Chapters one, two and three

Version:1.0 StartHTML:000000174 EndHTML:000161745 StartFragment:000000431 EndFragment:000161713 StartSelection:000000431 EndSelection:000161713 SourceURL:about:blank  ONE:The Dusty MustacheIcy slush squished up around my boots as I threaded my way down one of the narrow, twisting cobblestone streets of Harrowick, searching for the next tavern on my long list of potential taverns. With frost-numb fingers, I pulled a crumpled strip of parchment from my pocket, carefully unfolding it as I scanned the names. The Excited Bee. The Wilted Leaf. The Dwarf’s Beard. On and on they went, scrawled out in loose flowing script, each name stranger than the last. All of them were crossed out, save one. The Dusty Mustache. Cutter had to be there, unless my informant with the Ministry of Whispers had completely missed the mark and he was in a different city entirely. Which would be a disaster. I pulled up my interface with a thought and checked the time, 4:25 PM. Crap. I was cutting it awfully close, and this was one quest I couldn’t afford to fail. Amara would never forgive me. Like literally. She would hold this against me forever, and Cutter probably wouldn’t survive the night. “Come on, Dusty Mustache,” I muttered under my breath, crossing my fingers, “don’t let me down.” The clop of a horse hooves and the creak of wooden wagon wheels filled the air. I pushed over to the gutter of the road, making room for the lumbering cart with its shaggy chestnut mare and solemn-faced Imperial driver, decked out in the typical Legionnaire battle armor. The driver wore a thick, fur lined cloak, the hood pulled up around a weather-creased face to protect him against the cutting, humid chill and the light rain spitting down all over the city. He looked equal parts miserable and pissed—understandable, given how cold and wet out it was—and carried a curled whip in one hand. He scowled at me, daring me to get to close to the cart. Waggoneers in Harrowick were an unforgiving group and prone to using their whips on passerbys as often as the mounts that pulled their supply carts. I reached up and ran a finger along my cheek; a red welt ran across my jaw from the last waggoneer I’d encountered two streets over. They were awfully quick with those whips, especially if you happened to be of the Murk Elf persuasion. No love lost for the Dokkalfar around these parts. I hunched my shoulders, the plain brown travel-cloak obscuring my custom gear, and slid over another few steps, plunging my foot into a frozen puddle. The slush promptly soaked through my boot and into my woolen socks. Terrible, though still better than letting the grumpy sad sack on the cart take out my eye with that whip of his.Once the cart had finally rolled passed, I resumed my trek, rounding a tight dogleg which opened up on a section of street flanked on both sides by claustrophobic three story buildings of stone and wood. The rooves were made of wooden shingles that shed the rain onto the street in a constant pitter-patter of sloshing water. Elaborate copper Gas lamps—pitted and green from the constant moisture in the air—dotted the roadway, casting weak pools of yellow light across the cobblestones, while simultaneously illuminating the wooden shop signs jutting out from above doors shut tight against the elements. Including the tavern I’d come searching for. The Dusty Mustache was three doors up on the right, its cloudy glass windows glowing with warm, welcoming firelight. I checked both ways, making sure I hadn’t accidentally missed another horse cart, then cut an angle across the street, stepping nimbly to avoid the numerous potholes littering the roadway—all of them brimming with more icy water. I paused at one of the windows, cupping my eyes as I peered in, searching for any sign that all my hard work was about to payoff. Unfortunately, between the poor quality of the glass and the steam coating the interior of the windows, I couldn’t make out many details beyond the shuffle of bodies crowding around tables and moving across the floor. It seemed busy enough, though, which was a good sign. Cutter’s first favorite past time was drinking, but he rarely drank alone, and his second favorite past time was gambling. Another social activity that required gullible suckers willing to part with large sums of money. With a disgruntled sigh, I left the window behind and quietly pushed my way through the heavy front door. A small brass bell tinkled, announcing my entrance, though the sound was lost in the lively clamor emanating from the rest of the common room. The floorboards were heavily stained and covered in a loose layer of dirty golden-brown straw meant to absorb the slush and mud from the wet roadways. I’d seen this same setup in just about every bar, tavern, and Inn I’d visited over the past few hours. A brunette Imperial woman in an incredibly sheer gown swayed on a cramped stage, singing an upbeat drinking melody while a thickset Imperial man accompanied her on a worn fiddle. Rough-hewn tables filled most of the bar and those tables were absolutely packed with bargoers and patrons, looking to escape the cold, get a hot bite to eat, or gamble away whatever money had recently found its way into their pocket. There was a lot of the later going on: men and women—though mostly men—packed in around tables where dice rattled, cards slapped, and coins clinked as they exchanged hands.This was exactly the kind of place Cutter liked to frequent, though there was one tiny, miniscule red flag: almost every single person in here either wore the regulation attire of a Legionnaire or a white toga, trimmed in purple or gold, so common among Imperial citizens and High Varidian Officials. The Dusty Mustache was an Imperial Bar to the core, it seemed. And based on several of the bargoers, I’d bet good money that over half of the soldiers here weren’t standard Legion, but rather belonged with the Inquisition. The silver Griffin crest, emblazoned on several tabards, told me as much with just a glance.“He’s cheating!” someone snarled, a hand slapping down on a tabletop with a thump. “Like bloody hell I am!” came a retort that carried over the rest of the sound. “Just because you’re absolute shite at Gentleman’s War doesn’t mean I’m cheating, you git.” Now that voice was familiar. I swiveled, scanning the crowd until I found the source of the commotion. A circular tabletop tucked away in the corner of the tavern, not far from the stage. Five men piled in at the table, all of them holding glossy cards, while a crowd of onlookers pressed in around them, trying to watch the action. Of course, Cutter sat at the table, his back to the wall, a grin on his face, and a flush creeping into his cheeks. He’d been drinking. And from the slur in his speech I was guessing he’d been drinking a lot.Instead of the dark leathers Cutter normally sported—perfect for sneaking through a dungeon or blending into the inky shadows of a back alley—he wore the attire of a gentlemen: a smoker’s jacket with a waistcoat, padded breeches, a pair of soft leather boots with matching gloves, and a short gentleman’s cape which hung just over one shoulder and trailed partway down his back. To most he probably looked like some tipsy Viridian noble out for a night on the town, but the golden rapier riding his hip told a different story for anyone with a discerning enough eye. Like all the Inquisitors stealing sidelong glances at him. That blade marked him as a Gentleman of the Thieves Guild—one of only eight in all of Eldgard. “Besides,” Cutter continued, leaning forward, forearms resting against the edge of the table as he leered at a pudgy balding man in a toga. “It’s an insult to dishonest men everywhere for an Imperial Tax Collector of all people to call someone else a cheat.” He narrowed his eyes, mouth twisting into a scowl. “You lot are the real thieves, and you don’t even have the good grace or, dare I say, class to steal with finesse, charm, or skill. The whole lot of you are crooked as a broken nose and dirtier than a Wyrdtide brothel.” Oh no. There was no way this was going to turn out well. For one, Cutter was a Wode, not an Imperial, which was already a strike against him. Two, he was clearly drunk and when Cutter was drunk there was almost nothing he liked doing more than insulting Imperials—Tax Collectors in particular. And three, well, he probably was cheating and with that many Imperials and Inquisitors watching him make an ass out of himself, it was only a matter of time before someone noticed his sleight of hand. And once that happened, there would be blood. Copious amounts of it. Cutter was high enough level to escape with his neck mostly intact, but I couldn’t say the same for the rest of the folks in the bar. When Cutter wanted to, he could be absolutely deadly.Time to put a stop to this before it went any further. Besides, we were burning time. I needed to get Cutter back to Yunnam and I needed to do it an hour ago. I squared my shoulders, made sure my hood was still firmly in place, then shoved my way through the crowd, elbowing people out of the way until I made it to the edge of the table. My rough manner earned me more than a few nasty looks, but most of the people were so absorbed in the drama unfolding at the table that no one took it past scowls or rude grunts. I skirted around the onlookers, then slipped in next to Cutter, dropping a hand on his shoulder, fingers digging down.“I think it’s time for you to go, drunk,” I growled, trying my best to sound like hired muscle, bouncing some cretin before things turned to violence.“Get your bloody hands off me,” Cutter snarled, turning his gaze on me as he reached for a something tucked away beneath his jacket—probably one of his trademark black-edged daggers, if I had to guess. “Jack?” His hand faltered as he caught a glimpse of my face beneath my hood. “What in the nine hells are you doing in an Imperial dump like this?” He asked, not bothering to lower his voice even a little. “I’m trying to save your neck, you moron,” I whispered, leaning in so only he could hear me. “Not sure if you noticed or not, but these guys are about to murder you, and that’s nothing compared to what Amara will do to you if we don’t get back to Yunnam.”“Phft. I’m doing this for Amara,” he slurred, waving one hand dismissively through the air. “Me jumping ship is the best possible thing I could do, all things considered. As for these Imperial pigs”—he actually raised his voice as he insulted basically everyone in the room—“they don’t have the bollocks to test me. Why I’ve been cheating all night, not even trying to hide it either, and they just keep letting me steal their bloody money.” He flashed a pair of cards with a twirl of his fingers, then disappeared them back up his sleeve without a trace.  Unfortunately, everyone at the table saw the display, and—because he was just yelling at this point—everyone heard him as well. I was in no way surprised when the music fell silent, an unnatural quiet settling over the tavern like a blanket of snowfall, interrupted only by the squeak of chairs and the metallic schwick of weapon leaving sheaths. Great. Perfect. I glanced at the time. 4:32 PM. We had less than half an hour to get back to Yunnam and I was halfway across the continent with a drunk thief, surrounded by an entire saloon full of pissed off Imperial soldiers and cheated Inquisitors. This wasn’t exactly how I’d envisioned this going. Although, based on my long and complicated relationship with Cutter, I probably should’ve known it would end up this way.“Look everyone,” I said, lifting my hands, showing empty palms, “my buddy is just drunk—he constantly talks out of his ass when he’s like this. Just assume everything he’s said is a lie. Let me get him out of here and you guys can go back to your game, no harm, no foul. What do you say?” I offered them my most hopeful smile, silently praying they let us walk without incident.“Absolutely not,” the bald Tax Collector sputtered, shooting to his feet, hands planted on his hips. “This man cheated me! I’ve known it from the start and now he’s not only confessed but shown the method of his deception.” “It’s true, Jack,” Cutter said, nodding along in agreement. “I took him for every copper I could get. Payback for all the times him and his kind cheated my people, if you ask me.” “You are not helping,” I hissed at him, before turning back to the dumpy, indignant, toga-wearing tax collector. “Let me just settle whatever debt you feel is owed to you,” I said, trying to sound gracious instead of desperate. “How much have you lost?” “Fifty Imperial Gold Marks,” he said flatly. I nearly choked. Cutter had cheated fifty gold marks off this guy? That was the equivalent of five-thousand large, IRL. No wonder this guy was so mad. “Fine,” I said, reaching for a pouch at my pocket. “Fifty gold marks it is. More than happy to make you whole.” “Make me whole?” The tax collector said, his voice oozing sarcasm. “This man has made a fool of me and impugned the reputation and integrity of the Empire itself. Fifty gold is hardly enough to make me whole. A hundred gold marks and a month in an Imperial holding cell ought to see justice done, though.” He said with a smug grin, snapping his fingers. “Inquisitors, please take this man into custody. And bring his darky friend in for good measure,” he added with dismissive sniff. Darky? This guy was sure wearing out his welcome with a quickness. “Listen, you guys are making a big mistake,” I said evenly as a group of Inquisitor closed in around us. “Seriously. Turn around now or this is going to get ugly for everyone.”They just kept coming. I sighed, hand creeping toward my belt. Looked like they were going to have to learn the hard way.TWO:Bar BrawlAn Imperial goon in scale mail, partially covered by a blood-stained tabard, lunged at me first, a fist swing in a roundhouse aimed squarely at my teeth. I briefly considered going for my hammer and just knocking all of these guys back into the V.G.O. Dark Ages, but decided against it at the last minute. Chances were if I drew my weapon, I’d leave a tavern full of corpses in my wake—even if I wasn’t trying to—and these guys didn’t deserve that. They were obviously jerks, all bored and spoiling for a fight on a Friday afternoon, but none of them deserved a death sentence. Especially since Cutter had openly admitted to cheating them for the past several hours. If anything, we were the bad guys in this scenario.So, leaving my weapon at my side, I pivoted, easily avoiding the Imperial’s wild swing then lashed out with a foot, catching the big fella right in the stomach and propelling him back into a nearby group of Inquisitors.“Now that’s the bloody spirit, Jack!” Cutter called out with a drunken hoot, picking up a mostly empty tankard and promptly smashing it over another Legionaries’ head. “Bar fight!” He roared, dropping the now broken mug then picking up a shoddy wooden chair and broadsiding yet another Imperial with it. Laying the man out flat as wood cracked and shattered. More of the Imperials were charging us now and the big bruiser I’d kicked in the gut was back up and wading toward me with murder etched into the lines of his face. He wasn’t alone either. A disheveled Imperial in a white toga launched a roundhouse kick at my ribs; I sidestepped the sloppy attack, shot inside his guard and connected with a thunderous uppercut that lifted the swaying Citizen from his feet. He landed on the bar top with a crash, pitchers tipping over, mugs breaking, ale sloshing across the wood and onto the straw-covered floor. “Oye! That darky just punched out Senator Primulus!” Someone bellowed at the top of their lungs, and in an instant the dispute morphed into full-on bedlam. Violence erupted across the bar as everyone and their brother tried to get at us. I glanced at Cutter, worried the thief might be in trouble, but I couldn’t have been further from the mark. He stood on tabletop, jamming golden coins into his pockets and crowing like a madman while simultaneously fending off punches with the broken leg of a chair. “Get buggered, Imperial Swine! Collect tax on this!” He threw a bag of blinding powder directly into the face of the bartender, who was reaching for a spike-studded club hanging above the bar.   Honestly, I hadn’t seen Cutter look this alive in forever. We had places to be—and Amara would absolutely gut me if we were late—but after weeks of planning meetings and War Council briefs, I needed to work out a little pent-up aggression. Plus, that tax collector had called me ‘darky,’ which meant he deserved a few missing teeth on general principle. As long as it didn’t turn to weapons, a barroom brawl might just be what the doctor ordered. Grinning like a lunatic, I darted in and started working the big Inquisitor over, delivering a bevy of powerful body shots to his guts and ribs. The man staggered from the punches, but his heavy armor absorbed the bulk of the damage, meaning there wouldn’t be any real lasting harm. It was still deeply satisfying, though—like working a heavy bag at the gym. The Inquisitor roared and charged, trying to wrap me up in a powerful bearhug. He was strong but slow; I ducked his groping limbs and spun around, slipping my arms around his ample waist then heaving straight up and back. This guy was bigger than me, and though I wasn’t what anyone would call a tank, my Strength stat was still through the roof compared to most of the residents in V.G.O. I fell backward, dragging the big man over as I suplexed him right into a nearby table. The table groaned and shattered from the impact, the wobbly wooden legs collapsing beneath the Imperial’s impressive weight. The old school wrestling move left the guy alive, but down for the count—he was going to wake up tomorrow with the hangover from hell and a splitting headache that would leave him seeing stars for a week. I scrambled back to my feet, dropping down into a low crouch, preparing to grapple a lean, scrappy Imperial ranger decked out in dark, mud-splattered leathers. Cutter choose that exact moment to vault through the air, kicking some toga-wearing citizen in the face, before grabbing ahold of the chandelier dangling from the ceiling and scampering up like an oversized monkey. Naturally, he still had the chair leg in one hand.“Somebody pull that bloody fool down now!” The Imperial tax collector screamed, his face turning beet red as he waggled a finger at Cutter. “He’s a thief and a cheat and he has my money!”Right. That guy still had a few too many teeth by my estimation. Time to fix that. I surged toward him, but was intercepted the pesky ranger, who was harrying me from my left—demanding a fight. The ranger was quick with his hands and managed to land a jab, splitting my lip right down the middle, though doing very little real damage to my HP. He circled right, hands up, head bobbing and weaving, steps confident and sure. In a no holds barred match—one involving weapons and magic—I would’ve swatted this guy down like a fly, but in unarmed combat it was clear he had some serious chops and was probably the better brawler. He punched, driving a fist into my face and pulping my nose with a crack. A splitting pain exploded through my face, radiating up into my skull. A hit like that might’ve put most guys down. Lucky for me, I could take an absolute beating. Blood streaming down my face, I feinted left, then shot in low and right, angling for a devastating body shot. Once again, the guy read me like a book and moved accordingly. A hook caught me square in the temple, momentarily ringing my bell.  A solid strike, but one that also left him open to a counterattack. I rushed him with a warcry. He shuffled back and jabbed again, but I caught the strike, pinning his arm against my body. I wrapped my freehand up around the back of his neck and pulled him straight into a massive headbutt. My forehead met his nose with a satisfying crunch, blood splattering as he fell away, grasping at his gory face.Eye for eye, nose for nose. “Take this you darky scum!” Came a high-pitched wail, a sword flashing through the air, the blow aimed at my neck. I wheeled right, narrowly dodging the attack from the tax man. He was no warrior—his technique was awful, and he held the sword like someone trying to wrangle a python—but a blade in the back was a blade in the back no matter who wielded it. And the fact that he’d just drawn a weapon on me meant this was no longer fun and games. Time to put an end to this and beat feet before the rest of these Imperial knuckleheads started drawing steel. The tax collector struck again, this time with a straight thrust levelled at my chest. I parried the sword with the hooked blades running along the edge of my gauntlet, disarming him with a twist of my wrist. “You wouldn’t dare,” the man stammered, backing up, hands balled into fists as I advanced on him. “You have no idea who I am!” He declared, puffing himself up like the useless peacock he was. “I’m a Quaestor of the Ever-Victorious Empire. Practically right hand to the Emperor himself!” “Is that so?” I asked with a grin, lowering my hood so he could get a good look at my blood streaked face. “Well, I’ll be sure to apologize to Osmark for punching out his ‘right hand’ the next time I see him.”His mouth dropped into a shocked ‘O’, his eyes wide as I drove a fist into his smug mouth. This guy had all the bolster of a junkyard pitbull and all the fight of a newborn kitten. His legs turned to Jell-O, refusing to hold his weight for another second as he collapsed to the floor.“Jack!” Cutter called from the chandelier. Somehow, he had managed to grab more beer mugs and was throwing them seemingly at random while mule-kicking anyone who got too close. “These blighters are getting as ugly as their wart covered mothers!” He bellowed, raising another indigent cry from the bar goers, who were now actively drawing weapons—ready to shed blood. “Time to do your magic, eh!” He cracked an egg-headed Legionnaire right over the skull with the table leg then sprang from the chandelier, executing a perfect backflip, despite being clearly intoxicated. Defying all logic and reason, he landed beside me, swaying slightly, the golden rapier at his hip springing to hand with impossible speed. “You pigeon-livered mutton shunters couldn’t catch me on your best bloody day!” He shouted, a lopsided grin breaking out across his face. “And certainly not on your worst. Jack,” he said, turning toward me as he slung an arm across my shoulders. “Please show us out. We have better bloody things to be about, eh?” I rolled my eyes and triggered Shadow Stride, extending the arctic power flooding through my body into the thief. The world shuddered and came to a stop, life, sound, and color leeching away, replaced by a landscape of monotonous whites and grays, splashed by the occasional swatch of swirling purple magic. The Dusty Mustache was on the edge of total panic, every hand in the joint going for a weapon. Assuming we wanted to prevent an international incident and not leave a trail of bodies behind, there was probably no better time to make our exit. “Well that was one helluva bachelor party, Jack,” Cutter cackled as we headed for the door, stepping through the frozen goons as though they were made of no more than mist and shadow. Which was true, at least in this place. “Glad you had fun,” I grumbled, pulling a bound scroll from my inventory as we made our way onto the narrow street, covered in muck and freezing mud. “You just better hope we’re not late or that’s gonna be the last thing you ever do. Now get ready to move.” I stepped back into the Material Realm, pulling Cutter through with me, and popped the seal on the port scroll with my thumb. The paper turned to ash in my palm, blowing away as a shimmering opalescent portal appeared in the air—an instant doorway to the heart of an ancient cathedral. I grabbed Cutter by the shoulder, making sure he didn’t make a break for it again, and stepped through. I turned, watching as the doorway to the Dusty Mustache burst open and a flood of Imperials poured out onto the street, all shouting in absolute bewilderment. An Inquisitor in heavy platemail caught sight of us, pointing with the tip of his sword as he bellowed at the top of his lungs, but by the time anyone else was paying attention, the portal was smaller than the size of a basketball. Then, in a blink, it was gone. My view of Harrowick vanishing with it.I glanced at the time, 4:50 PM, we had a minutes to spare at most, and despite the fact that Cutter was dressed in his Gentleman’s best, we both still looked like we’d just waded through a barfight in the dankest, dirtiest bar in Eldgard. Not wrong.  “Come here,” I said, drawing Cutter toward me. There wasn’t much I could do at this point, but I did my best. Straightening his cloak. Adjusting the lapels of his fancy coat. Pulling out a canteen of water and a rag to hastily dab off the spots of blood sprayed across his frilled, white shirt. Damn. If anything, that made things worse. Yep, he was pretty much a lost cause at this point. But he was here. And mostly sober. I squinted, quickly eyeing him up and down. Soberish. Although, that, at least, I could do something about. I pulled a pair of glass vials from my inventory, one filled with something sludgy and brown, the other topped off by a liquid so electric blue it glowed in the dark. I popped the cork on the first vial. The scent of rotten eggs and freshly turned earth punched me in the nose just like that no-good ranger had. I flinched back from the ghastly aroma and shoved the vial into Cutter’s open hand. “Drink that, quick,” I said, already going to work on the stopper of the blue vial.“Cheers!” He said, slamming the mixture back without taking the time to smell it first. Probably a wise choice. He gagged and doubled over, dry heaving onto the cold stone tiles. “Gods below, Jack. That wasn’t mead! Are you trying to bloody kill me, eh?” “Nope,” I replied with a grin. “Trying to make sure Amara doesn’t kill you. That’s Vlad patented Hair of the Dog—instant hangover cure.”“It tastes like the inside of a dirty boot.” “I think that’s part of the cure,” I said with a shrug, thrusting the electric blue potion at him. “This one’s to get rid of the taste.” He took the second vial a bit more suspiciously, taking a deep whiff this time around. Already the actions of a more sober individual in my opinion. His face puckered up in disgust. “Gods this stuff spells even worst than the first one,” he said with a grimace before throwing down the brew in one long pull.“Yep, but your breath is going to be amazing,” I replied with a smile. Vlad’s new mouthwash did, in fact, taste even worse than his hangover cure, but boy did it leave a nice, minty after-flavor buff that lingered for hours. Amara would enjoy the smell, even if Cutter wouldn’t. But the way I figured it, Cutter had already had his share of fun for the day—it was time Amara got hers. I checked the time. 4:53 PM. Damn we were cutting it close. Cutter was as presentable as I could make him, but I still had a face full of blood, and armor that looked like someone had rolled it around in an icy camp latrine. That was an easy fix, though, thanks to V.G.O.s quick changed Inventory. I pulled up my interface and quickly selected my own formal attire. First, I donned a puffy jacket, tight across the chest, and flared out at the shoulders, made from the finest velvets. Next came a high collared silk shirt that felt like a noose. Finally, too tight pants that had absolutely zero give in the thighs and groin, and paper-thin black leather slippers that wouldn’t last more than a single minute in an actual combat situation. It was unbelievable to me that clothes this impractical existed inside V.G.O. I mean, I knew people wore these—I’d picked them up at a high-end tailor shop in New Viridia—but I couldn’t for the life of me begin to fathom why. I used a wet rag to wipe the blood from my face, though it was a half-assed job at best.Face clean and new outfit in place, I toggled over to my slowly spinning avatar, watching myself in utter horror. I looked like an absolute moron. But I was dressed, didn’t look like a deranged murder hobo, and I had Cutter in tow with minutes to spare. Surely no one else could ask more than that right?  “Alright,” I said, grabbing Cutter by the arm and hustling him toward the formidable set of wooden doors barring our path to the heart of the ancient cathedral. “You ready to do this or what?”He pulled his arm away before I could push my way in. “Seems to me, it’s still not too late to turn back, Jack. Just think about it. You and me, on the road again, just like in the good old days, eh? I have a brilliant lead on a dungeon we could raid. Excellent loot. And gold, Grim Jack. So much gold. Enough to set us straight for a year. Hells, enough to fill a bloody bathtub. Ten bathtubs, even. And not a Vogthar in sight, either. I’ll even be a gentleman and concede to a seventy-thirty split on the take. Obviously, I’ll take the seventy, but I feel thirty is a generous give—considering it is my lead.”I snorted and rolled my eyes. “Gee a whole thirty percent, you say? You are a paragon of virtue and generosity. But you know that’s not an option, right? Right?” I said again, louder—more insistently—when he didn’t respond right away. “Amara would find you,” I said after a long beat. “You know she would. No bar, dungeon, or fort would be safe. And once she caught you, she’d skin you alive—and there’s a good chance she’d do the same to me for helping you. I love you like a brother, but not enough to get on her bad side.” He grimaced and nodded in defeat, deflating a little. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t I bleeding know it. I just… I’ve never been so unsure about anything before, Jack.” He grimaced, absently scrubbing his palms on his trousers. “But that’s not right either. Because I’ve also never been more certain of anything in my life.”Ah. The Paradox of love. I knew it well.“Look. Everything is going to be fine,” I said for what felt like the hundredth time. “Think about all the crazy stuff we’ve done. Remember that Afkia den over in Wyrdtide? The one with the Death Cult and that weird seven-headed flesh golem?” He snorted and nodded, a wide grin breaking across his face. “That damned priest had me bloody well pinned to the table like a corpse, waiting for the gravedigger’s blade. Or what about that time in Rihat with the Sewer’s Circle?” The grin widened as he shook his head. “I thought those old biddies were going to turn you into a gods be damned human puppet.”“That’s my point exactly.” I absently adjusted the lapels on his smokers’ jacket. “If you could make it through that, then this is nothing. Nothing.”“Obviously you don’t know Amara half as well as you think then, Jack,” he grumbled, growing strangely somber as he talked. His eyes went hazy. Introspective. “She’s far more formidable than the Sewer’s Circle or the Lich Priest or any bloody other thing I’ve ever tangled with. Hells, I’d rather go toe to toe with Thanatos naked and weaponless than find myself on the receiving end of that woman’s wrath.” He paused and ran a hand through lanky blond hair, which had been pulled back away from his face. “Truth though? It’s me I’m scared of, not her.“The thing that keeps running through my head—round and round like a bloody wagon wheel—is, what if I’m not good enough for her? What if I disappoint her? Or let her down? Being a thief has always come naturally to me, there’s a reason why I’m the best there is. Because it’s in my blood. It’s second nature to me, like breathing. But this?” He turned and began pacing nervously, cape fluttering behind him as he moved. “I feel like I’m setting myself up for failure, and Amara is the one who is gonna get stuck footing the bill. Leaving her now would crush her, but a part of me keeps thinking it might be less painful for her in the long run.” His word cut surprisingly deep and suddenly I found myself thinking of Abby. Leaving her now would crush her, but it might be less painful for her in the long run. Here was that pesky paradox again. Thing was, he wasn’t wrong. Those same thoughts had been plaguing me about my own relationship with Abby for the past several weeks. Ever since squaring off against Khalkeús, Dwarven Aspect of the Forge, and unlocking the Reality Editor deep in the heart of Stone Reach. My doubts about Abby were my own, though, and Cutter didn’t need me reinforcing his fears. He needed support right now, not my own crippling self-doubt. “Don’t be an idiot,” I said, putting a hand on his shoulder to stop his restless pacing. I caught his eye and held him at arm’s length. “Amara is crazy out of your league and if you sabotage this, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. And real talk, I’ve never seen you care about anything as much as you care about her, including loot and booze. You’re going to be great. Now come on, we don’t want to keep everyone waiting all day.” Cutter took a deep breath, pressing his eyes shut as he stood straight. A prisoner headed for the gallows. “On three?” he final asked, opening his eyes and cracking his neck, first one side than the other.“On three,” I agreed, dropping my hand from his shoulder.I counted us down and pushed the doors open, my mind flashing to all the dungeons we’d raided together. All the times we’d done this—stacking up outside of a Boss Room, preparing ourselves for a fight to the death. The doors swung inward without so much as a squeak, but this time there were no enemies waiting for us with drawn swords or half-formed spells ready to be unleashed. Instead, a sea of faces turned to regard us from the polished wooden pews of the chapel to Sophia.THREE:VowsThe right side of the quaint chapel was filled with a mix of people from the Crimson Alliance leadership—generals, advisors, warriors, and friends—along with a spattering of rough-looking types decked out in black leather and covered with a veritable arsenal of daggers. There were more face tattoos than I could count in that group. Members of the Thieves Guild, one and all—including the Gentlemen’s Gentleman himself, Gavin Marston. The grand thief smiled at us, a knowing twinkle in his gaze as he took in the ruffled hair and hastily cleaned blood smears. The aristocratic rogue would’ve fit in with any stuffy noble who lived in New Viridia, although he was far and away more dangerous than any of those vipers.The other half of the chapel was filled with Amara’s guests. The vast majority were Murk Elves and members of the Ak-Hani clan. Brothers. Sisters. Aunts and Uncles. Honored elders. Even a few diplomats from the other six-named Dokkalfar clans. Most of them wore crudely stitched armor studded with chunks of bone, ferocious teeth, and feathers in a myriad of colors. Chakan of the Lisu tribe caught my eye and gave me a lopsided grin and a little wave. Once upon a time, we’d nearly murdered each other over the right to pursue the Jade Lord Quest line, but those days were long behind us. He’d become one of the Alliance’s most ardent supporters, despite the fact that his father, Chief Sakal, was only lukewarm toward me at best. I cleared my throat, shot a telling glance at Cutter—you can do this, I’m right behind you—then followed him as he made his way up the aisle toward a raised dais at the far end of the chamber. Carl, Arch Justiciar of the Acolytes of the Shield and Hammer, stood at the center of upraised platform. Colored light flooded in from a stained-glass window above, illuminating the dumpy priest in all his bearded, Dwarven glory. He was decked out in brown silk robes, edged in gold, with a priestly stole of brilliant white draped around his neck. Emblazoned on one side of the stole was an enormous golden hammer and on the other side was a crude black anvil.Marching off to the side were the other groomsmen, lined up in meticulous order: Vlad, Forge, and Jake.“Pay up,” Forge grunted, extending a calloused green hand toward Vlad as I took my place as the best man and Cutter ascended the stairs to the dais. The weaponeer sighed. I had no idea how someone could make a sigh sound Russian, but Vlad pulled it off with ease as he fished a fat golden coin from a pouch at his belt, pressing it into the Risi warrior’s outstretched palm. “What in the bloody hells were you betting on?” Cutter hissed at the two of them over one shoulder. “Whether you would show up,” Vlad replied with a noncommittal surge. “Me? I had doubts. Many doubts. I had an Imperial crown that we would find you hungover in a bar somewhere. Probably the Broken Dagger.”“I am insulted, cur,” Cutter shot back. “If I was going to skip out, I’d sure as bloody hell be hung over somewhere classier than the Broken Dagger.”“Oh really,” I snorted. “So the Dusty Mustache is classier than the Broken Dagger.” “It’s a gentleman’s gambling establishment, Jack. And yes, for your knowledge, its classy as bollocks. But I’m here, and with one minute to spare, which is all that matters.”Vlad shrugged noncommittally. “Was wrong. We have a saying where I come from, a delo byvalo, I koza volka s’edala. Means roughly”—he screwed up his lips and waggled a hand as though looking for the right word— “someday a goat, it might eat up a wolf. I think, you would translate as even a pig might fly. Today, the pig has flown. Though, Vlad smells Hair of Dog.” He reached up and tapped the side of his nose. “Thinks maybe you were drunk not so long ago, da?”“Well yeah,” Jake offered, “but when is Cutter not drunk? I’m honestly surprised to see he’s as sober as he is.” “Hair of Dog is potent. Very potent.” As the three continued to talk and joke—Cutter doing his best to soothe his nerves—I searched the crowd, looking for one face in particular.I found it in the back, not sitting in one of the pews, but rather huddled in a corner, leaning against the wall. Osmark stood out even in a crowd as strange and varied as this; his arms crossed, his gaze distant, his face an introspective thunderhead. I honestly wasn’t sure if he was going to show today. I had as many doubts about his presence as Vlad had about Cutters. Osmark had been so elusive and secretive since returning from his Champion’s quest in the Shattered Realms. For weeks, I’d been trying to figure out in in the hell had happened to the tech-billionaire while I’d been busy with the Doom-Forge mission, but I still had no answers. Clearly something had happened—and something important, based on Osmark’s tight-lipped silence—but whatever it was, he and his inner circle were holding their cards close to the chest. I’d need to get to the bottom of what had happened to him eventually, but that was a problem for another day. Always another problem. Never enough days to deal with them all.  All thoughts of Osmark dropped away as the heavy doors at the end of the chapel swung inward and the music started up in earnest. Near the back of the chamber, tucked away behind the bridal section, was a trio of bards, playing the traditional bridal march on variety of untraditional instruments—one strummed at a harp, while another plucked at a silver-faced lute, the third effortlessly working a lap-mounted hammered dulcimer. The sound was enchanting, both familiar and somehow exotic. 5:00 PM on the dot. I blew out my cheeks, relief washing through me. We’d made it by the skin of our teeth.I was more than a little shocked to see Amara herself at the head of the procession instead of one of the other women trailing off behind her. I wasn’t exactly an expert on weddings, but as far as I knew, the bridesmaids were supposed to come first. Except this was Eldgard, I reminded myself, and as much as it seemed like earth at times, it wasn’t. Not by a country mile. I had no idea what the Murk Elf marriage customs entailed—a fact made even more apparent as I surveyed Amara in what apparently passed as a wedding gown in polite Dokkalfar society. Instead of a radiant gown of flowing white—all frills and delicate lace—she wore a hide dress. The leather was pitch black, accented by a colorful shawl decorated with eye-jarring patterns, a gauzy black veil that only covered the lower portion of her face, and an intricate belt festooned with coins and odd bits of bleached white bone. Elaborate jewelry crafted from polished darkshard ore and small animal bones hung from her neck and wrists, clattering with each step she took. Her skin was a chalky shade of white, dusted with the ceremonial powder the Dokkalfar often wore during religious observances. Her raven-black hair was shaved down to the skin on one side, the rest pulled back in an elaborate braid, showcasing violet eyes that looked older than the rest of her youthful face could account for. Amara’s entire life had been one of war and struggle, tribal infighting and constant Imperial encroachments, and it showed when she looked at you. She had seen the worst humanity had to offer, but instead of breaking her, those experience had purified her like a forge’s flames burning away the dross.     Her father, Chief Kolle, escorted her, one of his beef-slab arms hooked through her own. Amara looked both radiant and fierce, but it was the woman behind her that I couldn’t take my eyes off.Abby walked with her back straight, her head held high like a Queen heading to her throne. She was a vision in a dress as red as blood; a cloak of gossamer embers trailed down her back and brushed at the floor as she moved. Seeing her there, decked out in a gown that would rival any wedding dress, felt like having a knife shoved deep into my guts. The world wobbled at the edges, reeling uncertainly beneath me as I licked my lips, my mothy suddenly dry, throat parched. She was so beautiful it hurt. Absently, I reached for the ring stowed away inside my pocket, rubbing the tip of my index finger over the hard, little lump that I knew was a sparkling diamond, imbued with preternatural fire that made the stone glimmer like the sun. I caught her eye and she offered me a wide smile, her teeth brilliant white against skin the shade of strong tea. I returned the smile, but very purposefully pulled my hand away from the ring.Did I want to marry Abby? Yep. More than just about anything else in the word. I wanted the two of us to settle down. To have a nice normal little house, a few kids running around, a steady job that didn’t involve raiding dungeons or waging wars. Heck, if I closed my eyes and let my mind wander, I could see myself waking up late on Saturday morning, shambling downstairs in a bathrobe, nose catching the scent of pancakes and eggs. I could see us sitting across the table from each other, sleepily sipping coffee while the kids built a fort out of couch cushions, vigorously trying to fend off an invading dog instead of bloodthirsty Vogthar. Abby would chuckle and roll her eyes when the kids shrieked like banshees in between intermittent fits of giggling as the dog licked syrup covered faces. It was a beautiful dream. But that was all it was. A dream. My mind flashed back, recalling the odd room buried deep below Stone Reach. In the center of the room was the slab of inky obsidian—an altar just large enough for someone to lie flat on. An image of Abby laying on that altar came unbidden, her brow furrowed, her eyes clenched shut, her lips a tight line as she waited in terrible anticipation. I loomed over her, a dagger gripped in a white-knuckled hand, the tip pointed toward Abby’s throat. The words etched in the blade skipped across my consciousness like a stone over still waters. Just as they had almost every time I saw Abby these days. Sometimes there is no winning. To save the world, you must first give up that which matters most in your world…Sometimes at night, I heard Abby tossing and turning, crying out as she relived her death at my hands over and over again. That was my reality. I wanted to be with her, wanted something different, but fate or—at the very least—circumstance had conspired against us. Like it or not, I was Grim Jack Shadowstride, leader of the Crimson Alliance, Champion of Balance, and wielder of the Reality Editor. The only weapon in the game capable of killing a god and setting things right in the world. For me, a normal life with Abby felt like an impossible pipedream. A mirage in a barren, waterless desert. The words on that dagger haunted me because deep down I knew they were true. Sometimes there really was no winning. No clever way out. No way for things to be normal or okay. Sometimes there was only duty. And duty rarely left enough room for happy endings. I folded my hands behind my back and pulled my gaze away from Abby, banishing those dark thoughts, as Ari, the barbie-sized Battle Pixy from the Realm of Order, floated into the room. She flitted high into the air, butterfly wings buzzing like mad, then raised miniscule hands, launching a bolt of opalescent light toward the arched ceilings. The orb of pixie magic exploded into a kaleidoscope of shifting colors, painting the room with brilliant splashes of pink and gold, orange and red, green and blue. Everyone oohed and awed appropriately as the last two bridesmaids entered the chapel. The first was a woman I’d only met a handful of times, though they’d been memorable interactions since her tongue qualified as a deadly weapon. Arcona Jukal was a beefy, green-skinned Risi woman, half a hand taller than Forge—who was, himself, bigger than most NFL linebackers. The lady had biceps that could give any professional bodybuilder a run for their money and thighs that could crush boulders. Arcona had previously run the Order of the Soulbound, a rebel group sworn to undercut the empire, and now she helped Otto as he helmed the Risi capital of Glome Corrie on behalf of the Alliance. Even in a silvery dress, she looked like she could chew up slabs of raw iron and spit out forged nails.She was close with both Abby and Amara, so her inclusion was not a total surprise, but the final bridesmaid in the lineup was definitely a shock: Lowyth the Immortal Orbweaver. The Spider Queen had opted for her ‘human’ look instead of going full arachnoid; a blessing that I was sure everyone in attendance was deeply grateful for. Even still, Lowyth was pure nightmare fuel with her black chitin skin, bristly maroon hair, the legion of dull black eyes splattered across her face, and the spider legs jutting from her back, constantly curling and uncurling like grotesque fingers. Definitely not someone I would’ve invited to the wedding.But then, Lowyth hadn’t given anyone much choice. When the Spider Queen had heard about the impending nuptials, she’d squealed like a schoolgirl getting ready for Prom and insisted on pain of death to be included in the ceremony. As reluctant as I was to have her buzzing around—I still had frequent night terrors about the time she ripped my chest open—she was a key ally and a vital part of our defense strategy against the Vogthar incursions, so she got what she wanted. Within reason. And interestingly, Amara actually seemed to have formed something of a bond with the murderous monster.The Ak-Hani went back a long way with the spiderkin of Hellweb Hollow and I got the very real sense that Amara respected the Queen in the same way I respected Osmark: a sort of begrudging admiration between former enemies. The music finally fell silent, leaving only the creak of pew seats as Amara ascended the steps, stopping directly in front of Cutter while her train of bridesmaids lined up behind her. Abby smiled at me, her cheeks flushed as she ran nervous hands over the front of her elaborate dress, absently smoothing away wrinkles that weren’t there. She looked radiant, but from this close I could also see the jagged edge of something sad lurking just beneath the surface of her features whenever her eyes landed on me. As though she knew there was something wrong between us, but not something she could fix or even figure out. Cutter’s words sprinted through my head at full speed, leaving her now would crush her, but a part of me keeps thinking it might be less painful for her in the long run…Amara, on the other hand, stood fiercely proud. There was no sign of doubt in her. None. She was like a huntress who had finally managed to nab a particularly troublesome and elusive wolf. I almost felt bad for Cutter.Almost. “Look at the two of you,” Carl said, a full smile breaking across his heavily bearded face as he looked at Cutter and Amara in turn. His voice was warm, friendly, with just a hint of a Philadelphia accent coating his words. “Amara, you look absolutely aces. Cutter.” He paused, surveying the thief. “Why is there so much blood on your coat? Eh, you know what”—he held up his hands—“forget I said anything. I don’t want to know. “The important thing is you’re here. Seeing the two of you, it makes my heart warm. Well, it’s either that or the copious amounts of ceremonial wine I drank this morning. Anyhoo. Just gimme a sec here and we’ll get this show on the road, huh?” He paused, patting down his robes and checking his pockets. “Shit, but I hope I didn’t leave it in the room,” he muttered under his breath. “Dammit, Carl,” Forge grunted from behind me, “you better not mess this up, or I swear I’m gonna break your legs after we’re done.” “Yeesh,” the Dwarf said, rolling his eyes. “Calm down, guy. I got this handled, okay? Not my first marriage. My second, sure, but definitely not my first. Ah.” He fished out a sheet of rolled vellum from the sleeve of his robes. “There it is. See? It’s all good, brother. Now, where were we.” He unrolled the scroll, carefully pinching the edges. “Oh yeah. Alright, here we go.” He tapped at a magical amplification rune pinned to his robes and the squiggle artfully etched into the stone burst to electric blue life. “We are gathered here today to celebrate with Cutter and Amara,” he said, voice booming around the room, “as they proclaim their love and commitment for each other and complete the most monumental quest of all.”Huh. Certainly not a traditional reading. But then, Carl was Carl, so I probably shouldn’t have had super high expectations to begin with. Yes, he was the high priest of his order, but only because every other priest had died. Originally, he’d been banished from his order for getting drunk and setting the sacred library on fire.“Now, as I understand, you guys have prepared your own vows, right?” Carl said, bringing me back to the moment. “Cutter? It’s customary for the groom to go first.” Cutter nodded, no witty reply on his lips. He reached out, his hands perfectly steady as he took Amara’s palms in his own. His face was strangely solemn. “Amara, my heart. I have to admit this whole thing, it’s something I never expected. Hells, I expected someone to plant a dagger in my kidney ages ago. In point of fact, an Imperial Tax Collector almost did me in not but an hour ago,” he muttered. “Yet the gods have seen fit to keep me alive, likely on account of how pretty I am. I don’t think much of the gods, but the fact that they’ve kept me here long enough to find you puts me firmly in their debt. “Although,” he said with a pause and a grin, “I admit it was touch and go for a while there, between us. In the early days, being around you was a roll of the dice as to whether you would impale me with your spear or flay me with your tongue. Eventually, though, I saw past all that. Or, at least, it all started to click in my head.” He reach up and ran a deft thumb along her cheek, his eyes misty. “You made me more than I was. Believed in me. Helped me to be a better version of myself. “Does your pushiness drive me bloody mad as often as not?” he asked. “Yes. Absolutely. Does your pigheadedness make me want to throw you off a cliff on occasion? Obviously. But when I’m around you, I have something I’ve never had before.” He looked down, the glanced left at the rows of Murk Elves watching him. “Family,” he finished softly. “I won’t vow not to drink, gamble, or steal—because I don’t bloody-well want to lie to you—but know that you will always be the most important piece of loot in my heart. Know that my love for you will only ever be rivaled my hatred for Imperial tax collectors.”I suppressed a laugh behind a closed fist.Amara beamed fiercely as she reached out and tweaked his nose. “You are a scoundrel and a thief of the highest order, my heart. When I first found you and Grim Jack, dirty and bloodied in one of our many spiked pits, I too was certain our relationship would be of the shortest sort. Mostly, I believed it would end with your head on a wooden stake outside the walls of Yunnam. Somehow, though, despite your apparent buffoonery, you proved to be so much more than I ever would’ve thought. “At first, I assumed you were lazy, greedy, and dull-witted—not unlike the Lingya of the deep mangroves. It is a type of ape, so foolish it can be trapped by putting some fruit in a coconut with a small hole carved into the top. The Lingya puts its grubby fist in to grab the treasure inside, but then cannot remove its hand. Not without letting go of its prize, which never occurs to the creature. Such is the level of its foolishness. And so I considered you, love of my heart. My Lingya.”Cutter squinted, face screwing up, “Not sure if I should feel amused or insulted.” “Oh, deeply insulted,” Amara said seriously. “To be called as foolish as a Lingya is an offense great enough to start a blood feud in most clans. But there is more to the story. You only appeared as a Lingya to those unwise enough to ignore you. You were no wily ape, but rather the noble yet elusive Jinkjo. It is a small type of drake that lives deep in the swamps. A sly creature which hides itself and its true nature through a carefully cultivated exterior. The Jinkjo, you see, often appears to share many traits with the Lingya, but once you scratch the surface you will find the miniscule drake to be a deadly hunter, a resourceful gather, and a vicious fighter.”She extracted her hands from his and reached into a small pouch at her side, pulling free a pendant showcasing two dragons, intertwined in a symbol that resembled the ying and yang.“Most importantly, though, is the last trait of the Jinkjo. They are solitary creatures, often lonely. Vulnerable when isolated. But when the male drake finds a mate, it evolves into a Mangkar—an enormous beast to rival even Jack’s Devil in size and ferocity. The Mangkar is among the deadliest creatures of the Storme Marshes and deeply loyal, willing to risk all for its kin and its territory. By disposition, they prefer the solitude, treasure, and the comfort of their lairs, but all Dokkalfar know you cross one at your own peril. You, love of my heart, are a Mangkar as surely as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west.” She reached up, fastening the pendant on its leather thong around his neck. “I am proud to fight by your side and fill your bed at night.”“I don’t bloody think I’ve ever heard a sweeter or more biting vow in my life.” Cutter sounded genuinely touched. “I would expect nothing less from you.” He offered her a wink and a lewd grin. “Now, if we’re done with all the flowery words and sugary sweet sentiments, how about we celebrate this wedding in the custom of my people? Let’s get bloody drunk, eh! First round’s on Jack!” The audience erupted with claps and cheers, fists pumping in the air. Cutter slipped forward, pulling Amara into a long, deep kiss before sweeping her off her feet, cradling her against his chest as she glared at him like a pit viper. After a second though, her face softened, a faint blush creeping up into her cheeks as she snaked well-muscled arms around his neck. “These Thieves are not the only ones who know how to celebrate,” she boomed as Cutter carried her for the door. “Prepare yourself for the celebration of the Ak-Hani. Tonight, the Law-jiu will flow as freely as the waters of Nayok Nam!”