I take a deep breath and enter Iwakotan.

  It’s a burg in the midst of the Guildland Forest, trees aplenty. The palisade guards eye me but don’t trouble me. It’s one of the perks of not being absolutely mullered anymore. Maybe the only perk. Now, I just look shit-drunk. Really, I’m exhausted.

  I trudge into town. It’s been three months since leaving Carthesia and parting ways with Weekes and Rose in Port Nakanai. Not a day has gone by where any of this has gotten easier. Some days, I’ve not left bed. My feet are heavy. My body’s heavy. The sheer weight of starting over from nothing is heavy. Some Champion of the light I am.

  It’s a couple hours past sunrise, and the town is stirring. A single cobbled road thrusts down the main, and the rest are packed dirt. It’s a logging town, known for its great ash trees. They supply the shipyards in Hayawara, attempting to make ships half as good as Vasterholmian longships. Although Iwakotan’s growing. I pass by a tavern that wasn’t there last time, almost a year ago. More houses have gone up, too, and I pause in front of a bustling work site.

  A large hall is being battered together by hulking half-giants, dragonkin, and orcs, sweating and glistening, nothing but gleaming shoulders and necks with shirts cast off. I stare for a moment. Signage says it’ll be a Guild Hall soon, open to adventurers hoping to find bigger hauls and make a better living. I keep moving and stop outside the Jasmine Leaf Tavern. Voices drift like the beckoning of a siren. I rub my face. And I step inside.

  The barkeep is a young half-elf with clay-colored skin and dark hair. I sit at the bar, glancing around. It’s full of people cross-legged at low tables having breakfast. Most are workers heading to the logging camps.

  “Good morning,” she says. “Can I get you anything?”

  I lean against a fist. “I’ll take whatever you’re offering for breakfast. No meat, please. And coffee. Milk on the side.”

  It’s three copper for the whole lot, and she soon comes back with a tray, setting down a bowl of sticky rice, boiled eggs, and brothy soybean and vegetable soup. I pour a hefty helping of milk into the steaming coffee and tuck in.

  “Would you mind chatting for a bit?” I ask before she leaves. I find myself staring at the casks behind the bar. Something in a glass would pair exquisitely. I put on my best charming smile. It sure seems half-baked these days. “I’d appreciate your time.”

  She’s half paying attention, cleaning off a spigot with a rag. “What do you need?”

  I tear my eyes away from it. “Has anyone new joined you in this fine town recently? From the Byrian Isles in particular.”

  She looks me over, seeming to see me for the first time. Her gold eyes linger on my mail jacket and Vasterholmian shortswords. “Why do you ask?”

  I could be a slaver here to drag them back, is what she means. By all appearances, she’s not far off. I’m a pear in a peach tree among the hakamas and wide sleeves, if only for the heart-ornamented mandolin slung across my back.

  “I’m just making sure they’ve settled in alright. Do you happen to know where they went?”

  She pauses, then returns to her work. “The old house on Branch Street against the wall. One of them came in last week looking for work.”

  “Did you give it to them?”

  She shakes her head. “We can’t afford it.”

  I nod and smile. I wish that wasn’t becoming a familiar thing to hear.

  I pack down my breakfast. I’ve been feeling just shy of starving these past months. For the first time, I’m not short on coin, and food is plentiful. But I can’t get enough, eating four or five proper meals a day. I’ve had to have my clothes let out twice already, everything I eat exploding into more solidity. I’ve been throwing myself into practicing with shortswords most nights. It dampens the itch to find something more fun. I just wish it were better at putting me to sleep. I throw down the rest of my coffee. It’s missing a familiar sharp bite.

  And then I look for Branch Street.

  The house is near the edge of town, one slanting wall leaning against the palisade. It’s small, probably someone’s tertiary property from which they can squeeze a bit more rent. I pause, staring blankly at the door. These past months, I’ve learned there’s no knowing what to expect from these slaves. Some cried, some welcomed me in, some shut doors in my face, and some even chucked the coin back at me. One even wanted to bear my children.

  I knock, and the door slides open shortly.

  A halfling stands before me, dark hair gathered in a high, brushing ponytail. He’s middle-aged with a familiar hazy look in the eyes. He blinks, looking up at me.

  “Gods… um –”

  It’s another gamble whether they know who I am. Some know me by face, others by name. Some have never heard of me. I’m assuming this is the former.

  “I hope this lovely morning’s finding you well,” I say. “Judging by that, you know who I am. Can I come in?”

  “Um,” he stammers again, eyes locked on my whip. He turns and calls over his shoulder. “Evelyn!”

  “Who is –?” A voice comes from further inside.

  A moment later, a human woman appears. My jaw goes slack.

  She’s got light aqua eyes and raven hair pulled into a fanning bun with a pilled red ribbon, quaint and upturned features set with a certain resolve. We’ve gotta be close in age. She stops, the slight bow of her lips parting when she sees me.

  “Oh.” She starts stammering, too. I’m already lost in her neck. She gives something close to a bow. “Warchief. Please, come in.”

  Three months in and I’m still not used to it. “That's kind of you. It’s just Chouncey.”

  She nods. “It's an honor to meet you. I’m Evelyn Tomoko.”

  I smile and give a bow back, hand over my chest. “And what a pleasant start to my day, meeting you, Evelyn.” Pink flushes her round cheeks.

  I step into the hovel. It’s a single room, hardly bigger than a hut in the slave pens. Battered paper dividers are stationed around, cordoning off cots tucked against the walls. It’s dark, grimy papered windows blocking the mid-morning sun. The wood floor is rotting through. I count six people. They’re all wearing the same clothes they presumably left the Isles with. They stand as I enter, eyes wide.

  Evelyn appears, hands clasped. Everyone’s looking to her, avoiding me. “What brings you here?”

  I approach a window, snapping my fingers. The dust and buildup vanish, letting in more sunlight. A slave gapes at me. “I’m seeing how you’re settling in. Have you had any issues?”

  “Quite a few,” she says quietly. I’ve yet to find any slave who hasn’t. “We can’t find work. Nobody wants to hire us. I think the townspeople might be part of it, but I can’t be sure. And then… there’s Sarah. We don’t know how much longer she’ll last.”

  She gestures toward the bed in the corner. A small, curled form lies on it – a young kobold woman.

  She’s sleeping, or maybe unconscious. Rags are wrapped over the back of her shoulder, seeping through with fluids. Her coppery, scaled skin is pale and sheening.

  “What happened?” I ask. My stomach twists.

  The room goes quiet and still, its meager warmth fleeing my presence. I look to Evelyn. She wrings her hands. “There was… we were dropped on the coast by Kern.”

  “Hagelin?”

  “Yes.” He’s Torm’s brother, another half-giant – one of the jarls on Reesh. She continues. “They let us off the ship and then… opened fire. She was hit. Some others didn’t make it. It hasn’t been healing. I think something got in there.”

  I barely hear what she said. The room spins. Cold fire shoots down my spine.

  “I'm sorry, you said they tried to kill you?” I spit.

  A slave shuffles backward. They all nod, eyes avoiding me. “Yes,” Evelyn says quietly.

  “One moment,” I manage to choke out. I step through the door, seeing red.

  I wrest a seashell from my pocket, squeezing it in a fist. I pace in front of the hovel with a hand clenched over my mouth, waiting. I’m gonna explode, but I’ve gotta keep myself together. Nobody here needs to see that.

  A few excruciating moments later, a crackling sensation comes from the magical shell. I hear Erson's voice in my head.

  Seven Oaks. What do you need?

  Shaking, I talk into the shell. “Get Kern Hagelin in fucking chains before the night’s over. I said the slaves go free unharmed, and they're telling me he opened fire.”

  There’s a pause. Do you want me to corroborate –

  “Corroborate your pollup-riddled colon, for all I care,” I snap. “Whatever he's got to say, he can tongue it into my ass, or I'll send the hells another Hagelin brother with his cock out. Get started now.”

  The response is awfully quick this time. Okay. I’ll see to it. When are you coming back?

  “Whenever I feel like popping your nose again, you decrepit clod,” I say. My blood’s searing. “Tell me as soon as he’s in chains. Don’t test me on this, Walstad. I’ll be making an example of him, and I’ll not be afraid to make an example of you, too.”

  Understood. I’m getting people together right now. I’ll smack him around for you, too.

  I've not forgotten a moment of Erson’s ripe face during those five repellent years. But he’s not given me reason to drop him on his flat ass yet. I lean against the house. It creaks. I tuck the shell away and breathe, rubbing my face. I need another cup of coffee. Or better yet, I need a drink.

  The door cracks, and Evelyn appears. Through the now-clean slatted window, faces duck away. She steps outside, closing it behind her.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I wish you all didn’t have to hear that.”

  She gives a small smile, her lips a line. “We’ve seen worse than somebody standing up for us.” Her Horonese accent’s crisp and blossoming. I take another deep breath and cross my arms. She continues. “I hate to ask, but we can’t afford healing for Sarah. Is there anything you can do?”

  My guts twist. If I’m a healer, the sky’s pink. “I can certainly try.” I step back inside. It’s frankly miserable. “Here.” I pull five silver from my magical bag, handing them to the sapling-green dragonkin. “I need a bit of space. Go get yourselves some breakfast. Take your time.”

  The slaves eagerly accept, chatting excitedly, and give quick bows while shuffling out of the hovel. Evelyn stays.

  I grab a rolled-up, rat-nibbled rush pad, bringing it to Sarah’s bed. The faint smell of rot hits me. I sit, Evelyn kneeling and appearing at my shoulder. She reaches for the rags covering the wound. “This is what –”

  “I don't need to see,” I say, moving her hand away. My stomach lurches at the thought. I touch Sara’s back – it’s clammy and hot.

  Evelyn backs away, quietly watching.

  I bring my mandolin around. She said Sarah’s not recovering. Arriel taught me how to heal, but not like this. I close my eyes, reaching deep down through my mind. I pass my ley line connections, their humming tones only a fraction of the chord it once was. My chest wilts, and not for the first time. Still, they’re laced with light, like golden tendrils of hair splayed in water. At the very bottom, I find a still pool.

  Three months later, Iros has kept his word. In the small pool’s glow is the image of a pink-splashed sunset, black ships bearing freed slaves fading in the distance. The seal over it holds steady. Most days, I find only a ripple or two, no longer the crashing, churning black waters crashing against cutting rock.

  “I need your help,” I whisper. “If you’re not too busy for your favorite bard.”

  Warmth flushes through my blood. Behind my eyelids, light flickers. Within the pool, I watch a memory play out – lying in a ditch, paralyzed, and Arriel touching my shoulder and praying over me. That must be what I need.

  I come back to present. I snap my fingers, and my pick appears in my hand - a black dragon scale sheening with pink in the dim light. It's etched with a sun symbol. I clear my throat and begin strumming, fingering my magical connection to the first, feeling its thrumming potential, looking at the way it catches the light. I can feel it, evoke it - match it even. I grasp it and sing:

  Light Daddy, would you ease this fever

  And bring her back from a too-long sleep

  I’m asking now before the price is steep

  Because I sure as hell don’t know how to retrieve her

  Glowing, pink magic channels from my hand. It hums. I touch her. It flashes across the bandages like a bright, searing flare. Her skin cools. I let out a held breath. It worked.

  I grasp the connection again. This one's more familiar. I strum and sing:

  Light Daddy, before you go

  She needs a bit of divine healing

  Or I think she might go over keeling

  I’m a bit of an expert, I’m sure you know

  More pink magic glows from my hand. When I touch her, it seeps into her skin, knitting the wound together with pink laces of light. Her breathing deepens, and she begins to snore.

  My head fogs, and I sway. There was a time when I grasped the seventh ley line like it was nothing. Now, two grabs at the first leaves me exhausted. No matter what spells I do now, my old favorites or the new ones Arriel taught me, it feels… different. She said my connection to the ley lines changed, and I believe her. I’m as in-tune with their resonance as ever, but there’s an unspeakable sense like an entity guides me whenever I grab a connection, like a swirling wisp of light that follows my movements. I learned everything I knew through sheer talent before all this. Having a hand now is… something else.

  I stand, backing away. Evelyn’s staring at me. I hold her gaze for a bit too long. She flusters. “Gods, I… thank you. She and I were close. I heard you were…”

  “A bard?”

  “Magical - I mean, a mage. But yes.”

  I point at her and pass her a charming smile. “What a generous slip of the tongue. Thank you.”

  “I meant…” she pauses, smiling. Her cheeks flush again. “You’re welcome.”

  “Here,” I say. I fetch several pouches of ten gold each from my magical bag. “I’ll let you hand these out. It’s from the vault. Consider it reparations or back-pay, it’s all the same to me. I’m hoping it helps.”

  Her aqua eyes go wide. “We only have a month left before we lose this place.”

  “Get a better one.” I move around, snapping my fingers and cleaning grime off the windows. Light pours in. “You said you were having trouble finding work.”

  “Yes,” she says, tucking bags of coin into beds, out of sight. “I’ve been asking everywhere, but nobody will hire us. But I’ve seen townspeople talking to some men who hang around the bakery. I asked there, too, but they weren’t very nice about shooing me off.”

  I sigh. The Guild’s guilty of the oldest trick in the book, making sure people punch at each other rather than up. And freed slaves are especially punchable. “Would you mind showing me? I’ll see what I can do.”

  We head through town. While we walk, she tells me about her struggles. She worked in Guildania as a seamstress before being dragged to the Isles on a trip to the coast to see family. Working for the Guild if you’re established with some savings is decent. Getting back is the hard part, especially after a one-way voyage to the Isles.

  “It’s terrible to say, but at least we were clothed and fed,” she says quietly. The town’s beginning to clear, people flocking to the logging camps for the day. “The Guild makes you pay for those things yourself. But they’re the ones providing it, so why would they pay us more than we need? And they call that dignified work. We all know what it is.”

  “Where’d you end up?” I ask. It hasn’t gotten any easier to talk about these things. But I find myself wanting to keep talking all the same.

  “I was on For. It was about two years,” she says. She steps around someone and brushes against me. “I made sails. My hands aren’t what they used to be.”

  That’s not gonna make finding work easier. “Well, thanks for taking care of the rest. Not everyone’s been so lucky, having someone like you around.”

  She stops. I do, too. “You’ve really been finding all of us?”

  Maybe it’s stupid, doing all this myself. But there’s no one aside from Arriel and Weekes I’d trust to help. Hearing about Kern only makes that clearer. “The alternative’s sitting on Jor for the foreseeable future. I’m sure you, of all people, can understand why that’s a slight problem.”

  “Do you think you’ll go back someday?”

  There’s a rock in my gut suddenly. I've got a fatter chance of catching a unicorn than wanting to stay on Jor. “I’ll have to. But there’s a lot of us counting on help in the meantime.”

  She smiles a little. She’s standing close. I look at the small mole near one of her slanted brows. “I’m glad you’re still saying us. I think we couldn’t have asked for a better Warchief.”

  I smile in return. “Is this a ruse to get more favors out of me? Or did someone tell you I’ve got a thing for praise?”

  She laughs. It’s sweet and light, like fresh cream. My heart’s oozing in the middle of the street. “Maybe just a taiyaki. They’re delicious, from what I hear. You could be a good boy and get me one.”

  “Anything you want, if you keep on that track," I say huskily.

  Soon enough, we find a small building. It’s hung with a sign painted with a steaming loaf of bread. People are coming and going through the open sliding door. The scent of baked goods sweeps out, sweet and buttery. I’m hungry again.

  There’s a small line, and we wait. I glance around. Behind the counter is an older goblin woman on a stool, fetching baked goods from the glass case. She’s wearing a flour-dusted apron and off-white hakama.

  Evelyn nudges me and leans in. “Those are the men I mentioned. Over in the corner.”

  I wait a moment, cross my arms, and then make a casual glance over at the table. A group of five young men is gathered. They’re talking and hovering over papers. One of them is a goblin with some resemblance to the old woman behind the counter.

  “They’re here often?” I ask.

  “Yes, from what I can tell,” Evelyn says.

  It’s our turn at the counter, and I step up, leaning against the glass. There’s nobody behind us at the moment.

  “A fine morning to you,” I say to the old goblin woman. “I hear your taiyaki are the best around. I’ll take one.”

  “It's my grandmother's recipe. You have good timing,” she says, her voice raspy. “This is the last batch.”

  “Lucky for us. I’m sure this lovely lady would like one, too.”

  Evelyn goes pink. “Yes, please.”

  “This is a fine little establishment you’ve got. Have I got the honor of speaking with the owner?”

  “That’s me,” the goblin says. She hands over two fluffy, fish-shaped pastries wrapped in paper. They’re still warm. “We’ve been here twenty years, and hopefully twenty more, even though the Guild’s setting up shop. I appreciate your business.”

  “Are you looking for workers? My dear friend here could charm a coin from a dragon. And she's as hard-working as they come.”

  “I wouldn’t mind help. But the Guild will take their share and undercut us before long. We’ll have to make do without, sorry.”

  Evelyn nibbles her pastry. Her eyes roll back. I take a bite, and it’s flaky and nutty, filled with sweet matcha paste. I pause. I should grab another one.

  “Is it a family business?” I ask. “I’ll keep you in mind next time I come through.”

  “Of course. My son over there works the counter sometimes.”

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “Well, you cut a much younger figure,” I say with a wink.

  She laughs, playfully swatting a hand toward me. I lean further against the glass case, peering into the kitchen behind her.

  I spot the corner of a hatch in the floor.

  “You keep this handsome man out of trouble,” she says to Evelyn. “That’s half a copper for the lot.”

  “I’ll take one more, actually,” I say around a mouthful.

  “Me, too,” Evelyn says. I toss down two copper.

  “I hope the trees breeze easy on you today,” I say in goblin. I put a hand against my chest and give a short bow.

  The old woman brightens. “The same to you, and come back soon.”

  I tuck the spare pastry into my magical bag for later, and we claim a table, sitting cross-legged. It’s not far from the young men in the corner. I tap a finger on the table. Pink lettering appears. There’s a hatch door in the kitchen.

  Evelyn peers at it. “Do you think there’s something down there?”

  I lean back a bit, adjusting my swords, and listen to the huddled men talking. There’s something secretive about it. I catch mention of “tonight,” “invaders,” and “see how the dice roll.”

  I turn back to Evelyn. “A meeting place, maybe.”

  I tear through my taiyaki. Evelyn does, too. It’d go exquisitely with a double shot of dwarven whiskey. I stop myself from reaching for my empty flask in my chest pocket. I get a cup of coffee and fatty milk from the counter, bringing one for Evelyn. I obliterate my second pastry, buy a third, and tuck it away for later.

  “Would you like to come back tonight for another one?” I ask pointedly, leaning against a fist.

  “I don’t think they’re open past noon,” she says.

  I tap my finger again, and more text appears on the table.

  “Oh,” she says, her cheeks pinking. “Yes. If that’s what you think would be best.”

  I crumple up paper and brush away pastry crumbs. “Then let’s get to work.”

  ?

  I spend the rest of the day touring Iwakotan with the other slaves, looking for work. I convince the guard to take the green dragonkin and a dwarf, but the others have no luck. Not a single blacksmith or carpenter wants an apprentice or help around the shop. The stables turn us away. The lumber camps don’t need help, nor does the Guild Hall site. The townspeople seem eager enough when I start talking. But once they see I’m advocating for the former slaves, it takes a sharp turn. I can’t even talk their way into scraping shit yards. Most use the Guild as an excuse. Evelyn’s right – something's fucky here.

  Night falls, and Evelyn and I head back through town. The taverns are bustling with workers fresh from the logging camps. A few places are handing out community meals for a copper piece. A couple elderly half-elves watch us go by while scrubbing laundry. There’s an itch deep inside me this time of night. I find myself passing a tavern that’s not on the way. Soon, we see the bakery again.

  The lights are off, the sliding door closed. We stroll by casually, chatting.

  “So, where is Seven Oaks?” Evelyn asks.

  “It’s a little place in southern Talnir,” I say, crossing my arms against the gathering chill. “Not far from Port Bourac. Right on the coast.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Not at all. It’s a terrible place to have a shellfish allergy.” She laughs. I stop, glancing around while keeping up the pretense. “And where did you first grace this dear world, Ms. Tomoko?”

  “In Guildania. My parents are still there, or at least they were two years ago. With all that money you gave me, I’ll hopefully see them soon.”

  My chest warms. Liquid lantern light glints off her aqua eyes and unblemished skin. “If they made you, I hope they get the pleasure of your company. I, for one, can vouch for it.”

  She smiles. I hold her eye for a breathless moment.

  “So,” she fumbles, looking away. “What are you going to do here?”

  “I’m just gonna talk to them,” I say. I hope it’s the truth.

  I step toward the alley, alluringly beckoning her with me. To anyone nosy enough, they can guess what we’re doing down there.

  I find a back door.

  The alley leads to a small courtyard behind the bakery with a drain in the middle. I snap my fingers, my pick appearing. I hum a snippet of a song I once sang on a table with Arriel, and it flickers to life with dim, pink light. It hovers before me as I crouch and look at the lock. It’s a hinged door, making it more difficult.

  If I had the tools, I might be able to wing it, but who am I kidding? I’m not a rogue. I stand back up. I could certainly use one.

  “How are we getting in?” Evelyn whispers.

  I glance around. A slatted window overlooks the small courtyard. I step over some shrubs and stone landscaping, peering through. I find the kitchen. Light comes from the open hatch on the floor. It’s otherwise dark. My pink light casts in. I don’t see anyone.

  I do, however, see the door.

  I hum a triad and flick out my arcane hand. It appears inside the kitchen, a floating, translucent pink hand. Pushing myself against the window slats, I hover it over to the door and fumble the bolt open.

  “That’s how we’re getting in,” I say, opening the door.

  Her dark brows go up. She follows me inside.

  I hear talking below. Someone’s narrating in a hushed, intense voice. I peer around the kitchen. My pick casts over empty mugs and casks stacked on a counter, as well as dirty bowls and platters. A cat’s licking them clean.

  It startles, seeing us. It bolts through the door, hissing. Pots scatter behind it, crashing to the floor.

  “Fuck me,” I breathe. I keep a hand on my sword as footsteps clomp up the stairs. Evelyn scuttles behind me, clinging to my chain jacket.

  “Who the hells are you?” It’s the young goblin from earlier. “What are you doing here?”

  More young men appear, a handful of years younger than me. There’s a half-orc, a lizardfolk, and a halfling. A human pushes around the goblin. He’s lanky and broad-shouldered with ashy, long hair and a full beard over an immaculate jawline. He’s got a few inches on me, and as for further down, I’d be interested to find out.

  “I’m terribly sorry to bother you fine gentlemen,” I say. My pick brightens. The room lights up in pink. “I hear you’re causing trouble for my friends. Maybe we can come to an agreement.”

  The human glances at Evelyn. “Your slave friends?”

  “Are you the reason they can’t find work?”

  The goblin snorts. “We don’t want them here. We have families to take care of.”

  “And that’s their fault?”

  “Well, yeah,” the goblin says, puffing his chest. It makes him wider than he is tall. “We live here. We need to work, and we can’t if they’re taking our jobs.”

  I glance them over. “Do any of you actually work for a living?”

  They don’t say anything.

  “So you hang around the basement of your mother’s bakery, pissing on the poor, then? And gods know what else you've been pissing on,” I say, glancing at the state of the kitchen.

  “Who are you?” the tall human cuts in.

  I let go of my weapon. I'm in more imminent danger of their greasy fingers. “I’m Chouncey of Seven Oaks, and believe me, I wish we weren’t having this chat. Whatever you’re doing, convincing these townspeople to turn us away, I’m asking you nicely to knock it off.”

  “He’s the Warchief of the Byrian Isles,” Evelyn cuts in from behind me. “He killed Irminric the Black in single combat.”

  The tall human laughs. He glances me over, eyes lingering on my mandolin. “And I’m Nils, the king of Hartland. Are you a bard or something?”

  “I am. And you've got a certain ‘undernourished middle child’ vibe, so long as we're pigeonholing people, you prodigious clunk,” I say. I clench my jaw. I’m losing patience for this.

  More laughter bubbles. The goblin leans over, muttering. “Strength bard.”

  “What are you going to do, charm me?” the human challenges.

  My blood runs hot. That’s it. I tried. I glance at a cast-iron pan hanging from a rack. I whistle sharply, and the door rattles shut. My arcane hand throws the lock. The laughter stops. I grab the pan, spinning it in my grip.

  “Something like that.”

  I step forward, and they shriek.

  I send the goblin flipping backward with an underhand swing. A hollow bong vibrates the pan. He eats a sack of flour, sending it puffing around the room. They scrabble over each other, fleeing. I clobber the half-orc. He collides with the edge of a counter, tusk flying off with a crack. I swing overhead. The halfling crumples like paper.

  “Chouncey!”

  A rolling pin flies at me. I catch it. Evelyn nods, backing into a corner with a wooden spoon gripped in front of her.

  I turn to the human.

  Spittle sprays as I slug him with the rolling pin. It breaks. The other half bounces off the oven. I duck. I crack his sharp jaw with the pan. It's almost a shame. He staggers back. I plant a foot and shove. He trips over the half-orc, tumbling down the stairs with a crash.

  A smack splits the room. I whirl. The lizardfolk is clutching his tail. Evelyn thwacks him on the snout with her spoon. He hisses, black eyes watering. He barely sees me coming. I finish the job, sending him clear over a pile of crates.

  Something’s off. I look at the pan. It’s got a lizardfolk faceprint in the bottom. I toss it down the stairs where the human’s starting to move. There’s another clank, and it fades into groaning.

  I heave, catching my breath. Evelyn gapes at me. Then she laughs, teetering on incredulity. It’s cute. I give her a sweeping bow for my performance, and she claps.

  I head down the stairs. I step on the human who grunts, clutching his jaw. She follows, stepping around him. We find a cellar. It’s been finished into a halfway decent gathering space. Crates and sacks are stacked in the corners to make room for a long table. Mugs and cups are scattered, as well as papers, dice, and small wooden figures. A short, folding wooden screen blocks the papers at the head of the table. I tilt my head, scanning.

  “What a bunch of fucking nerds,” I breathe.

  “Look at this,” Evelyn says.

  In the corner, a bed small enough for a goblin is shoved between some barrels. The table next to it’s piled high with personal effects. She’s found an envelope of notes. It’s correspondence among the group, mostly scheduling nights like these - or trying to. The lizardfolk’s got no end of excuses. But I find other things, too. The goblin was pushing hard to spread word that these slaves aren’t to be trusted. They all have family members involved in some of the prominent businesses around here, Evelyn points out. She pulls one from the bottom of the stack, peering at it.

  “I can’t read this.”

  I take it from her. It’s in goblin. “Well, fuck me,” I say, scanning it.

  “What?”

  “That goblin was taking money from the Guild. They’re promising not to undercut the bakery if he puts the word out about us.” It’s an easy diversion, if not a way to garner favor, making everyone hate the slaves instead of thinking about what hardship is coming.

  She pauses. “Maybe the other businesses would like to know that.”

  “I’m sure the guard would, too,” I say. I tuck it all back in the envelope and drop it in my magical bag. The sound of groaning has quieted. Nobody’s dead. I’d call that a lesson learned on their part.

  We head upstairs, once again stepping on the human. The others have come to their senses, and they scamper away from me. We hustle to the guardhouse. I drop the envelope into their mail slot, ensuring the Guild letter is first. From what I saw of the guard earlier when I brought them recruits, they seem as competent and trustworthy as guards get.

  “Even on For, we heard what you were doing in the Pit. I see how you bested Irminric,” Evelyn says as we walk. The night has quieted down. It’s close to midnight.

  “Well, that was something else entirely,” I say. Only Arriel and I know that I’ve lost almost all my magic since then. It twists my stomach. "But you flatter me all the same."

  “Regardless,” she says. She stops and turns to me. “Thank you. You’ve done more than enough for us. I have to say, I… didn’t expect any of this. I’ve heard a lot of things, but… the truth is even better.”

  Her raven hair glints with moonlight. I imagine the brush of it in my hands, or maybe a fist wrapped around it.

  I laugh, looking away. My throat tightens. It’s been three months. I’ve had too much to bear at once to make moves toward sex. I’ve been learning everything for the first time again – how to do magic, how to talk to people when I’m not plastered, how to feel confident, how to be a Champion of a god. But maybe the biggest thing that’s kept me away is wondering whether it’s gonna send me drinking again.

  It’s been so crushingly lonely. Maybe it’s even worse than before I met Arriel and Weekes. Knowing I have friends who’d do anything for me if I asked, but having no way to talk to them, has been half the struggle. I look back at Evelyn. She’s still watching me.

  “Sorry,” she continues nervously. “I guess I’m a little star-struck. You’re really something. And probably in some ways… you had the worst of it. You seem so… okay. In fact, you’re very charming.”

  I’m the furthest thing from okay. But at least I’m not screaming into the silence anymore. I live in a world without Irminric. I just wish that were enough.

  I raise a brow. “Ms. Tomoko, is there something you’re working toward here?”

  She gives an uneasy laugh. “I don’t want to presume, but…” she wavers. I can almost hear her heart thumping. “I’d like to, um… gods, I want to see what you look like underneath that chainmail. But I can’t really offer anywhere to go. I have, you know, a cot. But…” she trails off.

  I find myself smiling, watching her squirm. She’s standing close. The slight bow of her lips is singing to me.

  She sucks in a shuddering breath when I kiss her.

  Her midnight hair is just as silky as I imagined. She touches my neck, and it’s electric. I take a handful of her hip. I need her waist between my hands, and whatever I’m gonna find below it. She grips my arms, giving a faint moan. It’s got me quivering. Is this gonna be anything like it was without the drink? Does it matter?

  I pull away and snap my fingers. A small, pink heart token appears in my hand. I offer it to her. “I’ve got a proper bed, if you don’t mind walking in the woods.”

  She smiles, her perfect teeth gleaming. She takes it from me, looking up through dark lashes. “Lead the way. Maybe you can play that lute for me.”

  “First of all, it’s a mandolin. There’s a few notable differences,” I say, bringing it around and snapping out my pick. I trill some bright chords in the nighttime, bringing a bit of light to the darkness. Her eyes ignite. “But where are my manners?”

  I play and sing:

  It's just you and me

  It's just you and me

  It's just you and me and tonight

  By the look in your eyes

  I can't take it

  I need you and me

  And now, and now it's just you and me

  Now I'll hold you tight

  Now I'll hold you tight for the whole night

  Love, you can just take my hand

  Now I'll hold you tight

  And now, and now I'll hold you tight

  I continue, drawing looks from the townspeople we pass. We head through the gates. I give her my pick to light the way as I bring her through trees and over logs and stones. She's worried about her hands not working, she tells me as we walk. I tell her she’s allowed to borrow mine with impunity, which sends her stammering again.

  Finally, she stops and stares.

  Hovering about twenty feet off the ground is my skyship. Or rather, a sky skiff, only about thirty feet long. It’s bright, glossy pink and heart-shaped. When I parted ways with Weekes and Rose in Port Nakanai, I stumbled on a team of gnomes sitting on the prototype after the Guild trashed the idea. It’s got a couple arcane engines made of moon material called ornarock – it’s the stuff infused with magic from when Ornice crashed into Coramine a thousand years ago. Some of it’s still hidden around the world, invaluable for its ability to hold magical enchantment.

  I flick out my arcane hand and pull down the rope ladder. “After you,” I say, gesturing. What a prelude to having my nose in her ass.

  “Are you going to catch me if I fall?”

  “I’ll give you something soft to land on,” I say, grazing a hand across her curves. “Or maybe hard.”

  She laughs, going red. And she climbs.

  Once we’re on board, I pull the ladder up, then step past her. There’s an open deck and arcane control panel, behind which is a door to the cabin, down a couple steps. I unlock it. I snap my fingers, and an arcane lantern lights up. She follows.

  “Wow,” she whispers.

  Amidst the small cabin is a heart-shaped bed fitted with pink sheets and drapes, piled with pillows. Mounted above it is a now-disenchanted greatsword on pegs, the crosshilt in the shape of a reaching dragon wing. I hang my sword belt and sling off my mandolin, my arcane hand fitting it on a stand on the wall. My chain jacket goes in a small closet with clothes and pink robes.

  “My fourteen-year-old self would love this,” she says.

  I approach, brow up. "Aren't we all still fourteen in some ways?"

  "That's surprisingly profound."

  "Unfortunately, mine's still in charge of my cock."

  She laughs. My arcane hand appears, brushing some of her hair back, then trailing down her neck. She shudders. "Or maybe fortunate for me."

  I smile. "Let's find out, Ms. Tomoko."

  Then she jumps me. And her hands work just fine.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m mid-thrust when a buzzing sound comes from the floor.

  “Oh, fuck me,” I heave. “Just a moment.” My arcane hand fetches the buzzing seashell. I take it. “I’m very firmly in the middle of something. Make it quick,” I pant into it.

  Erson’s voice sounds in my head. Um… sorry. We got Kern. He tried to run for it. I have him chained in the slave pens for now. I figure that’s a good enough spot.

  Evelyn taps me to keep going. I do, my vibrating arcane hand returning. She squirms, her aqua eyes rolling back. “That’s a nice touch.” I groan as her legs lock me in place. “Give him a firm hello for me. I’ll take care of it when I’m… sweet fucking hells. I’ll take care of it. Oh.”

  There’s a pause. Happy to help. Also, did you send a team of gnomes here? They’re talking about sky ships.

  I don’t remember what a sky ship is. She’s trailing her fingers down my chest, blown-out raven hair plastered to her sheening, red face. Every inch of her is jiggling in the best way. Brows peaked together, she mouths something like I’m growing a crumb. “Yes. Now quit bothering me, or I’ll leave you on speaker.”

  There’s no reply.

  I chuck the seashell somewhere else. “We’ve got Kern,” I breathe, gripping her thighs. “How’s that?”

  “I’ll come to that,” she laughs and pants with an exquisite smile.

  And she does.

  Afterward, we clean up, and she passes out beside me. It’s quiet, only the buzzing of insects drifting through the small, heart-shaped windows of the cabin. I’m nowhere near falling asleep. It’s been like this most nights. Whenever I stop for too long, I start thinking.

  My throat’s fiercely dry, missing the cool burn of something nice. I make myself breathe. It’s been easier glamping in the woods. It’s too easy to shuffle into a tavern, accidentally or otherwise. I glance over at my empty flask on the table. Twenty pink, sun-shaped stickers faintly glow from it. There were nineteen yesterday. I swallow thickly. Even a mouthful would help ease things. After all, when's the last time I fucked someone sober?

  Her leg hitches around me, sticking from the silken sheets. I trace a hand along it. I stop. On her ankle is a raised scar. It’s shaped like a spider.

  My chest fills. Tears brim. I stare at the ceiling. I’m beyond exhausted. How much longer can I do this? And how much am I even helping? These slaves need more than jobs and some gold. They’ve gone from slavery to something just as terrible. My freedom was a choice of where and when I felt was best to die. Nobody cared. At the end of it all, I still had to make a living, or at least enough to make it all go away. They’re no different.

  I can’t keep thinking about it. I raise a hand, shaping a small illusion in front of me from the leftover resonant note of the ley lines, like the last held note of an orchestra, hovering fingers over imagined strings. It’s a picture of Arriel and Weekes, smiling with arms around each other. I push against it, testing my second connection to move it, animate it, make it bigger. But I can’t. I falter when I get too close. If I grab too much ley line and mana-burn myself, nobody can help me. And when I search for even the shadow of the confidence to try, there’s only darkness.

  I stay another couple days in Iwakotan.

  The morning after the scuffle in the bakery, I’m cornered by the guard and questioned about the frankly sore young men who reported me. I explain the situation, and they send me away with a cup of coffee once they discover it’s a diplomatic situation in the making if they chuck me in a jail cell. Evelyn and the rest find work. Things turn around quickly once news spills that the losers at the bakery were causing problems. The old goblin woman hires Evelyn straight away, sorry that her son was part of it. Evelyn runs the counter, something that won’t give her hands hell. A couple slaves wash dishes at the other tavern, owned by the father of the one-tusked half-orc who makes himself scarce. They bring in leftover food to offset their costs. The rest stay at the hovel, cleaning it up and caring for Sarah, whose physical wounds were only the beginning. Something broke in her head, Evelyn explains. I tell her she doesn’t need to say any more.

  My next task is helping them find a new home. The slave pens on Jor would pass inspection more readily than that hovel. Unfortunately, the Guild’s bought much of the property in Iwakotan to charge exorbitant rent now that a Hall is going up. Buying and knocking down the old house is an option, but the Guild is eating up builders for their new project.

  I climb out of bed early, having woken uneasily a few hours ago. Sometimes I dream of a face full of dirt and the sound of a roaring crowd. Other times, it’s the unearthly pain of my ley line connections being ripped to the root. I pull dirty clothes from the closet, snapping them clean while my arcane hand puts them away. With my wealth from the Isles, I treated myself to a new set of clothes, putting me at a plethoric three.

  I’ve been stumped by the new spell I used the other day. Yesterday, I tried leveraging some favors for the slaves, but realized I couldn’t make the spell work. The vibe felt right in the moment, but I can't recreate it. I sit in a pink robe and pluck at my mandolin while I ponder it.

  I head into town for breakfast and revisit the Jasmine Leaf Tavern. I pause when I step inside. It’s busy, all the tables and the bar full of workers. But that’s not what stops me.

  Most tables are made for sitting on the floor, but one in the corner is tall enough for a chair. Someone's sitting at it. It’s hard looking away because a radiant fucking sunbeam is casting over them through the slatted window.

  They’re a high elf with bronze, tanned skin and tapered ears. Their long, tawny hair is gathered back in a low ponytail, revealing a slender profile with full lips and high cheeks. Next to them is a tray of breakfast with steaming rice and dumplings, and a teapot steeping. They’re wearing a smartly-cut suit, a fluffed ascot of deep red tucked around their neck. They’re slender – twinky – and seated in a wheelchair.

  They glance over at me and stop mid-bite.

  I’ve been staring. There’s no use hiding it. They put their utensils down and sip from their cup, pondering me. Then, they beckon me over.

  I glance around and approach. “Pardon me gaping, but you look positively radiant sitting here,” I say. "This lovely morning sun notwithstanding."

  They give a polite smile, but there’s a surprising bit of warmth to it. “Do you need somewhere to sit? I’m happy to share.” They gesture across from them. Their accent carries the curt full-mouthiness of Hartland. Here, it’s almost exotic.

  I sit, hanging my mandolin from the back of my chair. “I’d not presume to keep you company, but it’s much appreciated. I’m Chouncey of Seven Oaks.”

  They pause again, setting down their tea. “Talmadge Bosch. I’ve heard your name with increasing frequency around the Guild lately. You’ve made quite the stir.”

  That’s not news I cherish hearing. “You’re friends with them?”

  “I’m the Secretary of Expansion. Overseeing the construction of the Guild Hall here is my latest project.”

  I nod, glancing them over. That makes sense. They remind me of a magistrate in Takazaki. If I had a copper piece for every time I had eyes for a blond, gender-neutral elven twink in the field of public service, I’d have two copper pieces.

  I gesture at them. “You might be just the person I need to chat with, then. Just a moment.” I return with breakfast a few moments later, cup of milky coffee in hand.

  “What brings the Warchief of the Byrian Isles here?” Talmadge asks, daintily wiping their mouth with a cloth napkin.

  “I’ve got people here who need help,” I say. “Some… refugees, let’s say.”

  “People like yourself? And, I don’t mean that in a disparaging way. Nobody in the Ministry was surprised when Irminric was indisposed by one of his slaves. I hope using that term doesn’t cause upset.”

  I take a long drink of coffee and start eating. There’s no more hiding it. Half a million people on the Isles know exactly what happened. “Indisposed is a polite way of saying it.”

  They smile. “I applaud your ambition. The Guild had a passionate romance with his ability to produce ships quickly and at a favorable price. They’ll be pursuing you with the same fervor shortly.”

  I'd rather fellate the shit-caked toe of a mountain giant. I pause over my baked fish. Talmadge is talking about the Guild in them rather than us. “What’s the Guild get from moving in here?”

  “Officially? They bring opportunity. Adventurers bring prosperity to the Guild, and talent can be found even here. Vast wealth is hidden away in dragon hoards, far-out realms, wizard towers, and much more. They bring it into circulation, where it can be traded and the subject of speculation. And for the majority who aren’t inclined toward adventuring, we offer dignified work.”

  I chew. The vast wealth hidden away in Irminric’s vault is all the more reason they're interested in me. “And unofficially?”

  They lean in. Their face changes, the fa?ade of professionalism slipping. “We’re here to broaden our funnel. The same story has played out across Rheda and beyond. This Guild Hall will decimate this town within a few years. Everyone here of working capability will be under a watertight contract that prevents them from leaving, all under the guise of freedom and dignity.”

  It’s the same thing Evelyn told me. I glance around. Nobody’s watching. “What’s their story?”

  “Guildania wasn’t always such,” they say. “Once, it was known only as Shirano. It was founded by warring human and orc tribes coming together to create a center for trade and protection. Five hundred years later, a private adventuring firm called the Guild came to power, securing government seats through elections and steering it toward their favor. The Chairman likes to draw his direct lineage from that initial group.”

  “Why work for them?”

  Their curated smile slants. “I’m just as incapable of escaping. I’m frankly too valuable. And on a more personal note, at least I can mitigate the damage done to people like these.”

  Something’s off about this. They sit back and sip their tea, finished eating. “Why’re you telling me all this?” I ask.

  “Because I see what you’ve done,” they say. “Pardon my language, but it takes massive fucking balls to liberate the basis for your economy in the hopes of a better world. It’s the kind of thinking I can get behind – imperfect, maybe, but a step forward. And the Chairman admires your style, even if it’s bad for business.”

  Liberating slaves being bad for business is like saying passing a backed-up shit is bad for assholes. I don’t feel better knowing the Chairman of the Guild is paying attention to me, speaking of assholes.

  “I’m curious, though – what will the Byrian Isles do now?” Talmadge asks.

  If they’re expecting an answer, I’m asking myself the same question. Erson’s trying to make shipbuilders out of raiders, but it's like trying to make a person out of snow and fingernails - only a bushel of magic is gonna help you there. Production’s at a screeching halt. Everyone experienced in making ships was sent home with ten gold for their trouble.

  “That’s a problem for later,” I say. “I’m working on one thing at a time. What’s the Guild using all those ships for, anyway?”

  They shrug. “The same thing every world power uses them for – warmongering, domination.”

  The Guild seems more and more like a tailor-made evil organization. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this is a hook. “I’m sure that’s made a few enemies.”

  “Their enemies are numerous. One of them even tried assassinating the Minister of Internal Affairs years ago.”

  I didn’t hear about that, although I was probably sharing a cellar with rats and my own creeping insanity at the time. “Who was that?”

  “Deach is their name. Many knew them as the Mask – a rogue of no small talent. I believe the quarrel was personal, although Minister Dupuy has been sparse with the details. Still, the Mask vanished and hasn’t been heard from since. It was a smart decision on the Guild’s part. They know much about the inner workings. All their dirty secrets, you might say.”

  “You seem like too decent a type to be tied up with the Guild. I could use people like you around.”

  They smile again, and it’s more genuine. “I’m flattered. But I’m afraid the Guild won’t let me go to someone whose allegiance they haven’t yet determined. But still, how lucky to encounter you here, of all places.”

  I smile in return, nursing my coffee. How lucky, indeed. I glance at the bright sunbeam still coming through the window. You can turn it off now, I say in my head.

  The sunlight dims.

  I glance at Talmadge. “You’ve gotta be a busy individual. I’d hate to take too much more of your time.”

  They chuckle. Their pointed throat moves, their smile revealing gleaming teeth. One of them is slightly crooked in the most charming way. “That’s the thing about being important – everyone else has to wait for you. I don’t like to rush good company. Please stay, by all means.”

  I cross my arms, leaning against the table. Their sprout-green eyes follow. “In that case, I’m in need of a favor from someone so capable and understanding as yourself.”

  “Oh?”

  “My friends need a better living arrangement. You’ve got builders tied up in this Guild Hall. Could you spare a few?”

  “That would put us slightly on schedule rather than far ahead, which I’m sure Minister Miyake can attest, would still put me firmly in the camp of over-delivering. How soon do you need them?”

  “Can they start knocking things down today?”

  They lift their tea mug. “I’ll see to it. In the Guild, greasing palms is our second language. You speak it well.”

  I raise a brow. “If you’ve got anything else in need of greasing, I’m much obliged.”

  They appraise me over the rim of their mug. “My chair is always in need of greasing. Maybe we can inspect it together later. I’m staying in the suite at the end of the hall. I can offer dinner. That would give me time to oversee your request.”

  “Then I’ve got good news to deliver,” I say. “It’s been an absolute pleasure, Talmadge.”

  They nod. They lower their voice, speaking throatily. “Likewise. And I hope for more.”