eight through to ten.

Trial and Error
Eyes closed, Randy shook out his hands to relax them and exhaled. Become invisible, but not incorporeal. Do it. Just do it.
He looked down at himself and saw a pocket protector tucked into a button-down shirt with a coffee stain on the sleeve and a pair of khakis with identical splatters on the ankles.
Another failure. 
That didn’t mean he was crazy, though. No, it just meant that he was doing something wrong this time around. Randy was positive that he hadn’t imagined the incident—he’d gone invisible, just like his Hearthworld main, and the fact that Helen Rose had been there only cemented that fact into his head. It had occurred to him that, perhaps, Helen Rose was somehow playing a prank on him—maybe in cahoots with Danny?—but to what end? And how would she even have known Randy was going to get a coffee in the elevator lobby at all? Even Randy hadn’t known he was going to be there, and that didn’t account for what he’d witnessed with his own eyes. 
A prank didn’t fit the data set. There were too many variables and the equations just didn’t square. 
Besides, Helen Rose wouldn’t do that. She was better than that. 
Randy also considered the possibility that he was dreaming, facedown on his desk with drool soaking his workstation, but quickly dismissed the notion. For one, he could remember his morning with perfect clarity and it had followed the mundane laws of logic for IRL. For another, when he cracked the pages of the various books lining his desk, he had no problem reading them—a known impossibility when in a dream state. Still, just to make sure, Randy pinched himself, flinching from the pain. 
Definitely awake.
Which all added up to one undeniable truth: He hadn’t imagined the incident. He had turned invisible. And if it had happened, then there had to be a way to reproduce the effect. He’d been trying for the last three hours and, so far, been wildly unsuccessful. But that just meant there was a variable he was missing.
His gaze landed on his shelf of beloved manuals. Razor straight. Steadfast. He straightened his spine and squared his shoulders. 
I’m a scientist, he reminded himself. A programmer. 
Everything had rules and laws—even magic, if what Roark said was true. 
So far as Randy understood, Roark’s magic functioned much like a string of code did: write out the correct inputs and sequences in the proper order and achieve a given result. Simple. Straightforward. Reasonably rational. The only new input his life had received recently was throwing in his lot with Roark, and so Randy had to assume this new ability was in some way linked to Hearthworld. Therefore, it would make sense for a game-related power to require specific inputs to function properly.
He cast his mind back to the incident in the elevator lobby, searching for anything he may have overlooked. He tried to remember what he’d said. The way he’d felt. What exactly he’d been thinking during the bewildering encounter.
A single word floated to the top of his mind: Fear. 
He’d been petrified in the lobby. Or, at the very least, wildly uncomfortable. Here in his office, shut away from the world, he felt safe and secure. A newb wading through a beginner zone, cutting down Brewery Rats or Changelings with ease. Perhaps IRL survival instinct was somehow an essential component to the ability. 
Unfortunately, there was only one way to test his hypothesis. 
Licking dry lips and swiping his suddenly sweaty palms along his pants, Randy stood, his chair squeaking. He slipped out from his office, stilling the tremble in his hands, and padded down the hall toward the break room. Toward people and awkward small talk. Arranging another run in with Helen Rose was impractical—maybe even impossible considering she worked on the third floor with the filming and entertainment crew—but casually mingling with his second-floor coworkers was nearly as bad.
The sound of talking and laughing drifted along the corridors, sending goosebumps sprinting along his arms. There was a small nook in the left wall, occupied by a leafy fern nearly as tall as he was. Working quickly, he slipped into the nook, grunting as he shoved his way behind the bulky ceramic pot, batting leafy fronds from his face. The pot rocked out of the groove it had pressed into the carpet, but that would hardly be noticeable from the hallway.
He could do this. He needed to do this. If he could actually use Arboreal Herald abilities like Invisibility here in the real world, that would change everything. With powers like those, he could help Roark save his world—not to mention all the real-world applications. Like avoiding inconvenient human contact or dodging Danny in the hallways.
Licking his lips again, Randy pressed his eyes shut, blocking out the world. Disappear, he told himself as he slowed his breathing, concentrating on the steady rise and fall of his chest. Like in the elevator lobby. Just disappear.
Then he felt it. A weightlessness in his limbs, almost like he was levitating. 
He heard voices coming down the hall.
“I can’t believe you didn’t see it,” Arjun said. “It was on all the news blogs this morning.”
Katia snorted. “I never read those things. They’re so full of crap.”
“Not this.”
“Aliens, dude?” she sneered. “For real?” 
Randy balled his fists up, sweat streaming down his face and coating his shirt.
“Or mutants,” Arjun insisted, the sound of their voice drawing progressively nearer. “The cops weren’t even going to investigate it because the body was found downtown.”
“Then it was probably just another crackhead.”
“No way, it wasn’t even human,” Arjun said. “And get this, there were multiple reports of angels being sighted nearby the same night. Can you believe that? Angels.”
“I can’t believe it, actually,” Katia replied. “Because it’s total bullshit. Angels aren’t real. Neither are aliens or mutants or alternate dimensions. I think reading all that online tabloid garbage has finally rotted your brain. Next you’re going to be saying the whole thing has been covered up by the government or something.”
Shaking with anxiety, Randy pressed his eyes shut tighter, and wrestled the panic welling up inside him. Invisible. Stay invisible. He chanted the words silently like a mantra, too scared to open his eyes or change anything that might break the tenuous spell. Katia and Arjun were less than a few feet away now, their talking the sound of thunder in his ears. 
“Name one other major organization that has the manpower and resources to cover up something like that,” Arjun challenged.
Katia’s answer dripped with exasperation: “Literally every major tech company within ten square miles of us, including FrontFlip.”
“Holy cylons, you’re right! It was the tech companies. We’ve finally gone too…” Arjun trailed off, and Randy had a sneaking suspicion why, “far,” he finished weakly.
Reluctantly, Randy pried his eyes opened and risked a look down. A grimace flashed across Randy’s face when he saw his body in full and vivid color. Even worse, Arjun and Katia were standing directly in front of him, staring at him. 
Arjun let out a low whistle.
“Wow,” Katia said, shaking her head in disbelief. “I can’t even with this.” Without asking for any sort of explanation, she threw her hands into the air and headed down the hallway. “Why the fuck are the techs here all so weird!” she shouted to no one in particular. 
Arjun shot Randy a tight-lipped smile and an awkward half wave, then turned and hustled to catch up. 
“Give the guy a break,” Arjun whispered, though the sound carried easily to Randy’s ears, “word on the street is he’s about to get shit-canned any day.” 
Randy stood there, mortified, wanting to physically sink through the floor and disappear into nothingness. A cold wave of nausea rolled through him like a storm cloud, embarrassment braying in the back of his head. This felt like another nail in the coffin lid. Maybe he had imagined going invisible. Maybe the strain of the last few days had pushed him over the edge and firmly into the territory of a psychotic break.
With a defeated sigh, he pushed past the leafy stalks of the fern, then paused when he realized the fronds of swaying green seemed to be moving all on their own. Pushed by a hand that wasn’t there. 
The breath caught in his throat as he looked down and found his body gone. 
Flabbergasted, he lifted his hand and waved it in front of his face, searching for a blur—for some sign of his digits. Nothing. Gone. But when reached up to adjust his glasses, he had no problem feeling the slick sweat dotting his fingertips. Just like the elevator lobby. Invisible but not incorporeal. He’d done it. He’d replicated the process… 
Admittedly, it would’ve been nice had the effects kicked in about thirty seconds ago before he irrevocably humiliated himself in front of his coworkers, but progress was progress. The fact that he wasn’t going completely insane was also nice. He’d never been good at sports or the life of the party, but his mind had always been the one reliable constant in his life. It was a relief to know that hadn’t abandoned him as well. 
Despite his victory, however, Arjun’s words bounced around inside his skull, word on the street is he’s about to get shit-canned any day.
If that kind of rumor was already circulating among the artists and interns, then there was no doubt his days here at Frontflip were numbered. He’d be lucky to make it through the week. If he had any hope of figuring out what the studio had planned for Roark and the Cruel Citadel, he needed to act fast.
Well, there was no better time than right now, while he was invisible.
Not wanting to waste any of the precious time he might have left, Randy edged out past the fern and beelined for Danny’s office. It was at the end of the hall, a corner VP suite with a view—a terrible view full of more buildings and concrete, but still. It was the best office on the floor. 
Looking sidelong through the open door, Randy could see Danny moving around at his station. And, unbelievable as it seemed, his cloak of invisibility seemed to be holding, since there was no reflection of himself shining in the polished glass surrounding Danny’s office. Randy still had no idea how the ability worked or what its limitations were, so he just hoped the spell would last long enough for him to do what needed doing. 
Silently, Randy posted up outside and waited for the VP of marketing to leave. 
Except Danny seemed to be in no hurry. 
The man watched what sounded like a fail video while whirling around one of those weighted wrist exercise balls, then made a few calls that required him to say “bruh” a lot. The rest of those conversations seemed about as deep as an inflatable kiddie pool. The whole situation served as a blatant reminder that the guy in the office talking about “tits the size of speedbags” and calling his upcoming PTO a “cray-cray vacay” was a VP while Randy—highly educated, overqualified, and hard working—was fortunate to still have a job. Sometimes there was no justice in the world. 
Finally, Danny got off the phone, slapped his desk a few times in a syncopated rhythm, then kicked up out of his chair. He strode out into the hall, snapping his fingers and clapping his hands.
Randy glanced down at his imperceptible limbs, then held his breath and pushed himself back against the wall. Stay invisible. Stay invisible. Stay invisible. He let the mantra flow through him like an unobstructed river. 
“Oh, there better be sashimi for sash-me-me in the caf today,” Danny said as he waltzed right past, never bothering to give Randy a second look.
As soon as the marketing VP rounded the corner and disappeared out of sight, Randy exhaled a lungful of air. This was terrible. Clearly, he was not cut out for this sort of corporate espionage, magical powers or no. In Hearthworld, playing the part of the hero came naturally because there were so few actual consequences. Get dead, respawn. Get caught breaking the law, break out of jail or pay off the guards. But this was real life. He could get fired. Or go to jail. Or be apprehended by the government and experimented on for the rest of his life. 
Doubt gnawed at him and, as it did, his body flickered back into view. The blood drained from Randy’s face as he glanced down at his hands, then back up to see if anyone was around to notice the transformation. The coast was clear, but there was no telling how long it would stay that way. Without his shield of complete anonymity gone, the chances of getting caught were a thousand times higher. The smart thing to do was backpaddled for his office, regroup, and try again once he figured out how to get the invisibility to trigger reliably. 
Except, who knew how long that might take? 
Word on the street is he’s about to get shit-canned any day.
No. He couldn’t turn tail and run. Roark and millions of other people were depending on him, he reminded himself. The mage would never make it back to his home world if Frontflip quarantined him or managed to find a way to wipe his code from the servers.
Pushing away his doubts and fears, Randy grabbed the doorjamb and swung himself into Danny’s office. The place had that feel of recent occupation, like it was just waiting for Danny to return. Or maybe it only seemed like that because the desk was a pig sty. Note pads and sticky notes and chewed-on styluses littered the desktop. The wrist exercise ball’s LEDs were still flashing on the desk, and another fail video was paused on the display. A portly middle-aged man was doubled over, a scorer ball hitting him squarely in the groin, a pained expression plastered across his face. 
Randy shook his head in disbelief. Danny hadn’t even bothered to lock his station before leaving.
Well, one man’s unprofessionalism was another man’s passport to locked down information.
Randy slipped into Danny’s rolling chair, then jumped as it automatically adjusted to his posture, height, and weight. Randy frowned down at the buttery leather cushion. His chair couldn’t do any of that. Honestly, he didn’t even realize they made chairs that could do that. 
“Not the time to get off track,” he whispered to himself. “Focus.”
Scooting up to the station, Randy found the password sticky note. Danny’s was Dan=aBaller100%THUGLYFE there in clear black pen for any passersby to see. Of course, with the station unlocked and unattended, he didn’t even need it.
“Thank you, Danny,” he muttered under his breath, reaching for the display.
 “Dude, what the hell are you doing?” Danny barked.
Randy’s head snapped up, eyes wide, his heart trying to punch a hole in his pocket protector. He grabbed his chest.
Danny loomed over him like a final boss, jaw clenched, thunder in his eyes.
“I, um…” Randy swallowed hard. He was desperately scanned the desk for anything he could pretend to have been reaching for. Anything but the touch display.
“Why are you in my office?” Danny demanded, folding his arms across his broad chest.
Randy grabbed the While You Were Away message pad and held it up. “Katia told me, uh, that there was going to be cake in the lounge tomorrow for Ada Lovelace Day, so I just wanted to let you know… so you, uh, didn’t eat too much at lunch tomorrow. Heh, yeah, got to save room for that cake.” 
“What are you trying to say, Rando?” Danny let his arms drop and looked down at his flat stomach. “Ya boy’s in great shape. I hit the gym every day.” He leaned across the desk. “Unlike some scrawny little losers I could name.”
Randy blinked. “I wouldn’t say I’m—”
“I could eat ten pieces of cake and not gain an ounce. I got metabo like a mofo.” The VP of marketing came around the desk and hooked a thumb at Randy. “You better save me a piece, Rando, or I’m gonna be pissed.”
With stiff, jerky movements, Randy lurched to his feet. He felt clumsier than the early prototypes for robotic dogs.
“Save you a piece?” he asked, baffled.
“Of cake.” Danny blew past him and dropped into the chair, restarting the video. “It’s your neck on the line if I don’t get one.”
“Oh, right!” Randy backed toward the door. “The cake. For ALD. Yeah, I’ll—” 
He bumped into something solid. The door. He corrected course and kept going. 
“I’ll save you one,” he finished weakly. He forced laugh and tried pointing finger guns at the marketing VP. “I’ll save you two!”
Danny ignored him.
Randy escaped into the hall, letting the dual guns drop. They were stupid anyway. His legs and arms shook as he beelined for his office.
That was close. Too close. His shirt was soaked with anxious sweat. How in the world did secret agents do stuff like this every day? Their lives must be a constant battle against dehydration.
“I’ll save you two?” Randy muttered under his breath, disgusted. Now he had to buy a cake to keep Danny from figuring out he had lied. “Moron.”
He headed back to his office, making a mental note to find a bakery that sold premade cakes.
His first mission was a bust, but that didn’t mean every single one would be. He had become invisible not once but twice now. Not a fluke. 
Now he just needed to figure out how to control this new power. And, in science, the only way forward was more trial and error.Page Break
Opening Salvo
Roark jogged toward the portal plate leaving the marketplace with Zyra, Ick, and Yevin hard on his heels. As they ran, he cast the Level 8 Alarm Spell he’d put in place for just such an attack. Warhorns blared throughout the Cruel Citadel, shaking the place to its foundations. Though he’d felt in a bit of a rut since his battle with Bad_Karma, he hadn’t been idle. In a war for survival, idle hands soon became corpse-cold hands.  No, he’d been preparing mercilessly for the day Lowen finally came after him. Hopefully all his hard work would be enough.
“Heralds?” Griff asked, falling in with them, his trusty short sword and scarred buckler at the ready.
“Lowen’s striking the first blow,” Roark replied with a scowl.
Kaz rounded a corner and almost slammed headlong into him.
“Kaz will crush their delicate bird bones!” He gave a mighty swing of his enormous Legendary Meat Tenderizer, ruffling Roark’s hair around his horns. “We must defend the Citadel from the evil Heralds at all costs!”
Guilt twitched in Roark’s mind for a heartbeat, and he touched the World Stone Pendant hidden beneath his leathers. They weren’t coming for the Cruel Citadel; they were coming for the pendant. Whatever happened today, it would be because he was using his friends like pawns to fight his battles for him.
“They’ll bleed like anyone else,” Zyra interrupted his momentary brooding. She produced a series of sickly green vials and handed them around. “More, if each of you equip this to your weapons.”
Roark shook off the guilt and took his poison, glancing for a moment at its specifications.
╠═╦╬╧╪
Gushing Death 
Item Type: Ultra-Rare Anticoagulation Poison  
Level Requirement: 17
Effect 1: 8HP per second Bleeding Damage for 30 seconds or until the corresponding Antidote is consumed.
Effect 2: Target is 2x more susceptible to poisons, diseases, and blood-based magical attacks for 30 seconds or until the corresponding Antidote is consumed.
Effect 3: 5% chance of blood spewing from target’s eyes, nose, and mouth when killed within 30 seconds of contact.
╠═╦╬╧╪
He grinned over at Zyra. “You’re terrifying.”
The hooded Reaver took a pleased bow without breaking stride.
Mac met them just outside the marketplace. In spite of the phosphorescent spores covering the Young Turtle Dragon’s shell and stuck in his beard, he cut an intimidating figure galloping up to them. His charge lit up the glowing green grass around him and elicited a frantic melody like shattering glass. A bloodthirsty growl swelled from his scaly throat and he loosed a gout of black flame toward the ceiling. It was as if the canny beast could sense that Roark’s mortal enemy had arrived.
Roark slapped him heartily on the shell, infusing his voice with confidence he didn’t feel. 
“Let’s kill some Heralds, boy.”
They took a portal plate up to the Citadel’s first floor and rushed into the entry hall, poisoned weapons at the ready.
“FOR THE CITADEL AND THE SALT!” Kaz bellowed, raising his weapon high as he searched for targets to unleash his wrath upon.
But the entry hall was empty.
Yevin looked around hopefully. “False alarm?”
“No.” Roark shook his head. “Druz and her patrol should be—”
The clash of battle drifted down the entryway stairs. It was coming from outside.
“The bailey,” Griff said at once.
Kaz made a lunge for the stairs, most of the others following the Mighty Gourmet’s lead, but Griff darted in front of them. At the same moment, Zyra stepped out of a puff of inky shadow beside the grizzled trainer, Cursed Longknives dripping poison as she helped blocking the path outside.
“Use your brains,” she said sharply. “It’s a trap.”
“They want to draw us outside where flight has the advantage,” Griff said matter of factly.
Based on the maneuvering Roark had seen in their brief foray into the Vault of the Radiant Shield, Griff was likely right. The Heralds’ attack style relied entirely on their flying, and the Vault had been built to reflect that—high ceilings and open spaces with ample room for aerial maneuvering. After seeing the Vault’s layout, Roark had redesigned the Cruel Citadel to have almost claustrophobically low ceilings. Save for the Dungeon Lord’s Throne Room and the wide-open spaces of the fifth floor, Kaz couldn’t even stand up straight in the rest of the Citadel without knocking his head against the rough stone overhead. 
Roark cursed under his breath. All of that redesigning and planning, worthless. Lowen was a step ahead of him, ordering his attackers to stay outside and draw the Trolls out. And obviously, it had worked.
“But Druz and the first floor patrol…” Kaz looked desperately up at the door to the bailey. “They’re defending the Citadel! And the Shambling Revenants from the graveyard—”
“Don’t be stupid,” Zyra said. “They’ll respawn.”
Kaz advanced a step toward the hooded Reaver, gigantic fists tightening around the grip of his hammer. “So will we.”
“Not with our above-cap levels,” she retorted.
“Kaz doesn’t care about levels!” He stomped a huge foot, cracking a paving stone in half. “Kaz’s friends and allies are dying!”
Roark shoved between the two of them.
“The specialty forces will arrive soon,” he promised, voice calm and confident—woefully at odds with how he actually felt. “There’s no possible way they could miss the alarms. And, if they don’t, their treaties with the Troll Nation will be broken, and they’ll be Cursed.”
Kaz stared down at Roark, mouth agape. “But…” His eyes bounced from Roark to the sound of the battle. “But…”
“Just another few moments, Kaz.” Roark swallowed hard, the sharp pang of betrayal twisting his guts. There was nothing he wanted more than to race up the stairs and rip the wings from the Heralds’ backs, but he couldn’t waste the precious resources he’d so carefully cultivated for the fight with Lowen. “Please. Just give the other dungeons a few more moments.”
Kaz’s ears drooped. “Okay. For Roark, Kaz will wait. But only for a moment.”
Luckily, the specialty forces from their allied dungeons began arriving soon after. 
The unit was about twenty-five strong, all at or near their various Evolutionary level caps, and all with unique specializations. Werebeasts—hulking, humanoid creatures of fur and fang—appeared, all armed with heavy duty crossbows as large as ballistae. Those crossbows were of Roark’s design, and fired custom bolts fitted with a long, thick cable. Thursr Knights and Reaver Champions rushed in, bearing hooked halberds and scythe-bladed short swords on their hips. Like the crossbows and bolts, the halberds were Roark’s handiwork, sporting a loop of razor wire instead of a spike at the top, and a trigger which would cause the wire to suddenly snap taught, catching a limb inside. 
All designed to pull Heralds to the ground, should they somehow gain the air. As for the scythe-bladed swords, they were built with the hacking power of a falcata and the sharpness of a razor, calculated to shear off wings with a single stroke, grounding their enemies indefinitely.
A regiment of Smoky Djinn, wiry Reaver Shaman, and bulky Thursr Elementals were equipped with special illusion-strengthening circlets Roark had Enchanted himself, and squad of enormous Greater Bloodleeches, bore huge, heavy shields, which snapped into place to create barriers over and around the vulnerable spellcasters. The last to arrive were the pair of Mind- Mantids, on loan from Ko the Faceless. Their special variety of magick dealt Psionic Damage, something Divine mobs were especially vulnerable to.
A rumbling, buzzing song started up as Ick raised all of his arms and opened his mandibles, casting a buff over the entire roomful of combatants. A scrap of parchment appeared in Roark’s vision detailing the effects of the spell.
[You have been temporarily Fortified! Dexterity and Strength increased by 50% for 32 seconds.]
On the opposite side of the entry hall, Yevin threw out his arms, adding his Paragron magicks to the din. 
[Your skin has been converted to Ironwood! You take 50% less Piercing and Slashing Damage for 45 seconds.]
Finished, the Paragon and Nocturnus gave Roark a nod.
“Squad one of shield bearers and crossbows up the stairs,” Roark ordered.
“With Kaz!” The Mighty Gourmet shouted, barreling up the stairs before Roark could stop him.
“Fine.” Roark turned back to the rest of the forces. “Everyone else take your positions at the portal plates! Casters get to a shield bearer as soon as you’re transported.”
While the first squad crashed up the stairs and spilled into the bailey—drawing attention to themselves—Roark and the rest stepped onto their designated portal plates. The distraction was in full swing when they ported into their prearranged spots around the decrepit remains of an ancient cathedral that stood watch over the entrance to the Citadel.
The clash was in full swing, and it was chaos.
Though there were only ten heralds, each one was a level 99, just as Randy had reported, and their monstrous levels showed in the sheer carnage they caused. The bailey ground was littered with pieces of Shambling Revenants, gore smearing the walls, and several of Druz’s patrol were already down for respawn. One was hewed cleaned down the middle from head to groin like a piece of cordwood. The first floor overseer herself was in the center of the battle with Kaz, swiping and slashing at the winged menace as they darted in from above. Huge Bloodleech shield bearers did their best to block the advances of the Heralds while the werecreatures’ oversized crossbows fired all around, the twang of strings filling the air.
But something was wrong. 
The bolts weren’t penetrating deeply enough into the Heralds’ golden skin. As soon as one was pinned, the crossbowman would give a pull on the cable, only for the bolt to jerk out of its target, setting the Herald free once more. A design fail that fell squarely on Roark’s shoulders.
Roark had built redundancies into his system, though. 
All around the inner bailey, the Troll Nation’s forces appeared in flashes of light. Spellcasters raised their hands to the dark, foggy sky, hiding as many of the troops as they could behind careful illusions. Others cast sophisticated glamours, summoning ghoulish apparitions that appeared solid but were as ephemeral as the misty clouds above. Distraction and misdirection was the greatest strength of the underdog, and Roark was nothing if not a well-seasoned underdog. 
With a thought, Roark pulled his Initiate’s Spell Book from his Inventory. Numbness and tingling washed down his left hand as the book hovered open over his palm. Although he’d died many, many times since his battle with Bad_Karma—repeatedly dropping him back down to his level-cap—he’d made some impressive gains in his Spellcrafting, pushing the skill up to level 13. As a result, he had ten Level One spell slots—the maximum number—seven Level Two’s, six Level Three’s, five Level Four’s, four Level Five slots, three Level Six slots, two Level Seven slots, and slot at both Level Eight and Nine. 
Although his Infernal Dungeon Lord spells were worthless against the Herald’s, who had Divine Immunity to Infernal Magicks, Roark still had a great many options as a Hexorcist.
With a flick of his hand, he cast Level 2 Hazy Smoke spell, further obscuring the inner bailey from prying eyes above. It was always possible the Heralds would be able to see through the other casters’ illusions and glamours if they had a high enough Intelligence, but the Smoke was no illusion. Roark’s team was also equipped with enchanted pendants that allowed them to peer through the haze without issue. 
That done, he crouched and broke right, heading for a partially collapsed column nearby, taking cover behind the stony debris while he prepared his next spell. A level eight Storm of Fire and Ice. 
[An Icy Torrential Downpour falls, depleting Magick of all enemy targets within a thirty-foot radius of the caster by (5 x Cursed! level of caster) points/second for 30 seconds; enemies suffer the effects of an Incendiary Burst, causing 15 points of fire damage (+2 burn damage/sec for 30 seconds) on contact.]
Overhead, the roiling clouds began to unleash fat droplets of frozen rain which exploded on impact—cracks and booms filling the night sky like peals of thunder, accompanied by flashes of brilliant white light, illuminating the Heralds above. The angelic-winged villains responded exactly as Roark expected, driven toward the ground where the specialty halberds could be employed by his forces. 
But the Heralds hit back just as hard. Lances of golden light fell like blazing meteors, slamming into the ground and kicking up swirls of dust and debris. The golden lances cut through the illusionary ghouls, banishing them in an instant. 
A Reaver Shaman, not quite quick enough to find cover, was burned to a cinder, the golden light eating through flesh and scorching bone as she screamed.   
A split second later, the Heralds appeared in all their glory, descending toward the ground, flaming scimitars clutched in one hand, spells burning brightly in the other. Bows strings twanged all around the bailey and spells flew from the Psionic Mantids and Reaver Shamans, but the Heralds avoided each with ease—as lithe and agile as sparrows, picking off moths in the late summer.
A woman with raven’s black hair and ochre wings seemed to pick Roark out of the haze and chaos without the slightest bit of trouble. At once, she swooped in low, launching a javelin of golden light straight at his head.Page Break
Hasty Retreat
From past experience, Roark knew his Infernal shield wouldn’t be up to the task of stopping a Divine spell, so he sidestepped right, letting the javelin whoosh by him, scorching his face in the passing. He responded with a simple fireball spell, launched directly into the Herald’s face. 
The orange ball of flame landed with a sizzle, but she shrugged the blow off as though he’d hit her with a snowball. It did, however, buy Roark enough him to ready his Peerless Rapier and assume the Terza Guardie—a perfect position for a robust counterattack. 
Now at close range, the Herald lashed out with her flaming scimitar, a snarl of contempt distorting her otherwise angelic features. His rapier wasn’t strong enough to hold up under a direct blow from the heavy curved blade, but Roark pulled his body out of line, Girata, deflected the scimitar with a flick of his wrist, and then executed a flawless lightning fast dal polso, dal nodo della mano.— The tip of his blade opened a gash across her vulnerable belly. 
Her filigreed Health vial dropped by a fraction as molten gold rained down on him in place of blood. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. She may have had the advantage in level, but it was clear that Roark was by far the superior swordsmen. 
She seemed to realize it too, since she beat her wings frantically, trying to open distance between them so she could go back to lobbing deadly Divine spells from afar. 
Not quickly enough, though.
Roark pressed the attack, lunging forward, blade flashing. In the corner of his eye, Roark saw Zyra and a cadre of razor-wire halberd bearers puff in and out of the shadows. One lanky-limbed Reaver Champions shot in at Roark’s side, hooking the fleeing Herald around the ankle with his razor wire. The line snapped tight just as planned. The metal wire, supernaturally enchanted and fortified, bit into her golden flesh with ease, drawing a bright line of molten gold blood. 
Rather than pulling the winged creature to the ground, however, the Reaver Champion could only hold on as the Herald finally disengaged and darted into the black sky, lifted by her enormous ochre wings. Up, up, up the Herald rose. Moments later, the Reaver let out a bloody wail as he plunged to his death, crushing a Bloodleech beneath him in a wet, red explosion.
“Seven Hells,” Roark cursed, mind whirling as he surveyed the battlefield.
Even with their fortified Strength and Dexterity, the same thing was happening across the bailey. Knights, Champions, and Werebeasts were abruptly torn from the ground the moment they managed to snare a Herald. The swirling fog covering the ground was soon interrupted all over with piles of bloody meat and shattered bones, and more would follow if he didn’t do something quickly.

Inspiration flitted through his thoughts, though it was a gamble that would be as likely to damn them as save them. But if he stood around and did nothing, they would all die, and that was a certainty. Better to take the risk.
Stowing his sword, Roark drew a quill from his inventory and quickly jotted down a spell in an empty level one slot. Spectral Hands, though slightly altered. 
[A field of spectral hands erupts from the ground, grabbing and holding any ally under level 36 for 30 sec – (1 sec x opponent’s character level), in exchange for 1 HP x caster’s character level.]
Roark activated the spell the moment the last period annotated the page; the dusty parchment ignited in a flash of pale blue light, and his Health dipped a few points in response.
Ghostly hands ending in long, spindly fingers erupted from the floor, grabbing at the feet and ankles of the Troll Nation’s troops, anchoring them in place—though also crippling their ability to dodge or maneuver. The Herald’s, no longer able to effortlessly pull the halberd bearers from the ground, instead turned to using their deadly spells at range, hurling bolts of brilliant gold and summoning burning white rain that scorched flesh like acid. “Cowards!” Kaz bellowed, shaking his Legendary Meat Tenderizer at the sky. “Flutter down here and face Kaz like a mob!”
A trio of Heralds darted in from behind him, one knocking Druz aside, and the other two grabbing Kaz. Though the Knight Thursr should have been mired in place by the ghostly hands, the sheer brute force of two high-level Herald’s effortlessly ripped him from the hands’ grasp, pulling Kaz up into the sky, huge feet dangling and kicking.
“No!” Roark grabbed his Bow of the Fleet-Fingered Hunter and fired off exploding arrows after the Heralds, but they shrugged off the blasts as though they were no more than the pesky buzzing of summer flies.
Running, Roark opened his leathery wings and launched himself at a glowing red Updraft Arrow, swapping out his Initiate’s Spell book for his Peerless Rapier and Enchanted Kaiken Dagger. The battle grew smaller and smaller below as he beat against the thin air of the bailey to follow the Heralds who had whisked Kaz away in their iron grips. Fury burned in Roark’s chest as he followed their trail—he’d lost too many friends to the Ustari thugs, and he wouldn’t lose another. Certainly not Kaz.
Thin, spidery white lettering appeared over their heads as he approached. Nameplates declaring one Herald [Viago] and the other [Oasin].
Roark didn’t recognize the second man, but Viago was a name familiar to all of Traisbin. The man was one of Marek’s fiercest berserkers.
“On loan from the Tyrant King, mate?” Roark shouted up at the russet-winged Viago. “Where’s your infamous howling axe?”
The taunts drew the berserker’s attention, just as Roark had hoped. Viago spun around to face him, jerking the other Herald and Kaz to a halt, their forms silhouetted against the silvery moon.
“Hand over the World Stone, rebel trash, and you can have your… whatever this thing is back,” Viago shouted.
“Come and take it,” Roark snarled, brandishing his dual weapons in invitation.
The russet-winged berserker grinned. “My pleasure.”
Viago dove at Roark like a falcon, leaving Kaz in the hands of the other Herald. Unable to support the weight of the enormous Knight Thursr by himself, the man dropped the flailing Troll immediately. Kaz plummeted like a stone, great arms pinwheeling, Legendary Meat Tenderizer lashing out ineffectively.
“Roark, help Kaz!” he screamed, eyes wide in terror.
Viago was coming for Roark with hate burning in his face like a torch, but Roark didn’t hesitate—if he had to choose between saving himself and his friend, it would be his friend. In a heartbeat, Roark traded his weapons for his Initiate’s Spellbook and scribbled out a level 7 spell he’d never tried before. A levitation spell of sorts. 
The target is weightless for 1 minute.
With a flash, the spell took, slightly altered by the arbitrary rules that governed Hearthworld.
[Congratulations! You have inscribed a Level 7 Featherweight Spell. Target’s weight is reduced by 75% for 45 seconds.]
Roark fired the spell at Kaz, grinding his teeth at the restrictions. All he could do was hope that hitting the ground at a quarter his weight would be enough to save his friend from turning into a red smear on the bailey floor below. If not, he could apologize when Kaz respawned in two hours.
The spell had cost Roark precious seconds, though. 
Viago slammed into him with a force like a rampaging Rotbeest. They tumbled through the sky, feathery and leathery wings catching the air at odd angles. The berserker’s fists pummeled Roark’s head and neck. They should have been too close for the blows to have any strength behind them, but the berserker was glowing with the same red aura that surrounded Grozka when she flew into a Bloodrage. Each blow landed with a flash of bloody light, cutting red from Roark’s filigreed health vial left and right. Not only a Bloodrage, then, but some sort of pugilistic enhancement on the Herald’s gauntlets.
The world spun and lights danced before Roark’s eyes from the force of the punches. He managed to dig his Kaiken dagger out and jab it in between Viago’s ribs, but the blade hardly touched the Herald’s health. Zyra’s poison made the red bar over Viago’s head flash briefly green, but the weakness hardly lasted more than a moment before it was red once more. Roark jammed the kaiken dagger in again and again, but the berserker only chuckled, still thrashing away at him.
Roark’s mind churned as he fought to stay conscious. His Infernal spells would be useless against a Divine creature, so no help from that quarter. In theory Hex-Touch could work—but since Viago was a level 99, his Intelligence would easily be higher than Roark’s, even if the berserker had hardly invested in it. There was also Hex-Armor, but Roark couldn’t afford the loss of 5 Constitution that spell required to cast. But he could use Hex-Aura. Maybe they had even fallen far enough by now for the spell to aid some of his allies on the ground.
╠═╦╬╧╪
Hex-Aura
Those who would dare lash out at the Hexorcist best be ready to taste the sting of Cursed! retribution. The caster emits a 30-foot radius aura, which moves with them for the duration of the spell and effects all allies in the area. Enemies take 2n Damage (where n equals Character Level of the Attacker) when they deal physical melee damage to those protected by Hex-Aura. Hex-Aura is a Level Four Spell and can only be inscribed in Level Four Spell Slots; Duration, 4 minutes.
╠═╦╬╧╪
With a thought, Roark cast the Curse! on himself, along with a pre-inscribed level four Rebound Spell, which reflected not only magical but physical damage.
[55% of all damage done to target rebounds to the opponent for the next 30 seconds.]
Immediately, the red bar over the Herald’s head dropped by an eighth. Not as much as Roark had hoped, but far more than he’d managed to inflict with his dagger.
“What?” Viago sputtered as his next punch extracted life from his own vial.
“I’ve learned a few new tricks,” Roark rasped through the pain. “Observe.”
Roark nullified his rebound spell—this close, it would only backfire on him—then triggered the Curse Chain on his leathers. Storm of Fire and Ice exploded outward from his chest, blasting Viago with a gout of flame and sudden torrent of icy water at once. The force blew the Herald away from Roark and singed his feathers.
Pulling free his Peerless Slender Rapier once more, Roark opened his wings and angled himself onto a nearby Updraft to stop his fall.
Viago’s face twisted into a grin. He’d found a red Updraft as well and was currently drawing even with Roark once again.
“Lowen said you was an arrogant one, but I didn’t think it’d be this easy to get you to give up your secret abilities,” he said, pulling a golden horn from one of his pouches.
“Come closer, and I’ll give you another look at them,” Roark snarled, lunging forward, rapier carving right to left in a classic mandritto. 
Viago easily slipped out of blade range, a smug grin on his face. “I don’t think so, trash.” The berserker brought the horn to his lips and blew a two-note blast.
Confused shouting sounded below, then the night was lit with sparkling trails of golden light. The trails shot off toward the horizon.
“I’ll tell Lowen you send your regards,” Viago taunted, poised to beat a hasty retreat. 
He should’ve just ran instead of taking the time to gloat.
“They might,” Roark growled, “but you won’t.”
With hardly a twitch, he fired off a Level 9 Paralyzation spell and a pair of level 6 Fireballs, one right after the other, then darted into Viago’s guard behind them. The spells hit the berserker square in the face, scratching the surface of his red health bar once more, but stopping the motion of his russet wings mid-flap. 
Roark slammed into him a moment behind the spells, skewering the berserker on his rapier, then slamming his dagger home and bearing them both at top speed toward the ground.
They hit like a lightning bolt, throwing up rocks and dust and blowing the ground fog away. Not waiting a moment for the paralyzation to wear off, Roark slashed and hacked and stabbed without a care for proper form or protecting himself. He’d trained all his life in the art of the blade, practicing until the proper footwork forms were ingrained into muscle memory, slaving until his hands bled from thrusts and slashes and parries. But all that was forgotten in the face of his rage and his driving need to finish this quickly, and to hells with finesse. His blades rose and fell, outpacing the thumping of his racing heart, while bright splashes of gold sprayed his chest and face. 
Soon, familiarly smithed blades joined Roark’s own, hacking the Herald nearly to pieces before the last sliver drained out of his health bar.
With a heave, Roark struck the final blow, pinning Viago’s corpse to the ground with his rapier. He stumbled off the Herald’s disfigured corpse and stood, searching the sky for the rest of Lowen’s winged force while he fought for breath.
“They’re gone,” a dusky voice said at his side. Zyra. “They retreated when they heard that trumpet call.”
“They saw Roark’s might and flew away like the scared birds they are,” Kaz sneered. The Mighty Gourmet looked worse for the wear—limping, covered in blood and bruises, and with one of his antlers broken off completely—but he had blessedly survived the fall. 
Roark shook his head. “No. They were never meant to stay for a real fight, Kaz.”
“An expeditionary force.” Griff was cleaning gore from his short sword, his single eye constantly searching the darkness for another attack. “Sent to scout out what sort of defenses we’ve got in place, how many troops we’ve got, any information that could help them in a full-scale battle. Now that they’ve got a look, they’ll be running back to tell their master.”
Roark dragged his forearm across his face, wiping away Viago’s blood. He searched the bailey for any other Heralds taken down during the battle and found only Trolls and mobs from allied dungeons. Even with all their preparations and allies, they hadn’t killed a single other Herald.
If this fight had taught him anything, it was that the Cruel Citadel wasn’t strong enough to withstand a real fight against level 99 enemies. Not by a long shot.
He watched the golden spark trails disappear across the black sky. 
But, Roark thought, there might be a way to get around fighting them. At least for a little while