I’ve returned to introduce you to the Jade Surgeon.”

So that was what her dad looked like. Although not one for speaking to the dead, Dimitry lowered his head out of respect for his host. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Lord..."

"In the home of his ancestors, he would have wanted you to call him Ferdinand The Indomitable or His Grace, The Duke of Beer Binges."

Dimitry cracked a smile. "It's a pleasure, Ferdinand the Indomitable."

Saphiria muttered unheard words, set her well-fed kitten into a wide pocket, and placed the nursing bottle by the wall. "I shall have your reward ready momentarily."

“My reward?”

Wordlessly, she removed the painting to reveal a safe embedded in the wall.

A hidden vault. How cliché.

"Help. Heeeeelp!"

Dimitry glanced back.

Green wings glistening in a dark corner, Precious squirmed to break free from a web. "S-spider! It's crawling closer! Saphiria! Dumitry!!"

Massaging his eyelids, Dimitry approached Precious and tore the sticky strands binding her to the wall.

She darted up Dimitry's shoulder and hyperventilated into his ear. "Y-you saved my life! If I had a father, I'd in-introduce you to him, too."

"Clown."

“What’s that?”

“You.”

The iron clinking of the vault went silent. Saphiria approached, the two obscure strings she carried flashing unnatural aquamarine glints in the moonlight. They looked like truncated plastic shoelaces.

“What are those?” Dimitry asked.

“They were once my dowry, but as the young emperor and Einheart have fallen, they are better suited to our own survival." Saphiria hung a shoelace over his wrist.

Cool and smooth like silicone, the shoelace stretched around his wrist until the opposite ends fused into an armlet. It took on the color of Dimitry's skin, and with a final aquamarine gleam, shrunk into a near-imperceptible layer upon his arm.

Dimitry stared with wide-open eyes.

"Ooh, ooh!" Precious reached closer. "I wanna touch it!"

Saphiria placed the second shoelace over her own arm. Like his, it melded over her wrist and vanished from sight.

Realizing he held a trapped breath, Dimitry exhaled. What the hell should he say after witnessing a technology with morphological capabilities exceeding anything on Earth? How many decades would pass before scientists could replicate something like this? “Is… is this voltech?”

Saphiria shook her head. “They are artifacts the Church had extracted from Volmer’s dungeons. My father purchased them from a smuggler on the day of my birth.”

Dungeons? Ignacius talked about them before—how the Church excavated spell tablets from their depths—and Lukas had mentioned artifacts. Dimitry realized once more how little he knew about this world. And then he realized a much more terrifying fact: the Church had access to equipment exceeding his imagination. “Is it a wrist guard?”

"It is no armor,” Saphiria said. “From what I know, linking bands come in pairs. With vol and a powerful will, one band can summon the thaumaturgic might of the person wearing the other. Since you often use magic in medicine and weaponry, I hope you put it to good use for the outpost you intend to erect upon the coast.”

Possibilities swam through Dimitry’s mind. Did the linking band give him a larger feedback buffer? Or did it allow him to channel magic through Saphiria? Perhaps he could use her spells, too.

"What are its limits?" Dimitry asked.

"I'm not sure." The kitten in Saphiria's pocket squeaked as she approached the window. "Artifacts are few and even fewer know of their uses. I hesitated to give you the band at first, but with untold numbers of heathens, I fear we must tempt fate. Let’s proceed with caution."

"You talk about caution after you stick it on me?"

“I’m sorry.”

Dimitry sighed. “Precious, you’ve been around a century or two. Know anything about artifacts?”

“You think I’d stay around the Church long enough to find out? All I know is they’ve been digging in those dungeon pits for a long, long time.”

Crap. The Church used not only mysterious artifacts, rainbow enchantments, and spell tablets, but they also had the time and manpower to experiment with them all. Hopefully, they would continue to stay far away from Malten. Perhaps Dimitry could assemble a team to explore Volmer’s dungeon in their absence.

Saphiria glanced back at Dimitry. Her indigo eyes beckoned him closer. Saving his worries for later, he joined her by the window. They watched a moonlit city and the shadowy figures roaming its streets.

“Have you noticed?” Saphiria asked in a quiet tone. “There were fewer nobles at the summit than usual.”

“Yeah. The queen predicted as much.”

“It is inevitable whenever a new power arises.”

“I’m not too worried about them,” Dimitry said. “Lukas will force them to show their heads eventually, and when they do, Precious will tell us what they’re thinking.”

“So you seek my wisdom?” Precious rubbed two forefingers together like a scheming mobster. “Everything has its price.”

Dimitry smirked. “Good thing grapes are cheap.”

“… Maybe it’s time for a price hike.”

“If it is necessary,” Saphiria said, “I will handle any unwieldy vassals.”

“Please avoid killing potentially useful people,” Dimitry said. “Some nobles might just be misinformed.”

“I do not speak solely of murder. I speak of diplomacy, trade, union. Whatever it takes to stabilize this kingdom from within so that you may improve the lives of all without worry.”

“So you’ve resolved to become the queen after all.”

“I’ll become whoever I must to prevent the tragedy you saw downstairs. I am not foolish enough to think I can care for every orphan, but if I taper the source—heathens, crime, and famine—fewer children will lose their parents. I must expand my power if I am to aid them.”

Dimitry admired the determination in her poise before nudging her arm. “Remember what we talked about in Coldust? Told you you’d find your place in the world.”

“You were right.” She looked up at him with big indigo eyes. “But don’t you think it is odd?”

“What is?”

“Mother claimed I was to become the archbishop of Malten, yet you have taken my place.”

“Oh. Do you want to trade titles?”

Saphiria giggled and shook her head. “Nope.”

Dimitry chuckled, his eyes absently traversing the greenlit cityscape before him. His gaze stopped at the towers of the crumbling western gatehouse. “Yeah… looks like there’s plenty of work waiting for both of us.”

“Indeed. And we’ve already squandered too much time on politics.”

“Only one thing to do, then. Ready to get started?”

Marching across the attic, she beckoned him to follow. “I know just the way. Let's be swift."

"Sounds like you've got an idea, but do you mind telling me where we're going this time?"

“Mother's planning room. We’ll need her resources, and it'll be in her best interest to oblige.”

Though snow piled on roofs and the recent night of repentance marked the start of Wispwind—winter’s coldest month—Sigmund felt only warm breaths on his neck. Expectant murmurs came from all around, and the elbows of a growing crowd pushed and shoved from every side. Above the expectant chaos, countless heads peered from the shuttered windows of buildings surrounding the market square.

How many have gathered to hear Her Royal Highness and the apostle speak? Five hundred? A thousand? Two thousand?

No.

More.

Much more.

All kinds were in attendance. Laborers, artisans, watchmen, merchants, sorceresses, and even knightly lords. The wealthy watched from tavern balconies, while the serfs—who have poured in through the eastern gatehouse since morning—pooled alongside Sigmund and the other refugees in the market square.

Never had the announcements of town criers caught so many ears, but today was special. Today, everyone knew the heartening news held merit.

Enchantments that cured wicked maladies.

The pacification of aquatic demons that returned fish to the realm.

Weapons that crackled with lightning and purged the corrupted.

A man who channeled Zera’s kindness through the gifting of food.

All evidence suggested the princess had returned with Zera’s blessing like the queen said she would. At first, Sigmund dismissed the queen’s promise as a desperate attempt at maintaining stability in a dying kingdom. He was still a silversmith living in Einheart when rumors of the heiress’s disappearance had begun to spread. Eight years have passed since. After so much time, how could one still have hope in the princess’s return?

But the apostle was real. Zera’s thunder was real. The swift death of a heathen raid on the night of repentance was real. The princess’s return had to be real, too!

Realizing once more that salvation had come, exuberance surged through Sigmund’s limbs as if to pump his fists in the air, but he suppressed the urge to cheer. Silent reverence seemed more fitting. Why risk offending Zera, who doubtless watched on from Remora’s core?

Among the crowd, many heads turned south.

Sigmund stood on the tips of his toes, struggling to peek past a sea of curious observers.

A parade of knights emerged from the street leading to the castle. Their steel armor glistening in the sparse afternoon sunlight, they marched in a circular formation. Twelve wore the insignias of various noble households, while eight closer to the center brandished the red and gold crest of the royal guard.

In the middle of them were two court sorceresses, an apostle with brown-blond hair, and a royal whose crimson dress complimented the gleam of her golden crown. Her indigo eyes were stern yet kind. His poise was caring yet determined.

Sigmund gasped. The apostle and the princess were walking side by side! And he got to see it!

The knights stopped outside a house with fancy stained glass windows. Cloaked figures and sorceresses streamed from the alleys to form a perimeter. Her Royal Highness, the apostle, and both court sorceresses entered the building only to reemerge from a fourth-floor veranda overlooking the market square.

An aged court sorceress held up her hand, and silence took the crowd.

“Good people of Malten,” the princess’s voice carried powerfully on the wind. “I am Saphiria Pesce, Malten’s divinely ordained heiress. On behalf of Her Majesty Queen Amelie, I have spent the last eight years wandering Remora in search of Zera’s light.”

Whispers rose from the crowd.

Sigmund’s eyes widened. So that was why the princess had vanished!

“And I have found it,” she continued. “Or rather, Zera’s light has found me. Today, I share that light with you, my fellow countrymen! May The Most Revered Dimitry Stukov guide us as Celeste did centuries ago!”

Knights, peasants, refugees, and everyone in between raised an upturned hand to pay their respects to Malten’s new archbishop. Sigmund was among the first.

For a while, the apostle watched the crowd with wavering pale green eyes. He cleared his throat. “We, ah… we have all seen Malten for what it is: overcrowded and destitute. I won’t stand here and lie, tell you this kingdom’s future is bright when the next night of repentance might be its last.”

Waves of despair washed over Sigmund. Doomsaying wasn’t what he came here to hear. The fear that gnawed at him for months had returned. Heathens would soon consume Malten, and Sigmund would have to trek through another beast and bandit plagued woodlands to find safety, only for heathens to eventually corrupt that land, too. There would never be a home for him.

“Food shortages starve our neighbors,” the apostle said. “A plague runs rampant in the countryside. We are crumbling under the tides of an unwinnable war against heathens while the Church scoffs at our misery from the safety of their walled cities. They abandoned us when we needed them most, stealing from us Celeste’s guidance, and now we suffer for their heresy.”

As scattered boos and curses pierced the silence, Sigmund clenched his teeth. He once had a house, a shop, and a fiancée. Now his hometown lay in ruins, and Lorriane was gone. The Church took everything from him.

“Zera wept at the Church’s betrayal. In her grief, she sent me to Remora with a vision of what Malten could be.”

Her Royal Highness watched the clouds as if scrying the future from beyond their dimly lit underbellies. “The celestial bodies, too, speak of a future. A future where Malten is prosperous. Expanding. Reincarnates into the golden center of artisan pride and craftsmanship it once was.”

Arms wrapped around two young boys, a woman in a matted dress looked up. Her downtrodden expression flickered.

“A splendorous future is indeed possible,” the apostle said. “However, though I am a messenger blessed with a fraction of her wisdom, the mission Zera entrusted to me is too great. I cannot bless these lands alone.” He paused. “But we can.”

“We?” Sigmund muttered.

The chatter grew louder, and a lady raised an infant over her head. “Your Holiness! It would honor me if my daughter was baptized as a priestess!”

Dozens offered their children to help the apostle complete his mission, while others volunteered themselves to serve as Zera’s Chosen.

“I don’t mean your children,” the apostle said. “I mean you. All of you. From farmers to sorceresses, everyone has a role in Zera’s plan. Do you have a talent? It can be used to purge the corruption. Do you have a skill? If not, one will be given to you. Those of you who are weary of losing their loved ones and possessions, it is time to forge your fates. With divine weaponry and your own two hands, you will obliterate the heathens, purge the unblessed lands, and build a home for yourselves. You will run no longer!”

As people hooted and hollered all around him, Sigmund’s jaw dropped. Would he get to wield Zera’s Thunder? Found a new shop? Start a family? The forgotten ambition of years past reignited, burning deep within his chest.

“And while the western lands are cleansed and colonized,” the princess said, “the rest of the kingdom, too, shall grow. I vow to reclaim the lost fields. To protect those who cannot defend themselves. To restore honor to this kingdom’s craftsmen. Let it be known that anyone or anything that seeks to impede progress will be struck down with furious vengeance!”

A blacksmith waved his sooty apron over his head as the chanting of city dwellers joined the optimistic chorus.

With all hesitation gone from his pale green eyes, the apostle’s gaze beamed down on the ecstatic crowd. “It is time, my faithful, to rally around a new holy doctrine. A holy doctrine that doesn’t leave anyone behind or differentiate between the divine and the commoner. No longer will you be at the mercy of a Church that shirks its duties. The people themselves will enact Zera’s blessing and erect a barrier on the coast. United as one, let us reclaim the prosperity that is rightfully ours!”

Thousands of war cries erupted into an explosive cacophony that conspired to shatter Sigmund’s eardrums. Without realizing it, he was shouting alongside the others.

Hope had truly come to Malten.

End of Volume 1

Table of Contents

- Table Of Contents -
0. Setting The Board
1. Woodpusher
2. Ravenfall
3. Unemployed Surgeon
4. Damn Leeches
5. Back Alley Physician
6. Monopoly
7. Invisibility Experiments
8. A Humble Heist
9. Puncture Wound
10. Tenebrae
11. A Job Complete
12. Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap
13. Peter Pan, Take Her Back
14. Night of Repentance
15. Ye Olde Biochemistry
16. Doubled Pawns
17. Isekai Anatomy 101
18. Fire Opals from Africa
19. Rickety Infrastructure
20. Public Entertainment
21. Magic Toilet Paper Cartons
22. A Not So Humble Heist

23. The Pious, the Enslaved, and the Desperate

24. Rich Noble Slave, Poor Noble Freewoman
25. An Empty Bliss Beyond This World
26. Mutated Turkey
27. Dirt Cartography
28. Crawling Rocks
29. Can I Kill You? Please?
30. Rude Reception
31. The Emblem's Guidance
32. Ominous Algae
33. Sympathetic Assassin
34. Light Through Dark
35. Gift
36. Bon Voyage
37. Green Water, Green Sky
38. Whale Watching Cruise
39. Shackles Unbound
40. High Vol Mileage
41. Cold Desert
42. Travel Arrangements
43. Wizard's Apprentice
44. Breakthrough
45. Secrets Revealed
46. Ominous Greeting
47. Arrival
48. Once upon a time...
49. Feisty Girl
50. Renovations
51. Family of Sorcerers
52. Ratcatchers
53. Controlled Clinical Trials
54. Employee Training
55. Plagued Plague Doctor
56. Unlicensed Medical Practicioner
57. Enchantment Channeling
58. Phase I Trials
59. Wizard Surgeon
60. Busy Hospital
61. The Royal Offer
62. Potential for Aggressive Expansion
63. Business Negotiations and Promotions
64. Foundations for Healthcare Infrastructure
65. Court Doctor
66. A Princess and a Mine
67. Alien Constructs
68. Meeting With Demons
69. Negotiating With Demons
70. Devil Amongst Demons
71. Discovery
72. Medieval Propaganda
73. World's First Chemistry Lab
74. Sourcing Explosives
75. Spies Hunting Spies
76. Explosives Inept Doctor
77. Thaumaturgical Greenhouse
78. Convincing A Sorceress
79. False Church
80. Flying Devils
81. Improvised Explosive Device
82. Hunting With Grenades
83. Chicken in a Temporal Field
84. Voltech Hand Cannon
85. Black Powder Blast Tattoo
86. Prelude to a Lie
87. Blasphemous Rifle
88. Medieval Combat Medics
89. Military Foundations
90. Painting With Demons
91. Carapaced Devil
92. Anterior Shoulder Dislocation
93. Calculating Opponents
94. Misdirection
95. Last-Ditch Defense
96. Apostle of the Damned
97. Warm Berry Lady
98. All In Gambit
99. Reclaim Your Future