Some words have trigger effects. They cause a cascade of realizations, forcing seemingly incompatible puzzle pieces to slot into place. The moment Nessa made her bleak announcement, a deeper understanding slotted into place for Harald, and he understood what had transpired these past few days.

  Nessa watched him, energy tremulous, expression half-defiant, half-resigned. Her chin was raised, her hands balled into fists, and she looked nothing so much as a startled deer, ready to flee at the moment he manifested a threat.

  And in Nessa’s case, a threat could be anything from a patronizing tone or a demand for justification.

  So instead Harald just nodded pensively as he stepped back, giving her room, and wished that there was a sideboard here, a shelf of expensive liquor or wine he could use to help ease the tension, transition them form tense doorway confrontation to a less guarded conversation.

  But this being Alabenthos’ domain, there was no such thing.

  Or perhaps Vic had absconded with all the booze.

  Regardless, Harald moved slowly, lips pursed, brow furrowed to move around the room, placing the settee between him and Nessa so that she’d feel less pressured. Less on the spot. There he came to a stop, his thoughts also finally ending their swirl, and looked at her.

  “All right. We’ll go with you, if you’ll have us.”

  She glared at him. “What are you talking about? You have to—”

  “I don’t have to do anything except the right thing. And sticking by our Delve Captain? Sounds like the right thing to me.”

  She took a quick three steps forwarded then foundered, like a ship running aground on a hidden shoal. “But… your obligations. You’ve made an oath to Lord Abalenthos to assault the 41st Level.”

  “And we will. Together. As a team. We’ve already lost Vic. I won’t lose you you, too. If I have to, I’ll speak with Abalenthos myself. Explain that where one of us needs to go, the rest of us follow. Trust me.” He forced a smile. “He’s so worried about my turning into Vorakhar’s footstool that he’s not only assigned me a pet guardian angel -” And here he nodded at the mote of light, “but will, I’m sure, agree to any short term course of action as long as it’s righteous and good. I know this qualifies.”

  She was frowning at him. “You make this sound so simple.”

  “Maybe it is.”

  “You don’t even know why I have to go back.”

  “I can make an educated guess. But that’d be presumptuous of me. So rack it up to my just being a loyal friend. You tell me you need to face your old man? I’ll have your back. As will Sam and Kársek.”

  Tears glimmered in her eyes, and then she exhaled in a rush and smiled her broken smile. “Damn you, Harald Darrowdelve.”

  “You might have to get in line. But come on.” He gestured. “Sit. Tell me about it.”

  She moved hesitantly to perch at the edge of the settee. Stared down at her folded hands, and then sighed. “It’s a pathetic story. I should spare you the details.”

  Harald sat on the far end, leaned back and draped one arm over the settee’s back. “Maybe. One way to find out.”

  Nessa sighed, then glanced up sharply. “What has Sam told you?”

  “That you’ve compressed an entire love affair with Rovarik—who I still think is an ass, by the way—into about a week. But that you had a falling out with him these past few days, and been distraught.”

  Nessa laughed softly. “He is an ass. Thinks he’s the world’s best fencer. Even worse, he might be right.” She rubbed her thumb across her other palm. “Well. I gave him a run for his money. I’m a Bladeweaver, after all. And for awhile that was enough. To fixate on piercing his guard, getting my edge to his throat. And…” She canted her head to one side, as if allowing a point. “We did enjoy each other’s company. Nothing like the court poets speak of, no tale of virtue and star-crossed lovers, but… we had fun.” Her smile turned private, then became the slightest of frowns. “But you know me and fun. I can’t help but try to ruin it.”

  “Uh huh,” said Harald.

  She glanced up at him. “In this case, it wasn’t even conscious. I… you recall, obviously, the difficulties I had after wearing the Twilight Crown and the Aureate Master? The forced epiphanies, the brutal self-assessment, and my inability to just… carry on, thereafter?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well. Turns out violence and swordplay and sex were just barely enough to keep me distracted. But after a few days of Rovarik’s company—once we had—you know—I found myself growing… peaceful. Or, perhaps… lowering my guard. And that’s never a good idea.”

  “You sound like Vic.”

  She smirked. “I learned from the best. Regardless. I lost the ability to relax, to enjoy myself. My own false sense of peace shattered, and it was due to my new powers.”

  “Oh?” Harald leaned forward. “Your Level 7 ones?”

  Nessa nodded slowly. “Precisely. They are quite formidable. But they depend on my…” She trailed off, trying to find the right words. “On my trusting my companions—which I obviously do—but knowing they trust me in turn. Which I thought I did. Some broken part of me, it turns out, isn’t quite ready to believe it.” She sat up abruptly and gave him a wry, self-depracating smile. “For the power to work, I must feel the equal of you all. Deserving. And. Well. I don’t.”

  Her eyes sheened and became glassy with emotion, which caused her to stand and stalk away. She inhaled deeply, composed herself, and looked back at Harald. “Rovarik tried to be a dear, but most men are asses, and he’s only slightly more refined than most. His words… stung. And I decided to take some time alone. I’m glad I did. Because my course has become clear. The Crown showed me as much. I just thought I could ignore its lessons by staying busy. Turns out that was wishful thinking.”

  “So. Your father.”

  “Lord Ermarine. Whom I’ve not seen in years and years.” Her smile turned predatory. “And I thought I need never see again. But. There’s a fatal flaw in my heart, my soul, my… whatever. A weakness he planted there with his cruel fatherly love. I thought I was freeing myself when I fled his house, but it turns out I’ve never stopped running. Or trying to outrun his toxic…” Her face contorted with anger. “His toxic influence. His poison.”

  Harald remained leaning forward, elbows on knees, listening intently.

  “And now, on the precipace of real power, I find myself… stymied. Locked up. Unable to trust. Despite knowing I should, that you all are my companions, that I’ve earned…” Her voice twisted as it stumbled over that last word, her hair falling forward once more to hide her face.

  Harald rose to his feet. “Nessa. I won’t annoy you with platitudes. If you need to confront this man, let’s go. Easy as that. But you know how we feel about you. All of us. What we’ve fought through together. I trust you with my life. More than that.” Harald gave a scoffing laugh. “I don’t think I’d have gotten anywhere without your training, wisdom, and tactical brillaince—”

  “Enough,” she cut in, half-groaning, half-amused.

  Harald decided to pile it on. “Your raven beauty, your dark wit, your—”

  Nessa glared at him, cast about, then snatched up a cushion which she hurled at his head with perfect accuracy.

  Harald laughed, blocked the cushion, then raised both hands. “I surrender! Fine. Enough. I’ll go petition Abalenthos now. We’ll leave in the morning. Or whatever counts for morning here. I’ve a mind to check in on Anna as well. Make sure she’s all right.”

  “For that matter, we’ve no idea what we’ll find above.” Nessa squared her shoulders. “We left Flutic in a bit of a rush. Who got the Crown? Is there a monarch? Or is everything just civil war and violence?”

  “Good questions. My only concern is for Anna, though. But first we need transport to the surface. I’ll speak with Abalenthos. Get some rest. When we all awaken, we’ll head out.”

  “All right.” She hesitated. “And Harald?”

  “Yes, raven-haired queen of the perilous night? Bewitching enchantress of—”

  She lunged for another cushion, and he skipped away, laughing.

  He left her thus, watching him go, cushion clasped to her chest, expression thoughtful, but no longer haunted.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Harald strode lightly along the marble hallways. His heart felt light. Sam had progressed, and those hours alone with her—and Exero, to be sure—had been golden. Nessa had found her own way out of the dark labyrinth in which she’d suffered for years. Or at least the direction in which the exit lay. Confront her father. What a terrible and fascinating idea. Terrible in hour hard it might prove for her. The old man had loomed monstrously large in her memories and emotions for as long as Harald had known her. The source of all her pain and misery.

  Could there be healing? Catharsis? Or would everything only get worse?

  Harald would do what he could to ensure it turned out for the best.

  The mote of light tagged along, just behind him. Harald looked back, considered challenging Exero, but then let it go. What did he care for the petulant angel’s opinion, anyway?

  He soon found himself in the grand throne room, and hurried along the green lake’s edge to plant himself before the throne. Abalenthos sat rigidly above, but there was something in his manner, indefinable, that made Harald think the lord was absent. His form was here, but…

  “Excuse me? Lord Abalenthos?”

  The angelic figure up above came to life and tilted its helm to regard him. Harald Darrowdelve.

  “The one and only. I’ve a request. A petition. My companion, Nessa. She needs to return to Flutic to confront her father. It’s the only way forward that will allow her to grow and continue being the vital member of our company that she’s been. I’m her boon companion. If she says she needs to return, I will go with her.”

  Your task lies below on the 41st Level.

  “Sure,” said Harald, tamping down his annoyance. “But Nessa is our Delve Captain. You want me to be a good boy, right? Virtuous, kind-hearted, and all that? Well, being there for Nessa in her time of need is exactly that. The right thing to do. I can’t overstate how important she is to me, both as a dear friend and fighting companion. If she needs this—”

  Very well, cut in Abalenthos. When do you wish to depart?

  Harald blinked up at the mighty form. “You agree?”

  I do. Rovarik has spoken highly of Evernessa Ermarine. I am cogniscant of all that transpires in my domain. This is a worthy mission, and should only delay your descent by a day or two. Why would I forbid it?

  Because you’re an angelic ass who—

  Harald cut off that line of thought. In truth, why had he thought the angel would be set against it? Perhaps because he’d been so ornery and paranoid before, had treated Harald poorly, imprisoned him, assigned him a gaoler—

  But was Abalenthos evil? Wicked? No. Perhaps Sam had been right. Perhaps when it came to Harald and his Demon Seed, the angel lord was careful, distrustful, but in other matters…?

  “Well then.” Harald put his hands on his hips and swallowed the rest of his arguments. “Thank you. Thank you very much. Can you transport us to the surface when everyone in my team awakens?”

  Yes.

  “Well, good.” Harald bobbed his head as if cementing some kind of deal with his own agreement, and felt a little foolish. “Then I’ll go get some rest, too. We’ll come back here when we’re ready to go?”

  That is well. Good night, Harald Darrowdelve.

  “And, ah, good night to you, Lord Abalenthos.” For a moment Harald lingered, still feeling wrong footed, but then he sketched a half-bow and strode away.

  Exeros’ mote followed after.

  * * *

  They gathered before Abalenthos’ throne the next… waking period? Time was truly messed up in this perpetually lit domain. Regardless, Harald was showered and ready, his gear cleaned and mended, his stomach full of the nutritious if bland repast the angels enjoyed serving, and his companions were arrayed by his side. Sam wore her customized suit of leather, chain, and iron plate, form-fitting and lethally flexible, while Nessa wore her black leather outfit, also magically restored. Only Kársek had refused the tailoring services of the angelic servants, content to appear clad in his tatterdemalion yellow overcoat and worn backpack.

  I shall open a portal to Flutic, intoned the angel lord. I shall not impose a deadline for your return, but rather trust to your conscience and diligence. Fare thee well, and may you find the peace you seek, Evernessa.

  Who bowed low, her face flushed from the attention.

  Seraphine, Brauxis, and Rovarik stood off to one side amongst other worthies from the level. Sam and taken a moment to say goodbye to her mentor, while Nessa had steadfastly ignored Rovarik’s level, brooding stare.

  “Thank you,” said Harald. “We’ll be quick. Quick as we can. We’re well aware of our obligations.”

  Then safe travels. The surface has grown perilous. And Abalenthos gestured, causing an oval of swirling white fire to appear to one side.

  Heart bouyed, excited to be quit of this eternal level of gray marble and self-righteous angels, Harald inclined his head, winked at Kársek, and led the way through the fire.

  The abyss greeted him in the disconnect; for a moment all was tangential, every point equally distant, his mind warped and body distended by the transition, and then he emerged into pale afternoon sunshine and parkland, the trees carefully tended, the grass trimmed, an ornamental pond to one side.

  He knew this place. Season Park, set only some four blocks away from the ancestral Darrowdelve manor. And this pond, this small green space carved out amongst the shrubs within sight of the running path? Where he’d once seen a preacher of the Church of the Fallen Angel haranguing a knot of listeners.

  His heart thudded in surprise and dismay and nostalgia. This was as close to home as he was liable to get, short of actually walking back to his manor. His manor that was lost when he failed to pay the crippling debts he’d accrued over the years of louche living.

  Moving forward, he saw a pair of figures jogging along the crushed gravel path. One was fit, light on her feet, blonde hair braided and coiled on the crown of her head, while the second was tall but overweight, his ugly mug bloched red and white as he heaved and stumbled and fought to not pass out.

  Then they were gone as if they’d never been.

  Memories. That felt like a literal lifetime ago.

  The others emerged through the portal behind him, hands resting lightly on their weapons, then relaxed as they took in their environs.

  “Home,” he said simply, meeting Sam’s gaze, and to his surprise he felt tears prick at his eyes.

  Her smile was sad and sympathetic and pained all at once.

  “Season Park?” Nessa moved warily to stand on the path and look both ways. “Angelus Quarter. Just about the heart of the city. My father’s estate is out past the walls. A country villa.”

  “A good walk,” said Harald, shoving his emotions down and joining Nessa on the path. “At least a couple of hours?”

  “About. But you wanted to check in with Anna first, didn’t you?”

  “She’s not too far from here.”

  Nessa gave a curt nod. “Then let’s get moving.”

  Season Park was empty. No joggers, no nurses pushing pram carts, no youths enjoying a late afternoon picnic on the lawns.

  Silence.

  “Eerie,” said Sam, hand resting lightly on the pommel of her blade.

  Harald resisted the urge to summon Chyron’s Scourge. An empty park was nothing to fear. But it felt wrong.

  They emerged onto Baldric Avenue. Normally busy with the carriages of the nobility and rented hanson cabs, it now felt as abandoned as the park. Though not completely; here and there a pedestrian hurried about their business, caps pulled low, clearly intent on not meeting anyone’s eyes.

  “No guards,” said Kársek. “Used to always see one on the street corner there, before.”

  “Right.” Harald sighted along the manor walls that lined the avenue. The gates were uniformly closed. “Not abandoned, though. Looks like everyone’s hunkering down.”

  “Anna will tell us what’s going on,” said Sam.

  Urgency filled Harald. Whatever had transpired to make even the Angel Quarter this locked down, it couldn’t have passed her by. “Let’s hurry.”

  They moved down the avenue, scrutinizing those who rushed past, but people preferred to cross the street well before they came close so that they couldn’t challenge anyone for an explanation. Mounted riders in the red and steel grey of House Drakenhart stormed by at one point, but they ignored Harald’s calls for information altogether.

  Dark clouds were drawing in overhead. They did nothing to ease Harald’s discomfort. He strode faster, and the others didn’t complain. Following the route to Sonora Manor, one which they’d once raced along while pursuit by Yseult Khan.

  The usual city life that might have volunteered information in exchange for scales in the other parts of the city—the homeless, beggards, street waifs, costermongers—were entirely absent in the noble quarter.

  So great did Harald’s curiosity grow that he thought of forcing the rare mounted riders to stop, or to race across the street to accost a hurrying stranger, but no. Anna would tell them the unvarnished truth.

  They reached her street. Her familiar estate wall. And there camped outside her battered iron gate was a small host of armored figures clad in the colors of various Houses. Harald saw the royal blue and gold of House Celestara, the orange and slate blue of House Emberfell, the forest green and blue of House Thornvale. A dozen raiders or soldiers in all, not exactly mingling, but nor were they at each other’s throats. They looked as if they had been stationed there for some time - half sat one the sidewalk’s edge, while others stood in small clusters in low conversation, arms crossed.

  Perhaps Harald should have approached alone under the cover of stealth, but it was too late now. The raiders up ahead had noticed them the moment his small party turned the corner, and now all were rising to their feet to scrutinize and watch their approach.

  “I don’t see any Gold-rankers,” said Nessa softly. “Don’t recognize any faces at all.”

  “Me neither,” said Sam. “Copper-ranked? Maybe Silver, then?”

  “Question is,” murmured Harald, watching the strangers warily as they drew closer. “Why are they outside Anna’s gate, and nobody elses?”

  “That many could have forced their way inside if they wanted,” agred Nessa. “Must be a reason they’re camped outside.”

  “Perhaps Lady Sonora put her Infinitum scale to prompt use,” suggested Kársek from the rear of their group. “Hired herself a quality defense.”

  “We’re about to find out.” Harald lightly ghosted his senses over his four Thrones. If these strangers proved aggressive, he wouldn’t hesitate to try out his new powers.

  “Ho there,” called one, a handsome man in House Thornvale colors, his words momentarily recalling Brauxis to Harald’s mind. “Who are—”

  “It’s him,” said a House Celestara raider, drawing his blade with a flourish. “The Darrowdelve.”

  The rest reacted as if goosed, eyes widening as they drew weapons and began to spread out, the tension in the air immediately spiking.

  “Put your weapons down, you idiots,” said an overweight knight whose rusted armor was loosely strapped about his prodigious bulk. He’d been sitting on a canvas stool against the wall, and only now heaved himself to his feet. He wore a tabard of silver and sky blue—House Silvershield, whose leader, Harald knew, was secretly beholden to the demon Grimarque. “If that’s Harald fucking Darrowdelve you’re just asking to get your arses walloped.”

  The others faltered, glancing to the heavyset knight with some obvious measure of respect.

  “Hullo there,” said the rusted knight, raising a gauntlet in greeting. His face was as round as a pie, his cheeks cheerily rosy, and his eyes a porcelain blue under a mop of heavy golden ringlets. “Sir Baskin at your service.” Despite his cheer his gaze was sharp and piercing. “You are Sir Harald Darrowdelve, are you not?”

  Harald came to a stop. “Sure. What are you all doing here?”

  Sir Baskin reached down to scritch at his side. “Wasting time, mostly. Everything’s gone to shit, and we’ve been commanded to grab hold of Countess Sonora. Problem is, we’re late to the party. A gold-ranker is already in there. Got her first.”

  Harald’s hands curled into fists. “Who?”

  “If we were allies and best friends, I’d tell you immediately. But, well.” Sir Baskin shrugged apologetically. “They just went in an hour ago. I fear for the countess’ life.”

  Harald summoned the Scourge into his fist. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  Sir Baskin bowed and stepped aside. “Don’t think I could stop you if I tried. Good luck!”

  And with his friends at his heels, Harald slipped through the crowd, and passed into the Sonora Estate.