Chapter 99

  Castle Archewald, Part II (Dinner Service)

  We’re led in by the parade of scaled performers who each take an opportunity to strike a dramatic pose before leaving the foyer and stepping through the door to the dining room, like they’re each auditioning to be the headliner in a Vegas show.

  Their names flash in my vision like floating neon lights, each accompanied by the subtle pulsing sensation in my mind as the System messages pop up in my vision. Each one has a Level at least in the 40s. A few even hit the 50s.

  And yet they dance, hum, glide with the grace of a perfectly choreographed nightmare ballet. Like it’s all just part of the ambiance. Something in the back of my mind tells me it is. I glance over at Dr. Archewald, who is standing at the bottom of the stairs, watching the procession and tapping his foot in a steady beat. He’s biting the bottom of his lip, until the very moment the last of the reptilian procession exits the foyer. Then, he claps excitedly, face breaking into a toothy grin.

  “Bravo!” he exclaims. His eyes dart towards our party, as though checking for our reaction.

  Walter and Preston each awkwardly clap. I join them, not wanting to be rude, but the whole thing comes off as more embarrassing than if we had simply done nothing.

  Finally, we’re ushered into a dining room that can only be described as extra.

  A chandelier of green crystal hanging overhead like a magical jellyfish, pulsing with inner light as its long tentacles stretch overhead. The tentacles are lined with flickering candles of white and black wax, matching the candles that line the table and are set into sconces in the walls. The walls are painted in murals of sinuous bodies—dragons, snakes, and more suggestive poses than I care to interpret right now. There are vines hanging from the ceiling, glowing faintly, exhaling some perfume that smells like honeysuckle. Everything is trimmed in gold.

  The table is long. Ridiculously long. At a glance, each side has at least sixteen chairs and place settings, though it looks like a few chairs are missing at random intervals.

  The raptor emissaries that marched us here take their positions off to the side of the entrance. And then—without ceremony or concern—they detach. Their humanoid legs hiss and separate at the hips in little flashes of pixelated light, collapsing backward with clunks, revealing powerful, digitigrade raptor limbs beneath. The raptors each step forward, their feminine legs hanging back against the wall with flat stumps where the thighs would usually form into hips.

  It hits me like a boot to the brain: those weren’t just legs. They were equipped. These velociraptors wear human legs like gear.

  Liv makes a strangled sound. Jelly Boy vibrates, clearly processing. Then, he stretches his body towards the legs, clearly intrigued.

  The raptors step forward and take positions at the table, each claiming one of the spots missing a chair.

  Walter leans over to me, quietly. “Do not comment on their legs.”

  “I wasn’t going to,” I whisper.

  “I mean it.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Your legs!” exclaims Liv. She turns to me and Walter. “Did you guys see that?”

  Walter claps a skeletal hand against the front of his skull.

  We each take a seat at the table.

  The servers—scaled and glittering in silver tunics—slither in with quiet efficiency. One pours deep red wine into crystal goblets, moving clockwise with military precision.

  Preston raises a gloved hand of his mechanized diving suit, and scans his cup.

  “No toxins,” he says. “Drink if you wish.”

  I lift mine and take a sip. It’s dry with heavy tannins that angrily claw at my tongue. There’s also something subtly smoky, like the grapes were subjected to fire before being harvested.

  Liv drinks too, quietly, her eyes locked on Archewald, who’s just entered the dining room.

  He makes his entrance like a drag show Dracula. Steps through the archway in a slow, deliberate strut. He’s swapped out his lab coat for a thin night gown with embroidered green flames down the sleeves.

  He sashays to the other side of the table, places one boot on the chair, strikes a dramatic poses, then slowly lowers himself into the seat with a satisfied sigh. He takes the seat directly across from me. To one of his side’s is Jelly Boy, who has stretched his body to be able to peek above the edge of the table. To the other, the raptor with the fedora. I’m seated between Walter and Liv. The only ones left in the room are our party, Dr. Archewald and his four raptors.

  Dr. Archewald picks up his wineglass, takes a sip like he’s being paid to seduce it. He loudly aspirates the sip of wine, before swallowing with a loud gulp, then sets it down.

  “Walter, darling,” he says, eyes half-lidded. “Let’s discuss the little apocalypse at hand, shall we?”

  Walter, looking like a skeleton who’s just realized he’s out of his depth, nods. “Of course. You asked when those under Lord Dinescu began regaining memories from the Contest.”

  Archewald smiles. “Mmm.”

  “It started a few weeks ago,” Walter says, folding his hands neatly on the table. “Not widespread at first. A few of us having dreams we couldn’t recognize were memories. Then… full recall. Whole chunks of identity unlocking. Regaining access to some of our old Spells, too.”

  Archewald listens, swirling his wine, digesting what he’s hearing.

  I glance between them. My own brain ticking.

  “…Wait,” I say. “That didn’t happen here? Did anyone in this castle regain their memories?”

  Archewald’s eyes lock onto me. He sets down his goblet, folding his fingers before him, elbows propped on the table.

  “No, sweetheart,” he says with a sigh. “None of the souls under my governance were here for the Contest. They were created, or born, after.” He sighs. “They are fabulous. But entirely post-game.” He gives a little wink at his own word choice.

  Then, he waves a hand. “The Lichlord’s realm, however… is littered with the old ones.” He sips his wine again. “That wretched man collects corpses like I collect vintage corsets. And now, it seems, his collection is waking up. Which is terrible news for all of us, I imagine.”

  The Serpentine Lord’s attention turns back to the skeleton at my side.

  Walter clears his throat. Or… whatever the skeleton equivalent of that is. His vertebrae rattle with the cough. He straightens, folding his bone-white fingers in front of him.

  “There is a problem,” he says. “A significant one.”

  Archewald, poised with a practically empty chalice of wine, arches a sculpted eyebrow. “Darling, everything is a problem these days. Fashion is cyclical, teeth fall out, your best dancer sprains a knee. Be specific.”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Walter nods once.

  “Our Realm’s World Seed fragment has… reawakened.”

  A chill seeps into the edges of the room like someone cracked a freezer door behind us. The candles dim, and then flare.

  Archewald lowers his chalice back to the tabletop.

  “That’s not possible, honey.”

  “No,” says Walter, voice low, firm. “It shouldn’t be possible. But it’s happening. And the magic around the Hollowroot Bastion—where the fragment is housed—is becoming unstable.”

  Jelly Boy lets out a worried little blorp from across the table. Even the raptors have paused, the fedora one squinting slightly.

  Now, Preston chimes in. “The World Seed is… dreaming. And if it fully wakes, it will break the Realm apart.”

  “Break—?” Liv starts, blinking. But a sharp glance from Dr. Archewald cuts her off.

  Walter leans forward. “Something—or someone—has put a timer on our world’s continued existence.”

  I blink, something in Walter’s words not sitting right with me. “But you said it’s locked away,” I say slowly. “That Bastion place. Hollowroot, or whatever. Only current Participants can access it?”

  Walter nods. “Correct.”

  “But I’m not—” I start, but then pause. “Then who?”

  “Only active Participants,” Walter repeats, glancing at me. “Of course something else—something we haven’t considered—could have caused the World Seed’s current state. But there’s something else…”

  Walter hesitates. Which is rare. Which is bad.

  Preston answers instead, adjusting his tiny tie. “We… have a few theories. None of them good.”

  Walter nods slowly. “When we first woke up, we gathered a party of undead and set out to our lichlord’s lair. We hoped Dinescu might stabilize the fragment.”

  Archewald taps his wine glass with a single, long nail. “Then I’ll ask the obvious, babe. Where is the dusty bastard? Why isn’t he here?”

  Walter doesn’t blink. Well, he can’t. But the silence speaks enough.

  He leans forward, fingers still steepled.

  “Lord Dinescu is dead.”

  The silence that follows the declaration is a guillotine.

  Dr. Archewald’s face doesn’t flinch or react, but I notice the gentle throb of a single vein at his temple. When he finally opens his mouth to speak, his voice is low, measured. Practically casual.

  “Of course he’s dead,” Dr. Archewald says flatly. “He’s a lich, bitch.”

  Walter inclines his skull. “Typically undead, yes. But now he’s… Well, dead-dead.”

  The temperature in the room drops another degree. The candles fade, and this time they do not flare back up.

  Archewald’s eyes narrow. The playful glint is gone. What’s left behind is old power and older grief, wrapped in eyeliner and impeccable posture.

  “Explain,” he says. “Now.”

  The word shakes the entire room with power. A wave of power washes over me, quaking me to the very core. Something is triggered in my mind and I feel a force compelling me. Luckily, Dr. Archewald’s command wasn’t directed towards me. The feeling fades just as quickly as it had appeared.

  Walter doesn’t waste time.

  “When Preston and I first awakened,” he says, “we sought out Lord Dinescu immediately. We assumed he would already understand what was happening with the World Seed. He always did. He was… always prepared.”

  I swallow. Walter doesn’t look at me when he continues.

  “What we found instead was devastation. His lair was breached. His sanctum looted. His vaults emptied.”

  Preston nods gravely. “The phylactery chamber was open. No wards. No residue consistent with internal failure.”

  Walter’s jaw tightens, a slight crack appearing in the bone. “His phylactery had been destroyed. Recently.”

  The words hit the room like a dropped plate.

  “And,” Walter adds, turning to me at last, “the remaining traces suggest the perpetrators were not native to this Realm.”

  I feel my stomach sink.

  “Adventurers,” he says. “From another Realm entirely.”

  I open my mouth, understanding the implication of his words: the only adventurers would be current Participants. From Earth. But I shut my mouth. The goldfish’s milky eyes carry something faint, something telling me that he isn’t accusing anyone in this room of having done the deed.

  Archewald is staring at Walter. Just staring.

  Then, something breaks. His face crumples, his bottom lip quivers.

  “Oh,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Oh no. No, no, no…”

  He sinks back into his chair, one gloved hand covering his mouth as his shoulders begin to shake. The sobs come fast and ugly, smearing mascara, rattling his breath. The raptors avert their eyes awkwardly.

  Walter says nothing. He lets it happen.

  Grush softly groans, taking a bite out of his now-empty wine glass. The sound of the cracking glass may as well be the shattering of the world around us. It seems for Archewald, it may as well be.

  Preston clears his throat gently. “If it offers any… context,” he says, “the trove where Lord Dinescu hid his phylactery was… quite distinctive.”

  Archewald sobs harder. I’m not sure he even heard the goldfish.

  “It was filled,” Preston continues, “almost exclusively with artifacts bearing your signature enchantment matrices.”

  That does it.

  Archewald’s sobs hitch.

  Then stop.

  Then turn, abruptly, into laughter.

  It starts as a wet, broken sound, halfway between a choke and a gasp. Then it grows. Rich and full. He throws his head back, cackling, one hand slapping the table hard enough to make the wine ripple.

  “Oh,” he wheezes. “Oh, that bitch.”

  Walter blinks. “Pardon?”

  Archewald wipes his eyes, still laughing. “Every single artifact I ever sent him or placed within his castles,” he says, voice trembling with mirth, “was cursed.”

  The room goes very, very still.

  “Not lethal curses,” Archewald clarifies, wagging a finger. “I’m not a monster. Just… inconvenient ones.” He grins, sharp and bright. “Little jokes. A rivalry thing.”

  Preston’s fish eyes widen. “You mean to say—”

  “Yes,” Archewald says proudly. “Anyone dumb enough to loot that vault without understanding my work would have triggered everything. A little parting piece of justice, though small, for those who killed our dear old friend.”

  The candles all brighten and the soft, warm light of their flames return to the dining room. I exhale slowly, just a little relieved that the Serpentine Lord wasn’t going to blame the outworlder wearing a very cursed pair of jorts and sitting an arm’s reach away from him.

  I open my mouth. “About that… Er, never mind.” Maybe, possibly, not the best idea or moment to mention the cursed jorts currently seared to my thighs like some kind of demonic denim barnacle. At that moment, the double doors to the kitchen explode inward with all the fanfare of a game show finale.

  Steam billows into the dining room, as a procession of reptilian servers saunter in, each one balancing silver domes atop trays. One of them—some kind of gecko-centaur hybrid in a lace-trimmed tuxedo shirt and not much else—sets one of the platters down in front of me. Each of the servers lift the covers with a theatrical flourish.

  The smell hits me first: savory, smoky, slightly sweet.

  “Our lord’s favorite,” declares the gecko-centaur. “Meatloaf.”

  The meatloaf beneath is a masterpiece—glistening with a dark, glossy glaze, its juices pooling around roasted root vegetables arranged like an edible mandala. There’s a dollop of something that might be mashed turnip, topped with a sculpted sprig of rosemary. A side of green beans that glimmer like they’ve been basted in something like a dark vegetable stock.

  Preston gives the plate a quick once-over, casting his spell again.

  “No poisons,” he announces. “And no illusion magic beyond standard culinary glamour.”

  “Standard what now?” Liv asks.

  “Just eat,” I mutter, already cutting into my meatloaf. My stomach aches with longing at the opportunity for a real meal.

  And holy hell.

  It’s meatloaf. But not like the slab of disappointment that haunted my high school cafeteria. No, this is meatloaf elevated to an art form. Spiced perfectly, rich with umami. The crust has just enough crunch, while the inside melts like butter. The glaze hits that perfect intersection of tang and caramelization.

  “Wow. This is fantastic, doc!” I exclaim around a mouthful.

  Across the table, Walter daintily dabs his nonexistent lips with a napkin, though I didn’t see him take a single bite.

  “So, we’ve taken matters into our own hands,” he says, shifting the conversation back to the brass tax of it all, as if we’re not currently indulging in one of the best dinners I’ve ever had. “Preston and I. It became clear early on that no one else was going to do anything about this disaster. And so, we sought out assistance from other Participants. Ones we knew we could trust.”

  He gestures to me and Liv. I nearly choke on a bite of meatloaf, which would’ve been the worst way to die after surviving a flaming pumpkin horseman.

  “Assistance?” Archewald repeats, waiting as one of the servers refills his chalice “I suppose that makes sense. Dinescu always did enjoy collecting strays. It’d make sense that he’d leave saving our realm to such a rag-tag bunch.”

  He sighs, leaning back dramatically in his seat. “If I could assist you myself, I would. But alas…”

  He twirls a finger toward the chandelier overhead.

  “My immortality is... spatially tethered. A side effect of a very, very old spell. If I leave the castle, my body and mind unravel. Quickly, inevitably. Much like our Realm might, from the sound of it.”

  His voice softens.

  “But this Realm matters. It’s not just a stage for a long forgotten Contest. It’s home. Home to many, many beautiful souls.” He takes in his raptors. “And if Dinescu were still alive—well, undead, but you know what I mean—he’d say the same.”

  He places a hand of painted nails over his chest.

  “But I will do what I can without abandoning my people,” he continues, “you may stay here as long as you like. My castle is yours. I’ll also work on providing you all with further assistance, in my own kind of way. The World Seed won’t be undefended, if I remember correctly.”

  A hush falls over the table.

  “It will protect itself. Like a mother snake protecting its nest.”

  “Like a Storm Dragon?” I mutter.

  Dr. Archewald doesn’t hear me, and continues. “But dammit, babes! It hasn’t met this mother snake! I’ll protect my babies, and I’ll make sure that old lich’s memory lives on!”

  He raises his chalice, high into the air.

  I don’t hesitate to join him.

  Walter lifts his cup too, followed by Liv. And then Grush. And even Jelly Boy. Before we know it, everyone has lifted their glass with the exception of Preston. The goldfish circles the bowl of his helmet once, twice. Then, bottom lip quivering, he controls his mechanical body to lift his glass as well.

  “To our late Lord Dinescu,” says Archewald. “May he never be forgotten!”

  Walter chokes, pushing down a sob of his own.

  “To Lord Dinescu!” the skeleton exclaims.