Sorinne Datharius had always been poor, but she had always had her pride. Growing up on the streets wasn’t easy but she prided herself on never resorting to thievery, and always stepping up when someone else needed help. Becoming a Planeswalker at the age of twelve had changed her world, but much of the rest of her it hadn’t altered.

Now twenty-one, Sorinne was still poor on the whole, but had discovered her talents, petty as they were, could gain her the occasional windfall in the multiverse. Ancient artifacts, hidden caches of gold, lost civilizations – they all existed here and there, and whoever found one would be wealthy. At least for a time. Sorinne had found several such things, but the costs of living had thusfar caught up with her every time. She had been a stupid kid, she told herself. She could make the next haul last, long enough that she might not need another after.

At least, that was what Sorinne desperately hoped was true as she observed the place. The plane was a hellish place, clouds of black ash blanketing the sky so the sun shone through only with a pale crimson light and oppressive heat, flakes of char falling down upon the world like snow. She’d been there three days, and considered it a minor miracle she was still alive, but she had found what she was looking for.

The doorway was carved of black-grey basalt in the shape of a hideously malformed but more hideously human-like face, the passage downward framed by outward-curving tusks.

Even with the ominous entry, Sorinne welcomed the reprieve from the smoke and ash.

“Well,” she sighed, “Now for the idol.”

Down the passage, the temple opened up to reveal a high arching chamber. Vortices of eerie, purple light issued forth from deep rifts in the ground and guttered when the struck the vaulted ceiling above. In the center of the room was a large statue: an obese, humanoid creature with the same fat, tusked face as the entryway sat cross-legged, and held in its hands, upon its lap, an orb that swirled with crimson and black patterns, like a bloody wound only partly scabbed over.

It was ugly, Sorinne thought, but she had a buyer waiting on the orb, and she wasn’t going to judge someone else’s wants. She walked up to it and opened her journal, where she had written down the spell her buyer had taught her, to free the orb from the statue’s grasp. Carefully, she recited it, and called on the magic necessary.

The instant Sorinne completed the spell, the orb shattered – not a fragment was left, the object dissolving into wisps of black smoke that darted quickly outward.

No! Sorinne began to panic. She was so close, and she needed the pay. True, she could go anywhere else in Dominia and try again, but to have it snatched from her like…

“Well, well.” A deep, masculine voice, slick as oil, echoed from the rest of the chamber. “I’m glad to finally have some company in this dismal place… though I must say, it is still not to my liking.”

“Who are you?” Sorinne demanded, “What do you want?”

“I’m a planeswalker.” The voice said, “Just like you. Well, not just like you I suppose. My body is very weak, so I must say I am still trapped here… Unless of course you want to help me.”

Sorinne thought about it.

“Help you how?” she asked, “And what’s in it for me if I do?”

“Well,” the voice replied, “You’d take me from this place, accompany me out in the planes for a while. If you do, I can offer to teach you some of my magic. That, unlike my form, is still exceedingly potent.”

It occurred to Sorinne that the voice seemed to have no source, and she became unsure she was hearing it, exactly, rather than simply hearing it in her mind. Carefully, she considered the offer – she didn’t trust the strange, smooth voice that didn’t show itself, but at the same time the little magic she had vastly improved her lot in Dominia, so more couldn’t help but do more the same. And it seemed somehow inhumane to leave a person here… if he was a person, and telling the truth.

“All right.” Sorinne said, “I’ll help you.”

“You’ve made a wise choice.” The voice replied. “Now hold still.”

Hold still? Sorinne wondered at that request, but froze all the same. A wisp of shadow, or so it seemed, darted down from the heights above the statue and struck her in the abdomen. At once, Sorinne screamed in pain. She felt something moving – no, clawing through her, and saw blood begin to stain her torn clothes as the last hints of something unnatural slithered into the wound.

“Now,” the voice said again, this time very clearly speaking in her mind, “The first spell I’m going to teach you is a touch of healing magic, and it’s imperative you be a quick learner.”

Images followed, sensations of magic, memories of other places, places Sorinne had never been. Clumsily, she tried to mimic them, and after a few horrifying moments, watched as the flow of blood stopped, and her flesh and skin knitted themselves together.

“There,” the voice said, “Isn’t that all better?”

The thing, whatever it was, felt like it was wrapped around her spine, no longer clawing, but slithering, unpleasant but not exactly painful as it moved upwards, laying from between her shoulderblades to about the small of her back

“I didn’t…”

“Didn’t expect that?” the voice asked, “Few do. You’re fortunate I gave you the choice of aiding me willingly and living. I have rarely been so generous when reduced to this state.”

The coiling thing squeezed a little, making its hold on her clear.

“And I can choose to be ungenerous if you want to defy me, so I suggest you not refuse my requests. Now, we have some places to go…”

Mattias the Tinkerer drove his cart up to the face of the ruins. The dusty old place had been an engine mine, but over a hundred years ago it was declared dry, boarded up, and left abandoned: there was nothing left in the ruins below to salvage, they said.

But, it was Mattias’ personal and professional opinion that the miners always missed something. They only cared about the intact powerstones and working drives, not about the shards, spare parts, and broken-but salvageable pieces that could be extracted. Until last week, they hadn’t cared when Mattias had come in, spent a few hours picking up their scrap, and hauled off a cart load. Some of the men even said he was doing them a service as a garbage man.

That all changed when the new foreman came in. The first time Mattias showed up to pick his damaged parts and powerstone fragments, she’d watched him for about half an hour, then took his haul, drove him off, and promptly put men to work gathering, sorting, and selling what Mattias had once gotten for his labor alone.

Well, Mattias thought, he’d show that miserable harpy yet. It was possible that tinkerers had picked the old mine clean long ago, but it was also more than possible that everything the operation itself didn’t want was still there.

The entrance was still boarded up, which was good. At the very least, anyone who’d plundered before had nailed the planks back up, and judging by the rust that would have been before his time. Carefully, Mattias took out his hammer, pulled the nails, lit his lamp, and entered the mine.

A few minutes in, and he had already half filled his first bag with a mix of parts, metallic scrap, and the ever-useful bits of powerstone. There were heaps of everything he was looking for, meaning Mattias only had to take the best for the time being – no one had sold the scrap back then, and no one but Mattias was crazy enough to go looking for it!

It was about then, as he was examining some large stone fragments, that he heard a small, female voice.

“Help me.” She said weakly, “Help me please.”

“Where are you?” Mattias called. Part of him feared encountering another human in the mine meant a claim was staked, but much stronger was his impulse to aid anyone who had somehow gotten trapped in the darkness.

“I can see your light on the wall.” She replied, “I… I must be on the other side of a pillar from you.”

Mattias looked around the room, and indeed there were several large pillars in about the direction the voice was most coming from. Mattias walked towards then.

“I think I’m headed towards you.” He said, “Keep talking, so I can follow your voice.”

“All right.” The woman said. Definitely ahead of him. “Is there anything particular you’d like me to talk about?”

Was that a hint of humor Mattias detected? A good sign, he thought, from someone who could not or dared not move on her own.

“How about you tell me about yourself?” Mattias asked.

“I’ll try.” She said, “But I don’t know how much I’ll be able to tell you.”

“Well,” Mattias said, “Everybody’s got secrets, I don’t mind if you don’t tell me yours.”

“I don’t mean that.” She said, “I’m broken. I… have trouble remembering, for now.”

Poor girl, Mattias thought, she must have hit her head.

“Well,” Mattias asked, “How long have you been down here.”

“A long time.” She replied.

“A week?” Mattias asked.

“Much longer than that, I fear.” She answered.

Mattias couldn’t imagine it. If you put him in the darkness for a week, with nothing to eat or drink, he’d have gone mad even if he was still alive.

“It’s okay.” He said, “We’re going to get you out of here, and back to civilization.”

“I would like that very much.” She said, “But I fear I may not be presentable.”

Her voice was very close – the other side of the pillar Mattias had reached. Slowly, he stepped around it, and what he saw amazed him.

This woman – the one he had been speaking to – she was a machine!

If not for the open panel on her thigh, though, she might have fooled someone at a glance. Her hair, long and wavy, was spun gold thread that hung like the real thing, and her silvery skin, though obviously some silvery metal primarily, was brushed with copper to give it an almost lifelike tone. And her eyes! The metal woman’s eyes were so like the real thing – bright, green eyes full of life – that Mattias could not even guess what combination of glass, gemstone, and sorcery had been used to create them. She was a work of art, no doubt. Whatever artificer had created her was a master beyond compare.

“Do I frighten you, stranger?” she asked. Her mouth didn’t move, though her eyes followed Mattias.

“No, ah… I’m sorry.” He said, “I’m well… I’m something of an artificer and-“

“An artificer?” she asked, “Oh, excellent! I would not trust someone without skill to effect the repairs I need! I mean… you will help repair me, won’t you?”

At this, Mattias sighed worriedly. “I will if I can,” he said, glancing at the open panel again. Even the intact artifice of the Old Kingdom, the irreplaceable engines dragged out of the ground millennia after ruination buried them beneath earth and roots, were clunky next to the construction he saw in even that barest glimpse inside her. Though her parts were wire and string, they looked almost more like muscles than motors. “But… I’ve never seen anything like you.”

“I… can instruct you.” The metal woman said, “I can still access my memories of the basic facts of my construction, and will be able to call up more once my major systems are repaired.”

“All right, then,” Mattias said, “what am I going to need?”

“Better tools and better light.” She replied. “You are an artificer? Perhaps you could bring me to your workshop.”

Mattias suppressed the urge to laugh. The first time a girl asked to go home with him, and it had to be like that?

“I don’t know.” He said, “I can’t get my cart down here.”

“According to basic specifications,” she said, “I weigh eighty-seven pounds. That is within the range a human can carry?”

That light? He could carry her pretty easily but it made him wonder even more at her construction.

“Okay.” Mattias said, “We’ll get you out of here, then. I’m Mattias, by the way. What’s your name?”

She thought for a moment.

“Not in the system specifications,” she said sadly, “Perhaps you could call me something simple until I can remember?”

“We’ll figure something out.” Mattias said. He knelt down, placing one hand behind her back and another beneath her knees to lift her. Even knowing her weight, she was surprisingly light. “So, how’d you end up here?”

“It was about a hundred years ago.” She said, “I… began breaking down, and I can’t remember why. I came here because I was weak, and it was both isolated and had most of the parts I’d need to effect repairs. But as I was working on my legs, my hands seized up, and with my legs disabled for the repairs, I couldn’t move to find someone to help me.”

“I’m sorry you had to wait so long.” Mattias said.

“It is fine.” She replied, “I… I think the reason I am not able to recall personal details is because I suppressed them to endure the long dark.”

“Well,” Mattias said, “Soon enough, we’ll get you up and working, and then we can figure out just who you are.”

Three days after finding Metal (as they agreed she should be called), and she already had about the functionality one would expect from a human: She could walk about on her own, and use her hands, and Mattias suspected she only asked for his help with further service to humor his desire to be useful.

Her face was one of the earliest things restored after motor function. In its full glory, it was as expressive as the real thing. Her voice, which had been slightly stilted with her mouth disabled, was now formed and enunciated like a real human and had a live, musical quality rather than the tinny one of most speaking artifacts.

Her mind was very realistic too. Conversing with Metal, it was easy to forget that someone must have made her somewhere along the line, designed her such as she was, and there was a part of Mattias that wondered just how important that actually was. Even if they’d been programmed into her, she had thoughts and emotions. Even if they were artificial in the end, she still felt them as keenly as any living person would. She was kind and fearless, but also had her head in the clouds and seemed prone to miss small details, even ones that were staring her in the face. She wasn’t made for cold efficiency, she was made to be a person, and part of Mattias was sure she was.

Another part of him was horrified at the thought he might be falling in love with a construct – a gorgeous, charming, erudite construct, but a construct all the same. Even for a tinkerer, a profession that most regarded as prone to strangeness, that was out of line.

Well, he agreed with himself, all he had to do was not fall for her and he’d be fine. Maybe talking with her would even give him a clue how to talk to real women.

But, between everything, it wasn’t totally surprising when Mattias woke up to find Metal working at the stove. Not cooking, of course, tinkering: she had it half taken apart and was frowning at a collection of powerstone fragments.

“Oh,” she said, “You slept a long time.”

Mattias scratched his head, “Yeah, well I was up late. What’s the project.”

“I noticed your stove burned wood to cook your food.” She said, “Very inefficient. A simple red mana enchantment should get you a more even and potentially hotter flame, with no fuel required.”

“Red mana…” Mattias muttered, “You can do magic? Not just artifice, but real magic? Since when?”

“I started examining some memories last night.” She said, “There’s… a lot of memory and a lot of kinds of memory. I started with the bits relating to magic. It seemed safe enough, assuming I take it slowly.”

“Why not the other stuff… the personal stuff?” Mattias asked.

Metal looked away,

“Metal?” Mattias asked, “Is something wrong.”

“It is… foolish.” She said

“What is?”

“I… part of me does not want to access those memories again. They frighten me. What if I was a bad person? Would I become that person again? And even if I don’t, the memories stretch a very long way back. It might be overwhelming to experience all of that.”

“Well,” Mattias said, “You never know until you try.”

“I am aware.” Metal said, “That is why I have isolated memories related somehow to parts of my structure. When I work on repairing and optimizing those systems, I will regain the memories associated with them to understand why… and more of who I was.”

“So I guess we’ll be calling you Metal for a while longer, huh.”

“I am fine with that.” Metal said, “It describes me, even if it is not very poetic.”

A construct with the soul of a poet. In a professional sense, Mattias didn’t want to believe it was possible. More importantly, though, he realized, was the fact that she was a construct who could cast spells – he’d been thinking about her too much as a person, but now it struck him that this was an amazing opportunity, if he could swallow his pride enough to take it.

On one hand, if Metal could use magic, she could presumably teach someone else. On the other hand, he’d be learning from a machine – a tool that somebody built. It wasn’t natural, unless…

It occurred to Mattias that it might be the point of her. So human-like, so gregarious, and so willing to let him in to some of the details of her workings, patiently explaining the task at hand and the steps he had to take. She could very well have been built to be a teacher, and if she was then there was no shame in learning from her.

“You know,” Mattias said, “If tinkering with my stove and putting yourself back together doesn’t take all your time, maybe you could teach me some of that magic.”

Metal inclined her head, “I would be happy to, Mattias.”

Well, he thought, that went well.

Mattias sat at a shady, corner table in the tavern. As enjoyable as his time with Metal – either working on her now nearly complete repairs or learning magic from her was, he needed a break. Or, at least, he needed mostly a break – he still fiddled with the magic, threads of azure energy from his hands moving and restructuring the gears of the small, clockwork toy he had brought with him to practice on.

He stopped when someone sat down across from him, and looked up from both his drink. It was Jakey, a low-life most people called ‘the Rat’, but who Mattias generally thought of as a friend. They’d been close enough as kids, and old habits died hard.

“Neat trick.” Jakey said, gesturing at the little automaton, “You must have gotten your hands on a lot of shards before the boss lady shut you down, huh?”

It took Mattias a moment to realize that his companion had seen the magic, and thought it came from the same source as every previous display, and a longer moment to figure out how to reply. It wasn’t a sin or a crime to know proper magic, but it would provoke more questions as to how he’d learned, and if Jakey the Rat knew something, soon enough everyone from the High Boughs to the Outer Rim would know.

“Yeah,” Mattais said, “At least, a few good ones.”

“Anyway,” Jakey said, “I’ve got a business proposition for you.”

“What’s that?” Mattias asked wearily.

“So, this woman comes into town today – pretty little thing, but you know, probably don’t say that to her face, she seemed kind of weird and intense. Anyway, she starts asking after some kind of metal woman, like a construct girl. It seems real stupid until she up and offers a practical mountain of gold to whoever gets her this thing so, what the ****, why not? She’s probably working for some rich freak, anyway… anyway, yeah, I was figuring you could build one. Scrap-diving doesn’t get you the best materials but, old buddy, I’ve got good sources on that. Anything you need, I could get it, and we’ll split the reward, fifty-fifty… what do you say?”

Mattias thought about it – not about accepting or refusing the offer, but how it seemed too much to be coincidence that this would happen so quickly after he pulled Metal out of that mine. Mattias hadn’t told a soul about her… but at the same time, he hadn’t exactly been totally clandestine about things like the windows of his house. Perhaps he would have to start.

“I don’t know, Jakey,” Mattias said, “I’d hate to do all the work of planning out something like that and putting it together if it might all come to nothing.”

“Come on!” Jakey whined, “If you’d have seen the offer you’d be building already, and don’t tell me you haven’t ever thought about building a girl construct before.”

“No,” Mattias said, “I haven’t. But I’ll tell you what – you talk to this woman and if she’s not looking for a specific metal woman or anything like that, you tell her we’re willing to get on the job and build to her specifications. That way we’ll have a contract, and we’ll be sure we don’t lose out.”

“Oooh!” Jakey whistled, “I get it now. Sorry, pal, I underestimated you. That’s smart but… uh… what do you mean specific?”

Mattias shrugged in an attempt to be nonchalant. “Maybe something Old Kingdom? I don’t know, and that’s the point.”

“Whatever you say, chief.” Jakey replied, “I’ll talk to the lady and see what she wants… maybe after we each have another drink, eh?”

“Actually.” Mattias said, standing up, “I think I’m going to head home and… take stock of what I’ve got. See you around.”

Mattias quickly paid his tab and left the tavern. He did not want to seem too hurried as he walked through the streets or unlocked his door, but there was a part of him that was frantic when he stepped inside.

Metal looked up at him and smiled.

“Ah,” she said happily, “You’re home.”

Then, her mood darkened somewhat.

“Are you unwell?” she asked.

“No,” Mattias said, “I just heard some strange news.”

“Well,” Metal said, “I’d like to know what it was.”

“A friend of mine,” Mattias said, “Says there’s a lady in town looking for a mechanical woman. I think she might be looking for you.”

“I see.” Metal said, “This troubles you?

“Well,” Mattias said, “After you’ve been down in that mine for a hundred years, I can’t think of any friendly reason someone would just now start asking after you. Can you?”

“No.” Metal admitted, “But I still have hardly scratched the surface of my memories. After all, I still don’t even know my own name. If someone knows of me, perhaps a hundred years is not a long time for them.”

“I’d hope so,” Mattias said, “But I’d rather not take chances.”

“I understand.” Metal said, “I suppose not all people can be expected to be as kind as yourself.”

Mattias shrank back a bit, unable to feel comfortable accepting the complement.

“In any case,” Metal said, seeming to sense his unease, “should we continue with your magic lessons?”

“Yeah,” Mattias replied, “I’d like that.”

The next evening, there was a loud knock on Mattias’ door as he was practicing the charms he had been taught.

“Stay out of sight.” He said, “Please.” Metal nodded, and retreated into the back room as Mattias went to the door.

The person at it was a stranger, a youngish woman with long, straight brown hair, pale skin, and icy blue eyes. If this was the woman Jakey had been talking to, though, he had exaggerated. She might have been pretty enough, but there was just something off about her. Maybe it was just the shadows.

“May I help you?” Mattias asked.

“We are looking for Mattias, an artificer I was told lived here. Are you he?”

Mattias craned his neck to look over the woman’s shoulder. There was no one else there to amount to ‘we’.

“Depends.” He said, “Who’s asking.”

“My name is Sorinne.” She replied.

“Sorinne, well, I am Mattias and I am an artificer, so perhaps you could tell me what you were looking for?”

“A woman made of metal,” she replied, “And yes, a very particular one, who we have reason to believe you have met.”

There was that ‘we’ again. She enunciated it very strangely, as though she wanted him to hear just how out of place it was. Vaguely, he remembered something about Old Kingdom royalty from a play… but that didn’t make any more sense than the thought she had some imaginary friend.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mattias said, “Jakey wanted me to make you a construct girl, said you’d pay pretty good.

“We… offer a great reward if you would render us the woman we seek. We aren’t interested in any new creations. I hope you understand.”

Everything about Sorinne made Mattias feel strange and uncomfortable. Whether it was that eerie something in her countenance, the way she slipped between referring to her self as ‘I’ or ‘we’, or just some small tic in how she spoke and carried herself that hadn’t registered past the subconscious, he couldn’t help but feel that she was up to no good.

“Sorry,” he lied, “I haven’t seen anything like that.”

“Would you mind if we came in, then?” she asked, “I don’t want to impose on your hospitality, but…”

“The place is a total mess.” Mattias said, “You’re not really going to be able to put your feet up even.”

She frowned in a way that made Mattias think she had only been asking to be polite.

“If you’d like to rest a bit, I’ll buy you a drink down at the tavern. It’s not far.”

“I’m sorry, Mattias,” Sorinne said, “But we really must come in.”

Mattias thought about it. Clearly, she had some inkling Metal was inside, so if he let her in he wasn’t going to be able to keep her out of the back room.

“The answer is no.” he said, “If you want to do business, we can do business. If you don’t, I’m not letting you into my house.”

“I’m sorry.” She said again “I am really very, very sorry.”

“For what?” Mattias asked

“This.” She replied.

A wave of force struck Mattias and forced him backwards, tumbling over his workbench as the contents of his living room were tossed about or hurled against the far wall. Calmly, Sorinne stepped in. Mattias tried to stand, but found himself disoriented. That was when Metal emerged from the back room.

“There you are.” Sorinne said. Crimson energy crackled over her hands, and then a bolt of lightning arced to Metal. Metal grunted in what sounded like pain, but as the afterglow of the blast left Mattias’ vision, she didn’t seem to have been damaged.

“Who are you?!” Metal demanded, “Why are you attacking us?”

“We-“ Sorinne began, but then for a moment she doubled over and clutched her chest.

“You get no answer.” She said, “I’m afraid you need to die.”

“I will not submit.” Metal replied, “I hope you are prepared for battle.”

“Battle, good.” Sorinne growled. She hurled darts of fire and quick bursts of lightning, but Metal was ready for the assault. Some of the attacks froze in midair, lightning hanging still mid strike, globes of fire guttering and failing in place, while others dissolved into azure light. Several struck Metal, but it seemed that neither heat nor electric shock did much to harm her, at least at the intensity Sorinne could conjure.

All the same, as Mattias recovered from his daze, he realized that Metal was not winning the interchange – she was fighting entirely defensively, and her counters were intercepting less and less of Sorinne’s magic.

“Metal, run!” Mattias shouted, “Just get away!”

“Planeswalk and Mattias dies!” Sorinne half growled, half shrieked with strange inflection, ceasing her barrage for a moment “And do not think we will not find you wherever you hide.”

“Planeswalk?” Metal exclaimed. “Planeswalk…” For a second, Metal froze, her eyes snapping to some distant vista, and Sorinne began to cast another spell. Mattias recognized it – he may not have been studying red magic, but Metal had taught him enough of the basics – it was a ‘Shatter’ spell, or something else like it, intended to break an artifact into a million useless pieces.

The casting was only a split second, but before Mattias had even put together what the attack was, he was already moving with a spell of his own. He felt the essence of the deep waters, the distant islands flow through him, and as the rumble of Sorinne’s magic crossed the room, his own lashed out, and the spell became a momentary puddle of some mana-remnant, evaporating before it fell to the floor.

Sorinne looked at Mattias, her face expressing… horror? Grief? It was not what Mattias had expected to see. At the same time, Metal snapped back to reality.

“So,” Metal said, confident and mixing anger with humor, “It seems I am a Planeswalker… Thank you for the information.”

Sorinne just remained fixed on Mattias.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” She said.

A wave of black magic surged out from her, though Mattias was not able to see it coming. He held out his hands, trying to ready another counter, but he had nothing left! He had hardly caught his breath, much less prepared himself for a magician’s duel. Metal reached out too, but too slow – the magic struck him, and his vision darkened, his world filled with nightmares and the pestilent stench of rot.

Then, it all vanished. Mattias was in a space that was like nothing he had ever experienced. He could not see, nor could he hear, nor even feel, but there were senses analogous to them, that told him that the space was screaming without sound, that there was darkness there and also substance to perceive though it had neither light nor matter.

Was this death?

No… it was something else. He looked around with his not-sight and saw the points of ‘light’ in the void. He felt like he could reach out and touch them – no, enter them.

Those were worlds!

On one of them, he realized, Metal and Sorinne were probably still fighting, but which one? He couldn’t discern where he’d come from, and while there was a sense of near or far what was to say he had not been thrown far in the first place. He had to figure it out!

Or did he?

Sorinne had threatened his life to coerce Metal into staying in the fight. As long as he wasn’t there, she could escape, and whatever had happened to him, he still wasn’t ready to be of much use against Sorinne. Metal’s best chance, he realized, was if he stayed away.

There were enough worlds, he thought, that any one wasn’t likely to send him back into the fight. He reached out to one of them, and dropped in.

Metal watched in horror as the shadows swallowed Mattias, and he vanished from her sight. The woman seemed to have only passing fascination at the scene.

“Strange.” She said, “I… I think he didn’t die.” She sounded relieved, but this did not matter to Metal.

The woman turned back to Metal. “That won’t save you, though.”

Metal processed the matter. If Mattias was dead, she had no more incentive to do anything other than flee this fight – without the rest of her memories of magic and her own functionality, she couldn’t expect to win. If he was alive, he was elsewhere, and she should endeavor to find him.

Either way, remaining in combat was not optimal.

Metal countered another bolt of red magic, and then threw her own lightning blast. The woman ducked, falling to the floor, and that was all the chance that Metal needed. Mana flowed through her, and she entered the Blind Eternities.

Metal’s mind was quick. It had been getting quicker as she repaired herself, though the rate of improvement had slowed significantly. Still, though, it was enough different now than within recent memory to be noticeable. She processed the worlds she saw, and before she even knew what she was doing she jumped to one, then another, then another. After fifteen jumps, she re-oriented herself in the Blind Eternities.

That term, like many others, had come along with her sudden understanding of the word ‘Planeswalker’. Yes, that was what she was. She was a planeswalker, she traveled through the Blind Eternities. Her travel left an Æther Trail. The Æther Trail could be traced, hence why she had made the long sequence of jumps. Conscious realization of these facts came only after action.

She landed on another plane, one that was right before her at the end of the twisted sequence of Planeswalks. Some part of her seemed to remember it, seemed to know that it was a good place. How many memories had been half-unlocked by that one fact? What was ‘planeswalker’ the key to?

It was mid day where Metal arrived. Though it had been late evening, and though her sequence of planeswalks had taken some time, Metal did not tire. As far as she knew, she neither required nor longed for sleep, perhaps was not even capable of it. This was good, for if she ever dreamed she would have thought herself dreaming to behold the sight before her.

Metal was in a small town, except everyone in it was mechanical. She could hear the faint ticking of clockwork, could see the metal sheen of their parts, and could understand why her mind had guided her to this place. Metal knew she was something different, but of all the planes, this was one she could hide in.

It seemed not too many had seen her appearance, or if they had they did not wonder at it. Quickly and quietly, Metal was able to speak to those people, who took her to be one of their own ‘Aridon’ despite some significant differences between herself and what she saw in them. They were a kind sort, at least those she had encountered, and assuming her to have been the victim of some foul play, gave her clothes after their own style (one she guessed was borrowed from humans for they had even less anatomy than the image of the same that Metal’s form presented) and lent her a place to ‘rest’ and the tools she required.

Alone and feeling safe, Metal took an inventory of her systems. Looking inward, she felt that a great deal of her magic was still out of reach, the memories locked away behind the barriers she had put in place during her long isolation.

Part of her wanted to unlock all of them, right away. That woman, the one who had tried to kill her and Mattias, presented a real threat and Metal would need her magical power, which meant, more or less, her memories.

At the same time, it was a frightening prospect. The longer she had waited to regain her old self, the more she had come to think of herself as Metal, as a person aside from the few glimpses of a long history that improving her systems had given her. If she simply released it all, that torrent of memories into her mind, would Metal die to be replaced by the woman who once was, who had a name?

If she took it slowly, she felt, she would retain continuity. Whether the person she was was the same as Metal now or different, she could reconcile them, and avoid any risk of part of her dying at the hands of another.

For now, it would do.

Magic remained partially hidden. Whatever part made her a planeswalker, Metal could not even recognize. The primary functions of her body were on-line… except, she realized, for one. She had flight systems! Now, that was something to work towards, that would reward the intertwining of capabilities with memory. It would be good to recall how to fly, and what it felt like, at the same time she recovered the ability.

With that in mind, Metal set to work. Schematics came bidden to her consciousness, and she began to inspect and repair. Her clever joints allowed her hands to reach any point on her body for maintenance, so even the largest parts, mana-driven jets hidden when not in use as the swell of human shoulder-blades, were not difficult to operate on.

As she tinkered, she braced herself. Her body knew her better than she did, and when it decided she had largely finished, that was when she would remember. She finished the small adjustments of crystals in the thrusters, and opened them up, letting free a small amount of blazing exhaust that made her realize why she had built herself so resilient to heat. Yes, that was good. Stabilizing elements existed on her feet, ankles, wrists, and palms. They would allow her good maneuverability at speed, and the ability to hover in nearly any position. Still, as she applied the finishing touches, she felt that compared to the wings of an ornithopter, she seemed somewhat overengineered…

This memory was different, the sensation dull to nonexistent but action, sight, continuity… Metal saw the world through the eyes of someone small. A child? She felt pain, somewhere. She looked up, and saw a pair of humans with pure-white wings looking down on her, their faces full of concern, sadness. She looked around herself – there were masses of feathers in her hands, broken quills of dappled grey. There was also blood, and far too much of it. The floor was strewn with violent molt and crimson stains. A pair of scissors lay near Metal/The Girl’s feet, amidst one of the thicker piles of feather bits, bloodstained as well.

The girl sniffled, and seemed to accept her mother’s love at least. But still she felt pain in her heart, and fear crept in as well. “Then why don’t I see any adults that don’t have white wings?”

Metal returned to reality, to the present, trembling from the emotions that had played through her and more.

Whose memory was that? Was it her creator? Was that why Metal had been made to fly without wings?

It had to be, Metal told herself. Her maker must have given her that understanding, the knowledge of why she had done what she had done in such a way. There… there could not be any other explanation. She did not know why she had been given a memory, rather than just an explanation, but as with the flight system itself, there had to be a reason.

For the next few days after that, though, Metal took her reactivation very slowly. She reconnected with old mana-bonds, and laid the finishing touches on her physical body. The memories that came with those bits were never so intense – brief vistas of far off planes, glimpses of her making additions to her body or, rarely, why. When she discovered the blade concealed at the back of her left wrist, she saw herself in combat, pinned by some monster, and forced to flee by planeswalk for all she could do with her arms was flail uselessly. Yet somehow that moment of fear that had forced her to add a weapon to her design, at the risk of marring the form her creator had given her, was not so fierce or horrifying as the girl with the dappled-grey wings.

On Metal’s fifth day among the Aridon, there passed among them a rumor. A woman had appeared in one of the nearby cities of the humans and had started asking about a metal woman, only to find herself presented with half a dozen Aridon the humans had waylaid and hauled before her. Each one, the woman had rejected in frustration. One of the Aridon of this village had been there, had seen what the woman did next.

“It was strange.” The Aridon related, “She seemed to change moods very quickly. And she said ‘No matter, she can hide here all she wants. She hid one of the pieces, too, and that will be easier to find.’ Then the woman set out for the mountains of the west, enlisting a trio of the Devotees to guide her.”

There was no doubt in Metal’s mind that this was the same woman who had hunted her before, up to the same tricks she had tried on Mattias’ world, only to find that here Metal did not look unique.

On one hand, it offered a reprieve.

On the other hand, it seemed the woman Metal had been had tried to keep something from this other woman. When the strange woman was willing to murder, it occurred to Metal that whatever ‘piece’ she wanted she ought to not get.

Metal looked down at herself. She was stronger now, and if she went after the woman she would have a better chance of success than the first time they had clashed.

If Metal waited longer, she would only become stronger. The word Planeswalker sang in her mind, faint glimmers of terrible power. Yes, the woman needed to be stopped. But yes, she was likely very mighty. Metal could expedite the recovery of her memories, but only to an extent without risking that nagging death by transformation into another person.

So to chase after the woman as she was, or to wait until she could do so at full strength? It was a terrible decision, but it was one she had to make.

Something hidden on this plane… Metal couldn’t remember that in specific without more, but it felt important, a grave weight lingering over the very mention of it. She crouched, leapt, and shot into the sky.

The world unfolded below Metal, and she felt a thrill deep inside. She could stay in the air forever and be content, though her purpose pushed her onward to the west. The landscape was painted by the fading sun in vivid violet, crimson, gold. Down on the ground, the sky alone had such beauty but above it was all around her. She was free, and at home in that element.

As the night wore on. Metal focused again at the task at hand. She was fast – far faster than anyone on foot could be, but her foe was small and distant below, and Metal did not know exactly where to pick up the trail. All the same, when she could be mistaken for an Aridon, it was decently safe to speak to ordinary folk, so if she happened to spot the fires or selves of any travelers she might descend and ask for a hint of her foe’s direction.

Soon enough, she spotted one, beside the road towards the mountains of the west. She descended from the sky, hoping her appearance would not frighten anyone she encountered, and discovered to her slight surprise that her quarry was there, amidst some three rough-looking people in drab clothes.

That woman looked up at Metal as Metal landed. In her eyes, there was a strange sorrow.

“You should have stayed hiding.” She said

“I want answers!” Metal demanded, “I don’t even know your name, much less why you want to kill me.”

“My name is Sorinne.” She said, “As for why we fight you… the Ythol Annulus. You kept it from one of us before, and now that one would be sure you will not again oppose us.”

“I don’t even know what that is!” Metal shouted, “All I know, which I know thanks to you, is that you would murder those who have done you no wrong. For that reason alone I would oppose you.”

For a long moment, Sorinne seemed to think. Her body shuddered a time or two, and Metal realized that now would be a good time to strike… bodies of flesh and bone were so very fragile, they could be broken easily…

But it wasn’t in Metal to strike. In her short time in the light Sorinne had wronged her gravely, but still she could not bring herself to do it, and again the doubt crept into her mind, wondering what kind of woman she had been before. She might not have been better than Sorinne before, but she resolved that she was going to be now.

“I believe you.” Sorinne said, “And we offer you this: Swear a binding oath to not interfere in our doings, and we will permit you to continue to exist, or else you will die.”

“First,” Metal said, “I want to know what this… Ythol Annulus is.”

“The Annulus…” Sorinne began, but then she stopped, staggered, and gritted her teeth.

“Do not seek it.” Sorinne said, “I’m begging you, accept our offer. I don’t want to kill you.”

“You didn’t do a very good job last time.” Metal said disdainfully, “What makes you think you can manage now?”

“We’ve thought on that.” Sorinne said, “Your body seems impervious to heat and electricity. Red magic was always my specialty, though, and it can be adapted. Trust me that if we fight, it will go very differently.”

Metal closed her eyes.

“Let me consider.” She said.

Ythol Annulus… If Metal could remember it, she could determine how important this fight might be. If she could just remember anything, she could know how to proceed!

This strange woman, Sorinne, spoke with great sincerity when she spoke of herself. When she spoke of ‘we’, her voice was different. It was a mystery that, like the Ythol Annulus, Metal did not have the time to entirely unravel. All the same, she needed something, anything! Even the barest glimpse of memory…

“We have given you as much time as we will.” Sorinne said, “We need your answer.”

“We do not have much time.” A strange woman said. “Or the fate of Ythol will be shared by all. The Annulus must be stopped.”

Metal snapped back to the present.

“I’m afraid I must refuse.” She said. Quickly, she leapt back, firing her jets to put some space between her and Sorinne. Before Metal recovered her bearings, the first spell hit her. That was alright, she’d yet to be damaged by…

She felt her knee seize up. She looked – ice?!

Sure enough, it was a wave of cold that had struck her. Metal felt she could survive such an attack, but if she couldn’t move…

She focused on Sorinne, ready to counter as she reached a hand to the afflicted joint. The red mana jets for her flight stabilizers burned hot, she could restore function to her leg if she had the time.

Sorinne’s body convulsed, and as she pulled upon a swell of mana it seemed for all the world that she might have been in the throes of a seizure. Metal looked at the threads of her casting and carefully swept her own through to disrupt them with the barest touch of blue mana.

One thing Metal had learned in the intervening days had been how to be more efficient with her counters. The older magic, unlocked by plumbing the depths of her mind was stronger.

But now each of Sorinne’s attacks was dangerous. She couldn’t afford to miss one.

With her free hand and a swirl of magic, Metal intercepted the next blast of cold and sent it rebounding upon its caster. Sorinne moved quickly, but not quickly enough, and it struck her right side. As she fell, Metal stood tall, her knee thawed and moving again.

Slowly, Metal approached her foe. Sorinne lay still on the ground, her shirt torn and her side dusted with rime. Was she dead? She certainly seemed to be. The other humans were cowering in fear, and gave Metal plenty of space. She knelt down beside Sorinne and reached out.

That was when Sorinne struck. She moved with unnatural rapidity, and though her spell was small it came too quickly and the bitter cold washed over her face. Metal turned to the side, and her right took the brunt of the spell.

Pain! Even when Metal’s leg had been hit, it felt nothing like this! Her world collapsed, and she screamed with a force she didn’t know she could. Her vision blurred, went dark, and she felt that she was somehow going to lose consciousness.

She felt like she was going to die.

Instinct took over , and her scream was swallowed by the Blind Eternities. The world reappeared, hazy and indistinct though she felt she was somewhere wild, perhaps amidst ruins. Still she felt agony and she clutched her right eye desperately.

Slowly, the pain subsided from the sharp shock to an agonizing ache that still threatened to consume her, and rational thought returned to Metal. Her vision was flat, unclear. Her eyes were swimming with tears.

No, her eye was. Her left eye saw the world through a watery haze, but her right eye, the one that had been struck, the one the pain was coming from, couldn’t see at all.

It was fine, Metal tried to tell herself, it would pass, she could repair it. Her history was so long, surely any part of her had been broken before. But, somehow, she couldn’t believe it. The eye felt different, like it was somehow more a part of her than any she had worked on.

What was special about her eyes?

Narissa Enshar was feeling good. True, she was in a strange place surrounded by strange people with little more to her name than the clothes on her back and the weapons on her belt. But that wasn’t an odd situation for a planeswalker, and Narissa Enshar knew how to find a market for her skills in nearly any land.

After all, Narissa was a woman of many talents, as her array of blades attested – the simple, elegant sickle served as a focus for her green magic, and no small town would fail to reward at least with grain and a roof the woman who could cause their crops to grow fruitful. The kris, on the other hand, with its thirteen-curved blade, asymmetrical base, and ornate handle and sheath was an implement for Sanguimancy whether she used it to draw her own blood to heal or harm the lives of others or to shed the blood of victims and replenish her own life. The other blades, a kukri and a small gladius, had a much more obvious purpose, assassination. That was a skill that there was always someone in need of, and they paid better for it than for magic. That, along with thieving and spying, would do Narissa a good turn in large cities and peaceful times if she absolutely needed them. And Narissa was sure, with whatever blade she chose to use, she was the best there ever was.

As it was, the town wasn’t huge, but neither was it particularly small. The population looked to be mostly human, possibly entirely. They also looked like the fearful, repressed rural types that would appreciate green magic and nothing else, so that was what she advertised, proclaiming her skill by making a tree in the center square shower the place in blossoms and loudly announcing her skill and willingness to employ it for a price.

Oddly, there was surprisingly little response to her display. Did they have a lot of mages here, or were they somehow wary? She decided to start rattling off the places she’d been and the things she’d done – on other planes, perhaps, but the names sounded impressive enough for most folk.

At that, the minor crowd that had gathered began to quickly disperse… all except one. That one was a woman about Narissa’s age, with very long brown hair, fair skin, and icy blue eyes. She wore traveling clothes quite unlike the garb of most of the townsfolk, and as Narissa watched her approach she thought she could make out familiar patterns of stain from the road and other dealings. This woman, whoever she was, was not a simple rube.

She could be a problem.

She could be an opportunity.

“Greetings.” The other woman said, her voice both firm and soft, neutral in tone and largely free of accent.

“Well,” Narissa said, “You’ve heard the pitch, what’ll it be?”

Best to start with business.

“I heard much.” The woman said, “My name is Sorinne. We have business for a fellow… traveler, if you are interested.”

“Representing something?” Narissa asked. It was hard to tell with other planeswalkers, whether or not they were just weird.

“In a manner of speaking. Narissa, correct? Perhaps we should talk about the details in more privacy.”

“Sure.” Narissa said, stepping down, “We can do that.”

At this, Sorinne lead to the edge of town, and a dark grove with many overgrown marble pillars. They stopped next to a statue, somewhat overtaken by moss, of a human-like woman with a regal bearing, crowned with many-pronged horns that reached up to the sky.

“Do you know what this is?” Sorinne asked.

Narissa shrugged, “Some local goddess, I’d reckon, and not one who gets a lot of love.”

Sorinne nodded. “That’s true.” She said, “But this goddess was also a Planeswalker. Did you know that a scant hundred years ago, we might as well have been gods? I have trouble even imagining it, but I know it was true. Not omnipotent were the Planeswalkers of old, but very mighty, immortal barring accidents, and proud. So very proud.”

“Is this going somewhere?” Narissa asked.

“Actually,” Sorinne said, “It is. You see, this woman, this old planeswalker, had quite a lot to do with this world. She guided its people and shaped in some part their culture… and she hid something here, knowing that her disciples would protect it in her absence. She’s dead now, as far as we can tell, but what she hid remains. We want you to find it.”

Narissa folded her arms over her chest “Lost artifact?” she asked, “Not usually my idiom. What makes you think I’m the woman for the job?”

“The old planeswalker used green magic exclusively,” Sorinne said, “Which means you, unlike myself, would be familiar with any old magic you come across.”

“Good, good…”

“And,” Sorinne said, “We noticed that you’re not outfitted just as a druid. You’re a warrior of some description. We don’t think this is alien to you.”

Narissa smiled. Canny, this Sorinne, or whoever she was working with. Of course, that meant the job could be quite a lot of trouble. If she and whoever else couldn’t do it, could Narissa?

Of course she could, she reminded herself. She was the best.

“You’re talking to the right girl.” Narissa said with a smile, “Tell me about this whatever-it-is.”

Sorinne looked down. “It’s one of three pieces of an ancient and powerful artifact. The full artifact is an annulus – a flat, circular ring – about two feet in outer diameter. It will be made of a dull, grey stone with an inlay of opalescent crystal. So what you’re looking for is a segment of that ring.”

“And its powers?”

“Without the other two pieces, nothing. So nothing you should have to worry about.”

“Okay,” Narissa said, “And where am I supposed to find it?”

“To the best of our knowledge,” Sorinne said, “It’s in a sanctum that this woman-“ she touched the statue “considered her base of operations. I believe it is west of here, as worship of her as the horned goddess is stronger the further west you go. But likely not too far. Believe me, if we knew anything more about its whereabouts or defenses, I would tell you.”

“Okay sweetie.” Narissa said, hoping to Sorinne in a good mood, “Now we’ve got to talk about pay. Make me an offer.”

“Between planeswalkers,” Sorinne said, “I can offer a favor, more valuable than gold. When the artifact is complete, you could be made ruler of a sizable domain.”

“Thanks.” Narissa said, “But I’d prefer some precious metals in my pocket. I can’t spend a favor on booze.”

Sorinne stood still for a moment, then shuddered and shook her head. She reached into her pack and drew out a few large, oblong gold coins, holding them out to Narissa.

Narissa took one of the coins. It would certainly pass muster for a pretty chunk of change, though perhaps better if she just melted it down, since merchants didn’t value currency they didn’t know the provenance of very well.

“We can give you ten now.” Sorinne said, “Which should be more than enough to cover your expenses. Upon returning the fragment to me, we’ll be prepared with another ten thousand.”

Narissa mulled over the figure. It was high, but when land was the first offer, perhaps high was something Sorinne thought she could afford. There were certainly artifacts in the planes worth ten thousand big gold coins, or even far, far more. If Sorinne paid off, it was the score of a lifetime, and if she didn’t?

She was right. Ten coins like that was enough for modest living for some time, and quite a lot of equipment at the right market. Narissa wouldn’t have lost anything, and if Sorinne backed out, well, she could probably take the artifact right back and find someone who would pay for it. It wouldn’t be the first time Narissa double crossed someone who tried to double cross her either.

“Okay,” Narissa said, “You’ve got a deal.”

Mattias looked around. The world was a strange one, but so did most of them seem. He’d stepped onto maybe a dozen, trying in that maddening darkness to find some hint of… he didn’t even exactly know what. Metal, perhaps, assuming that “planeswalker” was what he understood himself to be. Certainly, despite the twin suns setting through a haze of fog, the towers in the distance, and the bizarre curves of the buildings around him that seemed to fear to have hard lines or right angles.

What was really new was that, a few moments after Mattias entered the town, there was quite the commotion.

“Help!” A guard shouted, “All hands!”

“What’s going on?” Mattias asked, as the runner came close. Part of him said whatever it was didn’t concern him, while another part worried that it did.

“The Savior Stone!” he shouted to the crowd that was assembling, “There’s a stranger attacking the temple! She’s trying to steal the Savior Stone!”

What was a Savior Stone? Mattias didn’t know, but it sounded… a thought occurred.

“This stranger… What did she look like.”

“What does it matter! If you can fight, go!”

At that, many of the natives started moving in the direction that Mattias assumed lead to the temple and the stone. The guard tried to start off the same way, but Mattias caught his wrist.

“Please.”

The guard eyed Mattias, and evidently recognized him for a stranger himself, seeming to become awfully wary very quickly.

“A tall woman, brown hair, blue eyes. What does it matter?”

It was a very general description, but all the same, memory came to Mattias of that night, the one that had cast him from his home, and of Sorinne. He released the wrist of the guard, who bolted off. Mattias followed at a jog, arriving just in time to see the guard enter the building, about which were strewn many figures, dead or unconscious Mattias did not know, though nowhere did he see blood.

A second later there was a bright flash, and the guard was thrown back out of the circular doorway. Their foe, it was certain, knew quite a bit of magic. Mattias focused his mind and went to a door, sparing a closer glance at the people on the ground and seeing some at least were breathing and none appeared to be mortally wounded.

Mattias entered and there, as he feared, was Sorinne.

She looked worse for the wear, pale and drawn, her hair a ratty tangle. She was standing at a dais, above which floated an artifact of some description, what appeared to be a portion of a stone ring, flat and broad.

“Mattias.” She said, her affect mostly flat with some hint of pain.

“Well,” he said, readying his counterspell, “You remember my name.”

“Turn around and forget we ever met again, Mattias.” Sorinne said, “This is not yours to interfere with.”

Mattias stepped forward a bit. “I want some answers first. What are you doing? Why did you try to kill me and Metal?”

“I’m sorry about that.” Sorinne said, “So, so sorry. But I have to take my boss’s orders.”

Mattias considered leaving, or starting a fight, but then he thought of the forces outside. Mana wasn’t an infinite wellspring. If Mattias kept her talking long enough for them to come to, they might have a chance against her.

“There’s that ‘we’ you keep talking about.”

“I’m… working for a Planeswalker known as Dantalion.”

“And that involves murder and theft?”

Sorinne looked away, then staggered a little.

“You could never understand.” She said, “But attacking you was a mistake. The next time we fight, though, won’t be, and it WILL happen if you don’t leave.”

Still the native defenders didn’t seem to stir, and Mattias considered his options.

“What about Metal?”

“She and Dantalion have history. But we’ll give her the same offer we’re giving you: leave, rather than dying.”

So, she was alive! Alive and somewhere in the seemingly infinite planes, which while it gave Mattias some great relief didn’t bode well for his chances of seeing her again. “Tell me what Dantalion wants with this… Savior stone, and I’ll consider it.”

Sorinne looked down. “He wants to live. This artifact belonged to him before it belonged to the ancestor of these people, and with it, he might survive.”

Mattias didn’t believe it, but at the same time, there was a mad voice in his head, and he wanted to know.

More than that, he wanted to find Metal, and Dantalion seemed to have the means.

“What’s it to be?” Sorinne asked, “Will you go, or will you force me to fight you?”

“I have a counter-offer.” Mattias said, “I don’t know where Metal is, and you found her after she was out of commission for a hundred years. Let me come with you, and I’ll help convince her to leave this Dantalion character alone.”

Or, Mattias thought, stand with Metal and make it an even match.

At this, Sorinne closed her eyes and seemed to think. She muttered something to herself, and Mattias thought he saw her mouth form the word ‘please.’

Then, she looked up. “Help us secure the Annulus fragment, and we will accept your offer.

There was that ‘we’ again. As far as Mattias could tell, they were the only conscious people in the room.

Which did, he reflected, bode ill for his ability to win in a fight with her. He hadn’t gotten much better at magic since finding himself in the planes, and Sorinne had been overwhelmingly threatening then.

She was his best road to Metal, and Metal was his best chance to get the upper hand against her.

“Deal.”

“Good.” Sorinne said, letting out a sigh of relief. Perhaps she was more intimidated by him that she had let on. “Dispel the wards around it with me, then we will go to Ythol.”

“Where’s that?”

“It’s another plane.” Sorinne said as they began their work and the runes on the top of the pedestal began to vanish at the disenchantments worked over them. “Dantalion’s home.”

“So I take it I’ll meet him.”

“Probably no more than you have.” Sorinne said, “But I don’t think you’d want to.”

Sorinne winced in pain at that, and Mattias did not venture to guess the reason for her strange reaction.

The last rune vanished, the stone fragment descended, and Sorinne took it in her left hand. She held out her right to Mattias.

“Take my hand.” She said.

Mattias’ mind was made up, so he did not hesitate, and the Blind Eternities surrounded them both.

The first sensation of Ythol that assailed Mattias was the smell. The air reeked of sulfur and ash, with slight hints of salt and ammonia. As his eyes adjusted to the relative darkness, he saw the unwholesomeness of the place in full, a land of poison and volcanoes that seemed to stretch out every way, but for two features that could be seen: perhaps a mile distant one way was what looked to be the remains of a castle in very good repair, and though its outer walls were black as pitch against the dull crimson sky and its towers portended no good thing in their outlines, it seemed almost as though it were not a ruin. The other way, at a greater distance, two mountains rose as jagged spires to the clouds, but between their peaks was stretched, unless Mattias’ eyes deceived him, some manner of span, turning the pass between into a great and yawning portal.

Mattias coughed.

“I’m sorry.” Sorinne said, “This is as close as I can Planeswalk to shelter.”

“You could have mentioned how much of a hellhole this place was!” Mattias gasped.

Sorinne looked away.

“You can still leave if you want.” She said.

In fact, she seemed terribly keen on Mattias leaving. If it weren’t for their past interactions, he thought as he began to follow her trudge across the ashen stone towards the castle, he might have thought her honest in not wanting to hurt people. Certainly, she’d seemed to take pains to handle the natives of that dim world with its strange curved buildings without resorting to lethal force.

“So,” Mattias said, “What kind of person is Dantalion? This doesn’t seem like prime turf for normal sorts.”

Sorinne shrugged.

“I don’t… question him.”

Mattias folded his arms across his chest. “Well, maybe you should-”

“Stop.” Sorinne said, the beginnings of a sob in her word.

“Look,” Mattias said, “Between you and me-”

“And Dantalion.” Sorinne added, “What I hear, Dantalion hears.”

The words suggested she’d tell him everything, but Mattias remembered her intermittent use of ‘we’ instead of ‘I’, and his guess that Sorinne might be in communication with her employer. It occurred to him that it was possible Dantalion was listening in on anything Sorinne did, and in that case it wouldn’t be wise to feel out her loyalties.

“Got it.” Mattias said.

They were making good way to the edifice. It was probably not so big as the High Boughs palace back home, closer to the stone keeps of the border territories, along the desert, and its menace had not diminished in the approach to the castle. Certainly, there was a good part of Mattias that did not want to meet the inhabitant of such a place unawares.

“So,” he said, “If Mr. D doesn’t mind, could you tell me a little about him?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Well, you said he needed that stone to live. What’s wrong with him?”

Sorinne was silent for perhaps a full minute, between composing her thoughts and taking the harder way up a somewhat steep slope. At the top, she spoke.

“Dantalion is dying of time.” She said, “But unlike us he’s not supposed to. The artifact those people call the Savior Stone is one third of a greater one known as the Ythol Annulus, that has the power to restore Dantalion’s immortality, or so he feels. I didn’t want to have to steal it like that, but it seemed evident no other force could convince them to part with it. I’m not a thief.”

A thief, assassin, and liar, Mattias thought, but go on.

Sorinne did not oblige the questioning in his eyes.

“And what made you start working for him, then?”

Sorinne opened her mouth. “I-“

Then, she doubled over in pain, clutching her stomach. At first, Mattias thought it was some sort of act, but as he looked he could see that whatever she was suffering was very much real. He knelt down beside her, and put a hand on her shoulder. She was gritting her teeth and holding her eyes shut as hard as she might, but didn’t cry or cry out. That state lasted for what seemed a troubling moment, time enough for Mattias to realize he had no medical arts if Sorinne’s condition was serious, and that whatever was causing her such pain could be a great incentive to throw in her lot with someone who claimed eternal life as his first trick.

Presently, Sorinne released the tension in her muscles. Her hands fell away from her core, her face smoothed, eyes opened, and mouth and took a deep breath.

“Easy,” Mattias said, “What was that?”

Sorinne gave no answer, but weakly pushed his hand away and slowly, laboriously, began to stagger to her feet.

“Sorinne? You okay?”

Mattias noticed after that he wasn’t exactly miming concern. She’s your enemy, he reminded himself. She tried to kill you. Still, it was hard, perhaps impossible, to see someone suffer so terribly and so suddenly and not afford them a measure of care.

“I’ll be fine.” She said, and set her feet again towards the castle, which now loomed high over the both of them, and moved forward with a far more brisk pace than before.

Evidently, she didn’t intend to finish whatever she’d been saying, or engage in any other conversation. Mattias, though he desired no few answers, didn’t press her. Somehow, it didn’t seem right.

Soon enough, they made it to the castle.

The locals didn’t take long to discover Metal, and her pleas to them to take her to a healer, while slowed by their initial wonderment, were seemingly heeded, for the hunters (such as they were) helped Metal up and led her onward, steadying her stride which was weak and unbalanced from the lingering pain, and brought her inside a small building, in which hung fragrant herbs in dry bundles, and a pot above the ashes of a cooking fire. There were several beds, low mats upon the ground with rolls at one end, the like to which Metal was led to and sat herself down upon, and in one corner a small shrine with an uneven, branched candelabrum. Surely, Metal thought, this was a place of faith and a house of healing.

But, it occurred to her as the haze faded from her mind, the acute agony replaced with a lingering ache, a healer was the wrong person to ask for. She needed an artificer, someone like Mattias who could piece together the secret of her eye and effect repairs. Still, it couldn’t hurt to talk to the healer, who as a respected person might know in what house an artificer would dwell.

Soon enough, she entered – a wizened old woman, thin-limbed, white-haired, and dark-skinned, more wrinkle than anything else but yet somehow having a bearing that spoke not of infirmity but of wisdom and holiness.

Yet when she laid her eyes upon Metal, the kindness that had resided within them vanished. With a rapidity that Metal would not have guessed her capable of, she snatched up the candelabrum and then began to approach Metal.

“What fools are young hunters!” she exclaimed, “To bring such an abomination before me.”

“Abomination?” Metal knew that she was very different from ordinary folk, but all others she had met had treated her differently, yes, but not with this superstitious fear!

“Machine! Artifact! In the name of Tawnos, by the light of the candles that restore, I call upon the wilds and the good that grows in Dominaria-”

Metal could recognize the threads of green magic beginning to stir, and knew it could be dangerous to her. She raised a hand, plaintitive to the woman.

“Please, madam!” she cried, “Please, I mean you no harm! If you would not have me here, just let me leave!”

And this seemed to give the old woman pause, for she stopped her incantation and looked quizzically at Metal.

“What was that you said?” she asked.

“I said I’ll just go. There’s no need for us to fight.”

And with that the woman made some manner of sign over herself.

“A thinking Artifact.” She muttered, “That is different, very different.” She paced closer, still holding the candelabrum between them.

“You have not the look of Phyrexia, no, most certainly not, and the traders speak of the good of Thinking Machines, the Silver One...”

Phyrexia. Metal’s memories welled up. Darkness, machinery, oil, death… It was a dark, cursed word, though part of her consigned such a name to the past.

“I’m not of that sort.” Metal said, “And I’m sorry for my intrusion, but I’m hurt-”

The old woman sprang forward, and drew herself close to Metal’s face, and looked her in the eyes. Her weathered gaze first examined one eye, the one that had been hurt, and then the other, very careful, studying those eyes in a way that Metal herself had never dared in the mirror, in ways that even Mattias had not done for all the times her gaze had met his.

“Hurt… hurt you are, but… who are you? WHAT are you?”

“I don’t know, really.” Metal said, “I’ve been called Metal, and I’m sorry to have troubled you. I think I need an artificer.”

“No, no…” the woman muttered, “No Artificer, you were right to come here. Forgive my outburst, though I must ask how you came to be in such a state, Metal not of Phyrexia.”

“I was in a fight. A blast of frost struck my eye. The pain… it was not like anything else I had felt.”

“I do not mean your injury.” The woman chided, “I mean the shape you are in.”

“I don’t know.” Metal said, “I don’t remember. You can… fix me?”

The woman let out a long breath, “Perhaps.” There was fear in her voice, and confusion, but not the fear of horror but some creeping ill feeling. “What do you remember?”

“Bits and pieces.” Metal said, “I’m… very old, but I don’t know much of anything that happened before a hundred years ago, and not much interesting until much more recently than that.”

The old woman seemed believed.

“I believe I can heal your eye, if the gods will it to be healed.” She paced to the altar and set the candelabrum back down.”

“What parts will you need?”

“Parts.” The woman said bitterly, “And at a glance I know you better than you know yourself. I shall pray for your healing, and then I shall explain.”

The woman returned to Metal’s side and began a different incantation.

“O Freyalise, protector of woodlands, restorer of lives, what has here been harmed, set well. What has been set wrong, set right. Grant your humble servant the touch of regeneration, that the life before you might be enriched, as your presence enriches the soul.”

A warm, tingling sensation flooded Metal’s eye, and with it, the last of the pain vanished. It was several long moments, but that sensation too went away, and in the wake of it, Metal’s vision blurred. She closed her hurt eye, and it was clear, then the other way around, and watched as the fuzzy images before her began to take on more precise shapes, accustomed once again to seeing.

But how had a green magic spell worked such a wonder?

“I don’t know how to thank you.” Metal said.

“Thank Freyalise.” The old woman declared, “For by her grace she saw the life in you and not the steel.”

Metal thought she caught the woman’s meaning, and a horror began to fill her – surely, if she had a stomach, it would then have been in knots. Her eye… it was organic?! An organic part, it would have had proper nerves, to feel the pain it felt, and it would have been subject to magic meant to heal flesh.

And hadn’t Mattias once said how Metal had beautiful eyes, so very lifelike…

Metal clasped her hands to her mouth, and pulled her legs inward, knees to her chest. Organic parts! What was she? Dark visions floated in her mind. Artifact optics were very complicated and very clunky, but how cruel the shortcut to simply take a pair of real eyes! Unless…

“Do you have a mirror?” Metal asked in a small voice, “Or anything that might serve as one?”

And to this the woman silently went about her business, and took a bowl and filled it with clear water from a cask, and this she handed to Metal.

As the ripples stilled, Metal looked into her own eyes. Bright, green, glistening not with the sheen of treated glass or gem but with life. And she saw the face that framed them, and the literal golden hair, and unbidden came another image. Similar hair, golden, framed a similar face, but more than anything, the same eyes. The exact same eyes, bright, green, reddened with recent tears.

The girl with the torn wings.

That wasn’t her creator’s memory. It was her own.

Metal’s hands trembled. The image in the bowl vanished in the ripples, but it was already burned into her mind. Her grip slacked, and the bowl clattered to the floor, overturning with a loud clatter that Metal could barely hear over her screams, silent in the room but raging in her mind.

As the old woman silently picked up the bowl, and checked its slick surface for chips or cracks, Metal whispered.

“You were right.” she said, so quietly as one could not be sure the woman would hear, “By all that is, you were right. I AM an abomination.”

Evidently, the old woman did hear.

“That,” she said, “Is not what the gods decided just now, and I do not question their judgment in answering a prayer of healing, whoever for.”

Metal’s mind, broken from the stunned stupor of the revelation, began to race. She needed answers, needed the reason, needed to know when the girl with the torn wings had become what she now was. There was so much memory, so many mortal spans… When had she done it, and why? Who, really, was she?

For all she knew, Sorinne was right to seek her death.

“Would you mind terribly,” Metal asked, “If I remained here some time.”

“Most patients do.” The woman replied, her affect flat.

“I… I want to try to remember who I am, how this, this THING happened. It will take some time, but I don’t need food or drink, just a space in the corner to… meditate.”

“Take all the time you need.” The woman replied, “Right upon that bed if it pleases you, though I might have to lay a sheet over you if I treat anyone else.”

“That’s fine.” Metal said. She found the thin sheet that was beside the bed, and curled up on her side, head upon the pillow, before pulling it over her, toe to head.

Before lowering the cover over her face, Metal spoke again.

“Thank you.” She told the woman, “Whatever I find… I want to thank you for giving me the chance to know.”

Metal focused on herself. The thin sheet over her and, in fact, the whole world around seemed to fade. Her memories were within, millennia of them, waiting for her to reclaim them.

But now, Metal was rather certain that simply grasping what she had put away would be, in essence, a fatal mistake. She had a horror at discovering her nature. While she reflected that to be “real”, while not something she had questioned about herself, might be a good thing, the idea that once she had shed, no doubt violently, the body she had been made with in favor of one that was… yes, durable, adaptable, repairable, immortal… but also so cold. As she thought, circling around the bulk of her memories, there were good reasons to forsake the flesh and take on the form she now had. Durability was chief, and time. How much time had she lived, and how short would that span have been without her augmentation?

Certainly, Metal could conceive of good reasons. Perhaps she had been suffering, dying even too soon. Yes, it was conceivable that there had been something terribly wrong with her old body, other than simple mortality.

It also occurred to Metal that the past her may not have been a good person. Her current form afforded her power beyond that accorded to mortals. Had she abused that power? Had she traded some part of her soul away for it? Her body had its advantages, and even with her revulsion at her state, she could not rightly say that she would trade it for a natural one of supple flesh if the choice was given to her.

And even as then, her mind turned to the girl she had once been, tearing at her wings and shrieking her hate for them, their hideousness. Had it been vanity that caused her to bridge the gap between a person and a machine?

The idle speculation, she realized, was getting her nowhere, and presently she began to devise a strategy for coming to the knowledge of herself while preventing the death of who she had become.

And so, Metal worked backwards, viewing memories in blocks of years, the thoughts swarming through her mind as though she watched them in an illusion-play. They did not enter her, did not become part of her, but she knew them, and understood them. As the years piled up, her conscious recognition of each new set faded, so that she realized she had at her mental fingertips some new knowledge to review at her leisure, but could not have said what it was without forcing herself to actively remember.

This changed again when, after what must have been days, she began to reach memories that registered to her as very old. From these, she began to pick choice morsels to understand, to answer the question: Why?

She saw, plainly, that it had not happened all at once. Before the final transference, she already had a metal arm, though cruder than the ones in her final design, plates of heat-resistant ceramic along her back, and the jets with which she flew, having no need of wings. She had made the artifact replica of herself, and with careful magic, and the help of someone who had been her friend and would become her bitter enemy, she transferred some parts of herself into it, to sustain her mind and soul as they were themselves sustained by some systems in her new body: her heart, her brain, and her eyes. Those were all that was left of the woman who had been before.

And each step before that, she saw, as she had seen the upgrades thereafter while repairing her systems. How she replaced her arm, and before that her hand, the addition of stabilizing fins that could retract beneath her skin, how she had sutured the plates into her flesh after it was burned, and finally the first step: how she tore the wings from her own back and with the help of her constructs, mounted engines in their place.

Part of her felt bitterly sad: it had been vanity after all, after a fashion. But as she went deeper, she saw what lead to that. She saw herself die in an explosion in her laboratory, only to not die but be flung into the planes. She saw herself shut herself in that workshop some years before, saw herself take her meals and deliver the products of her craft through a slot in the door, or by pulley, and not speak to others of her people. She saw the ostracism, the disgrace. She saw the pain of her family, how her mother and father ended haggard and wasted from the strain of dealing with their unacceptable daughter when they had been so bright and full of life – the years alone would not wreak such havoc.

And she saw herself again, in the earliest memories, the child memories when she did not understand and still tried to go out in the world. The jeers, the sticks and stones, the way even adults would go to the other side of the way to avoid brushing against her.

Even if she didn’t agree, she saw why she hated her wings, and what had set her on the road to being what she became down in the darkness of the engine mine.

And when it was done, and all the memories her body retained in any quarter sang in her mind, hers but not exactly her own, she accepted one part of them into her, down to her core, where it deserved always to be. She had been called Metal, The Stranger, Sky Maiden, Mechanical Numen, Iron Doctor. This was not what she accepted though. What she wanted was her name, the one that had been given to a baby born with dapple-grey wings, before all the heartache, the transformation, the wars and the silence.

She found it and scribed it into herself. This she would have, the bridge between the past and the present.

Her name was Kala.

Mattias sat in the dingy room. It was, at least, mostly free of soot – a fine trace below the window, where the mass that collected on the outer side of the ragged curtain drawn across it sloughed off onto the floor. Though he was told he might go most places within the ancient, decaying keep, and though Sorinne said he could planeswalk out, though not back in, it still felt something like a prison.

There was a knock at the door. At least Sorinne pretended to have a little politeness.

“Come on in.” he said.

Sorinne entered, looking exhausted but carrying with her a jug and a platter. As there was no table in the room, she knelt down at one edge of the rug, setting down her load. Then she took two goblets from the patter, and set them upright, and poured from the jug into each some water, and Mattias observed that upon the platter was a measure of hard biscut and salt meat enough for two, at least with some eye to rationing, which the nature of the food suggested.

“Please, eat.” She said quietly, and slid about a third of the biscuits and meat to the side of the platter closer to her, evidently leaving the greater portion for him.

Mattias gave her a hard glare. Did she seriously think she was going to ingratiate herself? He was doing this for Metal, and never indicated otherwise.

Of course, there was something about Sorinne that always seemed to give Mattias pause when he began to rile up with anger towards her. Her manner was wildly inconsistent, and her spells of pain, which he now recognized and remembered more plainly that he had seen the one on the walk to the castle, did not fail to elicit some sympathy. Thus, he softened after a moment, and sat across from Sorinne.

“So,” Mattias ventured to ask, “What’s your story?”

“My story?” Sorinne asked.

“Yeah. I mean, you know mine, I was just like you found me before this mess. So you’ve got me at a bit of a disadvantage.”

“I’ve been a Planeswalker a long time,” She said, “At least for my age. I mean, you look a year or two older than me, no offense, but I’ve been out in Dominia since I was twelve.”

“Twelve? Were your parents Planeswalkers too?”

Sorinne looked away. “I haven’t seen my parents since I was six.”

Mattias was silent.

“I don’t know where they went, or why. I just know I was playing in the alley with my friends, and when I went home they were gone, and they never came back, and I learned to live with it. Maybe it was the guard, or maybe they just wanted to get away from me. I never will know, but it doesn’t matter, not really.”

Mattias tried to tell himself that the story was a cheap trick, a sorrowful lie to earn his sympathy, but at the same time, he could see not how she tried to show pain, but how she tried to hide it. If she was lying in this she was very, very good.

“I’m sorry.” He said.

“It’s fine.” Sorinne replied, “Anyway, after six years on the street I finally pissed off a guardsman enough that they decided my head would look good on a spike. But I got away, right from the headsman’s block, into the darkness. Since then, well, before I ended up with Dantalion I liked to think I made my way with my wits. It might even have been true.”

“And now?” Mattias asked.

“Now,” Sorinne replied, “I am obliged to the service of Dantalion. I make my way with his grace.”

There was something strange in her affect, and Mattias tried to catch a deeper meaning in her words.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

Sorinne enunciated very clearly her reply: “He is a fair master.”

And that let Mattias hit on it. She was obliged to serve, and she rendered her service to a master. A master who, as she had made clear before, heard everything that she heard. As seemed obvious, a master able to speak with her at any time, even across the planes. A master from whom she could not escape.

Mattias remembered Sorinne wracked with pain, how she pleaded with him to not fight, to just go along with what she asked, how her eyes had been stricken with an emotion he couldn’t then place, that he hadn’t wanted to analyze.

The realization came in full: Sorinne was not a toady or conspirator of Dantalion. She was a slave, and in all likelyhood she hated her lot. Moreover, she wasn’t Metal’s enemy, wasn’t his enemy. That had to be Dantalion, wherever he was.

Mattias almost said as much as he had perceived, but then he remembered the reason for Sorinne’s furtive hinting rather than plainly stating her station. Dantalion would hear everything, though evidently he was not guaranteed to understand the nuances.

“I understand.” Mattias said, trying to make his tone very grave and thus let Sorinne know he had caught her drift.

After that, they ate and drank some, and Mattias watched her manner very carefully, and spoke to her very warmly about trifling matters, until they had finished their meal. By then all the rancor Mattias might have held for Sorinne was changed for sympathy, and the hate passed on up to Dantalion, upon the subject of whom Mattias dared to make only the most furtive of inquiries, lest he realize that Mattias was on to him, and wreak some vengeance on him or even on Sorinne.

“I should probably get going.” Sorinne said when the last crumb was very clearly done with.

“Actually,” Mattias said, “If you mean that for my sake, I’d prefer you stay. This is a lonesome place if ever there was one.

Sorinne practically beamed, but then winced with one of her spells of pain. She breathed sharply, a couple times, then it leveled out as she seemed to suffer some manner of internal debate.

“All right,” she said at length. “We’re in a bit of a watch and wait right now, so it will be good to have some human company.”

Another little hint. Apparently, Dantalion wasn’t human. So what was he? Mattias thought on the curtained window, and the vista beyond of smoke and crimson skies from which the light of an unknown sun shone only through cracks in the cloud in mirror to the magmatic rifts upon the blackened ground. In that much, Mattias guessed that he wasn’t an elf, aven, kithkin, or even girtablilu either. There was no creature Mattias could think of that would naturally make its home on such a world. And indeed in all his glances out one window or another, and his walk with Sorinne, he had seen no sign of any sort of life, not the scuttling of an insect or the silhouette of a bird outlined against some of the crimson light from above.

That, though, was the last secret communication for a time, at least as much as Mattias picked up. For some hours, Sorinne remained, and the two of them talked about nothing but what two strangers, one who had a very interesting history, might speak of.

At length, Sorinne departed quietly, seeming on the edge of another of her spells of pain, and did not return for some length, at which Mattias set out to get a better bearing of the castle, and perhaps know a little more about his and Sorinne’s predicament.

For the most part, the place was extremely desolate, as though it had not been inhabited in such a time as the years could not be told. Here and there, trails existed through the soot that was upon most of the floors, presumably where Sorinne had walked. In addition to his own room, he found a small number that were both unlocked and free of the black stuff. They were by far in the minority, with more being blackened entirely and a few giving Mattias no means of access that left him a pleasant guest.

After some hours of this exploration, Mattias had by in large finished with the bulk of the castle. By then, he was quite tired, and found his way back to the more or less clean room he had been first lead to, and slept.

Over the next few days, Mattias spent most of his time in Sorinne’s company. Dantalion never made his presence known, if indeed he was physically in residence and had not simply left the miserable ruin to the humans.

In that time, he figured out much about her, or so he thought. At first, while he pitied her position, he treated some of her strangeness as a matter like his artifice: another puzzle to solve. But, like Metal, the puzzle of her thoughts proved more engaging. On Kalishin, Mattias had had few friends, none close, and most of them simple people like Jakey the Rat, who he could easily know the thoughts and motives of.

Perhaps that wasn’t the best way to put it, for aside from some oddities, like the spells of pain she would never address, Sorinne was not an intellectual curiosity. There was not the feverish heights of artifice punctuated by the relief of success, nor the countless, unanswered questions Metal had raised in her design and her nature. Instead, the interest Mattias had for Sorinne was of a nature he couldn’t rightly place, without expectation and only seeming to grow, though slowly, as he learned more.

A fascinating puzzle indeed, if that was what it was.

It seemed, though, that her absent master was a very key piece, for while Mattias never saw Dantalion, he figured in all their conversations even if he was never mentioned. Mattias could not speak his mind, and he had gathered quite well that Sorinne could not either.

It was about a week after Mattias first arrived in the castle that he finally met, after a fashion, his true host and truer enemy.

There was neither day nor night in that accursed place – perhaps a sun rose and set behind the clouds but it could not be much brighter with one out than without. So Mattias could not have told the time, but for him it felt somewhere in the early evening, about time for supper but not for sleeping. Sorinne had gone off upon her own towards what registered as midmorning, and Mattias had not seen her in some time. Desirous of her company, for claiming the place was lonely had been no lie.

At first, Mattias was without any sort of lead, and then he heard, echoing low through the stone, a wailing sound. Muffled and distorted it was, but also a very human keening. And then Mattias’ search had not only direction, but urgency. He followed the sound, up flights of stairs, the wails and screams growing louder and louder until finally he came to the stout door upon the other side of which he guessed he would find the source. Mattias threw it open, and rushed inside.

The interior was a cleaned antechamber, one he had seen before but then caked with soot. In the center, upon the moldering remnants of a once magnificent crimson carpet, was Sorinne. She was folded in on herself, except when she screamed or wailed with some new and terrible pain, and her limbs convulsed and she writhed upon the ground.

Mattias was beside her in an instant, and held himself close to her, and tried to still some of her contortions, vainly hoping that a helping hand might cut at their source. He wondered, then, how sick Sorinne was, and what manner of ailment could cause this.

“Sorinne.” He called, “Sorinne, it’s OK. Sorinne?” he paused, “What do you need? Sorinne?”

Then, the voice came. It was a deep, smooth male voice, and it seemed to echo throughout the hall, so that Mattias could not place its source.

“This is her punishment.” The voice said. “She needs to learn from it.”

“Dantalion.” Mattais replied coldly, shifting to lean over Sorinne, interposed between her and the possible source of the voice.

“Even so.” He replied with a chuckle. “But that is no matter.”

“Stop it.” Mattias demanded. As the facts of what he was seeing, what he had seen before, began to hit him, he felt his blood boil with rage. Nothing short of a demon could be so cruel, torturing at what seemed random whim.

“You think to command me?” Dantalion asked, “Very bold, child. Perhaps too bold.”

“Stop hurting her!” Mattias shouted.

Mattias thought Sorinne’s convulsions lessened some, and she was no longer screaming, but gritting her teeth, jaw clenched tight shut.

“You are a fool.” Dantalion said, “Meddling in an affair of which you have no knowledge. Do you know why I punish her? Do you care what treason she may have attempted? Ah, but that seems to be your way, doesn’t it. You believed you know the way of the Multiverse even when you did not know such a thing as a Multiverse existed.”

“If you’re talking about Metal,” Mattias growled, “I agreed to help get her off your case. Don’t make me rethink that.”

“Very well.” Dantalion said with a bored affect, “I shall reward your boldness this time and this time only. Perhaps the girl will even understand her folly all the same.”

With that the voice, the presence of Dantalion faded, and Sorinne went limp in Mattias’ arms.

A moment later, she regained some little function, buried her head into Mattias’ convenient shoulder, and began to sob.

A week after the meeting with Sorinne, Narissa’s feet hurt and her faith in her employer’s words was slowly waning. While she had, indeed, found more and more honored references to the Horned Goddess as she traveled west, she had not found anyone who could tell her in what land such a being dwelled, or even had dwelt.

Indeed, after the first week it seemed that Sorinne was badly mistaken, and that the Horned Goddess was a purely mythical figure. Still, she had only needed to make change for two of the coins Sorinne had given her, owing to gold having a good value on this plane even more than upon others, and thus Narissa saw little reason to abandon her quest before it was unprofitable to continue.

On the eighth day, however, when Narissa wandered into yet another pathetic little town of farmers and hunters and asked yet again after the Horned Goddess first as a deity and then as a living being, that Narissa got an interesting answer.

It was in the squalid village green, a decaying, worm-eaten pagoda with peeling pale paint that Narissa chatted with a young man of the town. He was more focused on her neckline than anything else, but answered questions very eagerly. When she asked where, if anywhere, the Horned Goddess might be found, he said that there was a monastery deep in the woodlands said to be her seat in the mortal world, and an overlook from which one could glimpse its ivied walls that was stunning in the moonlight.

Narissa did not dispel whatever romantic notions the boy may have had, but consoled herself that she never said she entertained them either, and asked to be taken to the overlook. The young man quickly obliged.

There was a path up to the overlook, though poorly groomed and fading into the undergrowth, the record of centuries-old cobbles still thinned the foliage where the paving once had been, leaving a clear impression of direction as well as of relative disuse. The walk along it, thankfully with her guide being relatively quiet in what Narissa assumed was awkward uncertainty, took the better part of three or four hours, so that the sun was setting when the path lead through a cave with a floor that had long ago been leveled, a tunnel that passed through, with a single bend, some twenty yards of rock before emerging onto a cliff face above deep woods.

There, as the sun set across the woodlands, painting the green trees with gold and crimson, Narissa saw the clear outline of a structure in the distance, a spiraling tower swallowed by massive growths.

“That’s it?” Narissa asked, pointing out at the ruin, or what looked like it might be a ruin.

“It is.” The boy said, “They say she lived there, maybe still lives there. But that’s not all you came out here for, is it?”

Narissa rolled her eyes. Any other day, she’d have at least entertained the proposition, but she had a creepy ruined castle to get to and ten thousand fat gold coins to secure.

“Look.” She said, “I come into town, asking questions about the horned goddess, ask to see the answer when you give it to me, never tell you more than you ask, don’t even bother to remember your name, and you think I came out here for you?”

She laughed.

“You’re cute,” she said, “But you have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

At that, Narissa reached out to the vines that clung to the side of the cliff below, forming a stairway down and out of sight, towards the forest floor and the Arcadian tower. Without even really looking, she walked out and took the first step. When she was on the third, she released those behind, ensuring there would be no foolish pursuit. When the vines of the cliff could no longer reach out, she called the trees up, and with their aid began her trek onward into the night.

Slowly, Narissa walked up to the doors of the spiraling tower. Though from afar she had marked the place for a ruin, up close it seemed to be in decent repair. That was troublesome. Fetching an artifact from people was much harder than lifting it out of some decrepit fastness.

“Hello?” Narissa called at the gates. She knocked several times, and was about to call up roots to force it open when the massive oaken doors swung ever so little open.

In the way stood a young woman with a slim frame, large head for her scrawny body, freckled cheeks, and a superb rack of antlers.

“Who are you?” The woman asked, looking in shock at Narissa.

“Me?” Narissa asked, “I’m just a traveler.” She stepped in, past the woman and ignorant of any protests she made. “This is a nice place you’ve got. More than enough room for one more, I’d say. For the night, at least.”

Indeed, it was a grand place. The light filtered through high windows, and massive woody roots seemed to form as much of the construction as stone. Every way Narissa looked, something was blooming or growing.

But the horned woman stepped in front of the passage way.

“We have no quarter for travelers.” She said, “Begone.”

Narissa pouted a little, and stepped closer. She could handle this the easy way or the hard.

“Surely,” she said, “Such a lovely hostess as yourself can put up little old me for just one night? I don’t need much, just-”

The woman gave her an icy glare.

“The answer is no.”

So, that left the hard way. Very swiftly, Narissa reached down and, the half-sultry look never leaving her face until the second after, drew her kris and buried it in the woman’s gut.

Threads of black magic flowed through the blade. The dark power no doubt caused horrific pain, but it stole the woman’s breath even as it corrupted and siphoned her blood. A few long seconds of the horned lady quaking in agony later, a dessicated husk collapsed to the ground at Narissa’s feet, and the kris thrummed with magic waiting to be used.

Narissa wasted no time. She sheathed her kris as the mana slowly drained into the gems of the pommel for later recovery, then knelt down and hefted the remains. They were very brittle, more so than usual, and Narissa tossed them roughly into a wild hedge a few paces away from the door, on the outer side. The dry flesh disintegrated at the force, and the bones scattered, most becoming lost in the tangling branches. Narissa walked over to it, kicked the skull and antlers roughly under the hedge, so that if anyone noticed whiteness at a glance they would guess some animal had met its fate there. Then she took up the dead woman’s dress, shook out the bones and dust from it, and held it up. At first she meant to simply hide the thing, but then Narissa reflected it was fine silk, and so she folded it, and stuffed it in her pack, content to sell or even wear the thing once she had mended the knife hole in the front.

That taken care of, she entered the structure, closing the door carefully behind herself.

Now, she thought, she was in a strange way. She certainly had not alerted anyone else at the death of the first woman, but certainly if there were other souls in this place, Narissa could probably count on their lesser or greater hostility, as it was evidently not their way to permit strangers in their halls. On the other hand, it was entirely probable that she was now alone in the building, for while it was maintained to some degree there were also portions plainly visible where the wild growth had taken hold. In either case, she now had an artifact to find. There were, in her mind, three possibilities: either it was in the heart of the main floor, the deepest basement, or the highest tower. People never put anything important in the third cupboard halfway up. No, they always had to be in some impressive place.

Narissa decided to look for the ‘heart’ of the structure first, and followed the broadest ways inward. Through the ivied walls, she came to what she thought she sought, a massive pair of wooden doors. Slowly, she pushed them a little inwards, and looked through.

Inside was the second to last thing she wanted to see. Around a massive goddess statue were perhaps two dozen of the horned elves, men and women both, milling about, chatting, or praying closer to the statue. She didn’t see the artifact she was looking for at the feet or in the hands of the horned goddess, and thus it was not the worst possible news, but the multitudinous inhabitation of the complex was certainly bad. Narissa closed the door carefully, quietly, hoping she had not broken the relative silence that the natives maintained.

Quickly, Narissa found a set of stairs, and started up them. They did not go all the way to the highest reaches, and so Narissa found herself blindly scurrying through the halls above, looking for more ways up. After some time she heard a horn blown. First one long blast, and then a series of three short blasts. Narissa did not know what that meant, but all the same she quickened her pace.

At last, she worked her way up to the high tower and, lo and behold, there was a dais wrapped in woody growth. Above it, in a field of green light, hovered the artifact Sorinne had described. Of course, Narissa could tell at once that the light was not just for show, and spied needle-like thorns on the growths. No doubt, they were poisonous, and the wrong move would lead them to embed themselves in her arm.

It was a good thing that Narissa never made a wrong move. She drew her sickle and sliced the air, mana following in the wake of her actions. After a second, the light dissipated – the trap had been dispelled. As Narissa admired her handiwork, a voice sounded behind her.

“You should be honored, intruder.”

Narissa whirled. In the doorway stood a massive male of the horned elves. He wore a sarong about his waist and nothing else, his neck and limbs thick and muscle-bound, his chest defined, his long, black hair hanging matted down to his shoulders, massive antlers on his brow reaching up in seemingly countless prongs.

“I am the greatest fighter of all our kind, so when I crush and snap your bones, you can die knowing you’ve been killed by the best.”

Narissa shifted her pose, stance wide and arms akimbo, and licked her lips

“I can think of better ways to wrestle with the likes of you.” Narissa said, “So how about we do that instead?”

But, twice in the same day, Narissa wouldn’t take the easy way out, for the great warrior charged. Too bad for him, Narissa thought, he was up against the greatest planeswalker in Dominia!

Narissa dodged to the side, but not quickly enough to avoid when he grasped her left arm with his. She whirled around, unable to break the grip but throwing the bulk of her body behind his. With her right arm, she swung with her sickle. She felt resistance, but then another hand grasped her wrist and squeezed so hard the shock obliged her to drop her weapon. Back to back with her foe, Narissa realized her position was very unsafe, as the horned champion began to draw his arms forward, stretching hers and bending them back. For tense seconds she could hear her body straining, and had no doubt that if this went on one arm or the other would surely be torn from its socket, and possibly from her body entirely.

Quickly, Narissa stood on the tips of her toes, then swung one foot up behind her. From the muffled grunt of pain and the sudden slack of his straining, Narissa’s kick had found her mark, and swiftly she planted another in the same place.

At that, there was a sudden change, for Narissa’s foe threw himself forward with great suddenness, and she was borne up off her feet and across his back, to be thrown through the air just past the tips of his horns. She hit the pedestal hard, somehow avoiding the thorns below the surface that had projected its magic and slid to the stone on the opposite side.

Every part of Narissa’s body ached. She could barely feel her arms, her back and legs bruised and fortunate to not be broken.

Then Narissa realized she had collided with the artifact, and it now sat on the floor just beside her. As well as she could, Narissa reached out and grasped it. She looked up, her other hand on her athame, as her rival rounded the pedestal, fury on his face, clearly ready to finish her off.

Sucker!

Narissa drew on the stored mana of the Athame, and vanished into the Blind Eternities with her prize.

Sorinne looked over the Antechamber. Dantalion squirmed slightly inside her as Narissa Enshar entered.

She had the fragment of the Annulus, the last fragment that Dantalion needed. With it, his plan was reaching its final stages. He could begin to restore the artifact, and then to use it.

That, Dantalion had told her, would be the day their association would be at an end. He still promised her freedom, even now, though Sorinne was not sure… not sure what she could really take.

What she was sure of was that they did not have ten thousand gold coins. Perhaps if they had pillaged the deepest vaults of the castle, but Dantalion seemed to have no interest in making payment.

“I got your bit of ring, cutie.” Narissa said, swaggering on her way in, “You’ve got my gold?”

Sorinne gritted her teeth, hoping her discomfort’s greater cause would be attributed to the lesser.

“In the vault. It is, as you might imagine, quite heavy.” Sorinne said. Dantalion prompted her. “We need to inspect the artifact.”

“Don’t trust me?”

“If you have nothing to hide,” Sorinne said, wanting to cry that she had so very much to hide herself, “You have nothing to fear.”

Narissa walked forward with the same swagger as before, and handed the Annulus fragment over. Quickly, Dantalion confirmed that it was, in fact, what he was looking for.

You have one chance., it told her.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have a lordship?” Sorinne said, pretending to continue to examine the Annulus.

“No offense,” Narissa said, “But even if you can see a girl like me in a dump like this, I can’t.”

Sorinne closed her eyes, hoping Dantalion could not read her intent. Her conversations with Mattias had indicated as much – her thoughts were at least a little bit free. Now for action.

“Run.” Sorinne said. Then came Dantalion’s punishment, searing pain across all her nerves.

“Hey,” Narissa said, “You okay, sweetie?”

“Run!” Sorinne shouted, managing to scream through the pain, “Run away!”

Narissa didn’t. She just stepped back a little slowly as Sorinne was brought to her knees. Dantalion began to channel his own magic, and it was too late. Claws of darkness grasped Narissa, and she was gone.

Don’t worry, Dantalion said, She isn’t dead… yet. But you, on the other hand…

Sorinne fell flat to the ground with a surge of agony far worse than anything she had ever before felt at Dantalion’s hand.

You will wish you suffered something as petty as death.

Sorinne screamed.

Ilyria had been called many things. Savior, hero, champion, goddess – she hadn’t appreciated the titles then, before the Great Change, the Mending that swept over Dominia, but if she had been pressed she would not have denied having earned at least some of them. She was a planeswalker, and as planeswalkers went she was ancient and powerful, having met few equals and fewer betters. She could number those, and not the demons she had crushed underfoot, tyrants overthrown, monsters slain.

There was some irony in the fact that Ilyria’s mentor, in the beginning, would have been disappointed to hear such accounts of power and skill turned to war.

All the same, war had been her life, fighting for what she felt to be life and justice throughout the multiverse. Precious few foes had gotten the better of her… until the day everything changed. It was a hundred years past, give or take, when her powers had begun to fly from her in the midst of a desperate struggle against a demonic overlord. And she had fought on, unwilling to let the people she had championed suffer and die without her. But she lost, been bound, been tortured… and when the Demon Lord learned who she was and all she had done, Ilyria had been cursed, and turned loose to suffer worse than rack or lash or flame could ever make her.

For about half the time since that day, Ilyria had fought it – her curse kept her alive against time and violence, and so she resolved to not let it own her. Reduced though she was, she could still be a champion, still deserve the accolades heaped on her by folk long dead. But always misfortune followed her, her enemies emboldened and made great by her very presence. Always where she walked, evil followed in her footsteps. This was the nature of her curse, and no matter how she grappled with it, how she strived to do good, no more than momentary victories were allowed to her.

And so, for much of the remainder of her life since the Mending, Ilyria had run. She walked from town to town, plane to plane. She walked across the frozen peaks of Aralheim though her boots were shredded to tatters and her feet bloody and black with frostbite. She had walked the streets of Ravnica, the sands of Rabiah, from Dominaria to Ikass, Siraus to Jakkard. Occasionally, she doubled back on herself and chanced to see what had become of the places she had passed years before. Most often they were fine, or only a little inconvenienced, by bad harvests or the like that might have been chance but for Ilyria’s cursed wake. Uncommonly, some greater ill had befallen the people or the land. Once or twice, there had been no evidence to tell what had destroyed them.

So while wandering mitigated the sorrow Ilyria spread, while she might even do good if she did it swiftly enough, she had at last passed into deep despair. By one way or another she halfheartedly sought to die, even knowing that a plunge into the volcano’s mouth, or stint in the belly of a ravenous beast would not end her days. The one way she knew that might, she had not dared even attempt to reach, for deep inside herself, Ilyria was still prey to hope, and could not bring herself to go to a certain end.

Finally, Ilyria found Azoria.

Once, ages ago, Azoria had been a plane of seas and islands, and though no folk lived upon it, it was not so unlike other worlds. The duels of planeswalkers had ruined it, its islands sunk one and all, and all the life upon it was slain. Now, Azoria was a world of nothing but water and waves, the sun upon them and the wind that blew over them. Ilyria had come to Azoria what had been, as she reckoned it, two years past. Since then, she had simply floated. Her presence could do no evil to Azoria, by the same token as it could do not good. There was nothing here to despoil or to ruin, nothing her curse could throw against her, no way to inflict further heartache.

Thus was Ilyria’s existence – she lay on her back, looking up at one endless expanse of blue from another. Her tattered clothes slowly bleached and crusted in the salt water. Her crimson hair fanned out about her head, rolling with the gentle swells. Her hands lay folded upon her breast, feeling the rise and fall of her breath, and the silence where her heartbeat should have been. The waves rolled beneath her, the sun and moon and clouds passed above her. Storms came and went, and nothing changed.

She felt the agonies of hunger, thirst, and exposure, and now and again she died of them, but her death would only be the blink of an eye before her body was restored by the damnable curse. At first, it had been nearly unbearable, and she had grappled mightily with her desire to planeswalk away, to go anywhere she might find a morsel of food, a drop of drink, a modicum of comfort. But in the end, pain had simply become Ilyria’s constant companion, so much so that she did not even really notice it anymore.

Azoria was a world that was empty, but it was also a world at utter, perfect peace. And, floating as the sole feature amidst the endless sound of waves, Ilyria was at peace as well.

It was only a day or two after Ilyria’s most recent death – thus, her body was roughly fit, only somewhat thirsty, a little famished, starting to be ravaged by the elements. Close to her best. It was then that the Peace of Azoria was broken by a sight in the skies above. Something dark was moving very fast from the horizon. Small, essentially a speck, but it cast a solid shadow, flew against the wind. There was nothing on Azoria that could do that, could be that speck.

Still, Ilyria did not move. To whatever flew above, she would be just a speck on the water. True, there was nothing that could be a speck on the water any more than there could be a speck in the sky, but if Ilyria was lucky she could escape notice. If she was fortunate, the speck would vanish, and Ilyria would be left, once again alone on the dead world amidst the endless sound of waves.

But Ilyria was accursed – luck would never be on her side. The speck seemed to slow as it came towards her, by way of the limitations of human sight, and then began to grow larger. At first, faintly, then with greater rapidity and a gain of dimensions. The speck became a person, flying towards Ilyria. When that form reached her, it hovered a moment. A sheet of ice formed next to Ilyria’s floating body, and metal feet alighted upon it. The woman of gears and wires knelt down, looked at Ilyria with those wet, beautiful, horrifying eyes, and spoke her name.

Ilyria did not respond at first.

“Ilyria?” the Iron Doctor repeated.

“I am here.” Ilyria said.

To this, the Iron Doctor mimed a sigh of relief.

“It’s a lucky thing I was able to discover you here.” She said, “I need your help.”

Of course, Ilyria thought, of course that is what she would say. That woman saint and sinner, ally and enemy, would be appealing for aid, for Ilyria to leave the peace of Azoria and walk abroad in the multiverse once more, spreading evil in her wake. She should remember the times she cursed the Iron Doctor’s name, the ancient, ageless sins, whatever had been done since.

“Ilyria… Ilyria, are you well?”

“No,” Ilyria said plainly, “I am not well, nor shall I be.”

“What’s wrong?”

Ilyria selected an accurate answer, best to horrify the interloper.

“I am dying.” She said.

“Then we need to get you to help!” the Iron doctor replied.

“There is no help for me.” Ilyria replied. “I am dying.”

The Iron doctor shook her head. “You mean the curse… the curse upon Planeswalkers? The one that took Bar-Sagrum and Vyntiria?”

Ilyria was silent.

“You’re still alive,” the Iron doctor said, “And I can’t do this alone. It’s the Annulus – there’s a planeswalker trying to put it back together. She already has at least one piece, probably.”

“You can handle a Planeswalker.” Ilyria said, “Leave me to my doom.”

“Not if it’s Dantalion.” The Iron Doctor replied.

Indeed, Dantalion was a clever monster. It had been more than the match of Ilyria or the Iron Doctor alone, though together, and with the Ogre and the Horned Elf beside them, they had handily won the day.

“You think it is?”

“The Planeswalker I fought… she acted very strangely. I didn’t know then, but now I remember that I’d seen it before. And what’s more, the Annulus? There were only five of us who ever knew about it, after what happened to Ythol. And I never breathed a word, and Bar-Sagrum gave his oath, and Vyntiria never would… unless you spoke or wrote on it, that leaves Dantalion, however it came to be free.”

Ilyria let the words sink in. She remembered the Ythol Annulus, the doom of that world, and the fate of its instigator, Dantalion. She remembered, then, how the Horned Elf had been a coward, and the Iron Doctor a fool. How the ogre had damned Dominia to suffer this when he had his way in their debate.

“Do you regret your decision now, then?”

“I don’t know.” The Iron Doctor replied. “I think Bar-Sagrum was an honorable man. The best of us.”

“And now Dominia shall burn for his goodness.” Ilyria replied, “But what does it matter to me? I am dying.”

The Iron Doctor closed her living eyes, and spoke with the calculated likeness of a cold fury.

“You are not the Ilyria who fought Dantalion with me.” She said, “Not the woman who helped the doomed in the End, who after Ciretasta-“

“Do not,” Ilyria said, awakened to wrath by that ancient name, “Do not ever speak of Ciretasta to me. You had your own part there.”

“You were never indolent.” The Iron Doctor declared, “That was the one thing true about you. What changed, Ilyria? Why are you now content to lay down and die when Dominia stands to suffer so?”

Ilyria closed her eyes. She could just refuse to answer, drift away on the waves of Azoria, and try to dream of something other than Ythol. But all the same, she couldn’t. It was a splinter in her mind, the breaking of the peace that had come over her. She must either be excused and absolved of the fate of the planes, or else go out into them and try once more to do some good before her curse made fouler happen.

Perhaps, Ilyria reflected, she would be allowed to provide salvation this once. The Annulus would slay demons and angels alike.

All the same, Ilyria decided she would try honesty.

“I am a woman cursed.” Ilyria replied, “And not just by the Mending that swept across the planes. Look at me, these vile tattoos. They are the mark of spells laid on me by demons. Where I go, evil follows, and no good will come of my intervention.”

“And that’s why you’re dying?”

“I have died so many times I cannot even count them. Many here, upon the waves, dying of thirst in an endless expanse of blue.” Ilyria sighed, “If only it would stick. But the curse will not allow it. At least here, on Azoria, no evil can come. Here, my curse can do no harm. Therefore, leave me here, and find others to battle Dantalion.”

The Iron Doctor hesitated, then spoke.

“There are no others I would trust.” She said, “And between Dantalion with the Annulus and the wrath of demons, I think I can better handle the demons.”

She seemed to think.

“And it is not as though things can get much worse for Ythol.”

“Then,” Ilyria said, “That is where we shall go.”

For the first time in over a year, Ilyria bent her knees, and straightened her arms. The ache of their stiffness was different than the constant pain of hunger and thirst. New. Truly painful. She shifted in the water, lifting her hands from her breast to hold them at her side as she plunged to her parched throat in the cool waves. Then, slowly, she rose above them, a soft, white glow forming beneath her bare feet, supporting her with a subtle warmth as she walked upon the light.

“You will need gear. Food, clothes, shoes…”

Ilyria shook her head. “I can’t really die, and these rags are modest yet. The sooner we solve this matter, the better it will go for everyone. Still, we may desire to bear better arms than we do now, if Dantalion is involved.”

Narissa Enshar awoke somewhere very dark. No, somewhere black. The last thing she remembered, as though it were just a moment before, was being in that crummy castle, listening to her employer scream like a desperate woman, scream for Narissa to run.

Those cries, she reflected, hadn’t sounded like a threat, but all the same Narissa felt a little better blaming Sorinne for this mess.

Well, that wasn’t much. All she had to do was Planeswalk away. Narissa focused, centered herself, and…

Nothing.

She tried again, faster, and another time, more insistent. It was as though she was not even a Planeswalker. Whatever this place was, she wasn’t getting out of it that way.

In the dark, Narissa took stock of her belongings. The clothes on her back, the pack over her shoulder. Of her blades, Narissa had lost her sickle, and her kris was drained of the mana it had held. As far as she was concerned, though, she’d dealt with worse. She could sense terrain around her, not just empty blackness.

For a while, Narissa trudged on in that, trying to avoid bumping into anything, but then she heard a distant sound, a hollow tink, another, and a slightly different clang. She recognized the cadence, someone with a walking stick, but the tone was… unfamiliar.

“Hello?” Narissa cried to the darkness.

A hollow, rasping voice replied to her.

“Well, well.” It said, “My senses deceived me not. There is a new inmate in the eternal prison.”

“Yeah,” she said, “Name’s Narissa. You?”

“I am the King.” He replied.

“King?” Narissa replied, “King of what?”

“Of Ythol.” The voice replied.

Now there was a laugh. But, perhaps Sorinne had stolen that ruined old castle more recently than it seemed to have been abandoned.

“King of rags and tatters, then. Have you seen what they did with the place?”

“I do not need to.” The king answered. “Tell me, what brings another down here in the darkness?”

“A lovely little lady who was short ten thousand gold coins, I think.”

“Ha!” gasped the King.

“And you, oh Tattered King?” Narissa asked mockingly.

For a moment, the King hesitated.

“Treason most foul.” He replied, “But perhaps we can help each other now that we have found one another.”

“Well,” said Narissa, “I’d love to help, and to get out of this place. Is that what you were suggesting?”

“Even so.” Said the Tattered King, “I know the way out, but I cannot surmount the exit myself. Swear to me that you will get me past that gate when we reach it, and I shall swear in turn to do what I may to gain you passage through it.”

“Okay.” Narissa replied with a shrug.

“Swear it.” Demanded the Tattered King.

Narissa rolled her eyes. “Fine. I swear I’ll get you out of here if you do the same for me, happy?”

“Then, I swear as well that I shall lead you to the gate and bring you beyond it to living Ythol, with such powers as I have.”

There was a moment of silence.

“First, we will need a little light.”

There was a spark in the darkness, and then, a candle flame began to burn. The tallow was affixed to a human skull, that hung from a crooked staff by a small chain. Holding the staff was what must have been the Tattered King.

He was a small creature, bent over himself, shrouded mostly in a rotted purple robe, a crown glittering faintly with gold and gems through its tarnish upon his brow. Beyond his trappings, Narissa could plainly see that he was, quite certainly, no longer among the living. The King was a skeleton, and deformed in such a way that he could not have been while alive. His very bones, particularly his skull, looked as though they had been made of wax and heated, running downward, the long shapes left looking more like the skull of a muzzled beast, pointed to the ground, than the skull of a human.

But human no doubt he had been. Narissa knew too much of bones to fail to see that this had once been a man of great stature, of proud bearing before death had bent him over, laid him low.

Beyond him, Narissa noticed the composition of the cavern they were in. The stalagmites, the walls of the tunnel where she could see them, and here and there sections of the stony floor were all composed of bodies. Men, elves, merfolk, aven, and other races. All pale, immaculate save where they seemed to run together here and there. If Narissa didn’t know better, she would suspect the petrified bodies were carvings, but no sculptor could have managed so many.

“Does my shape frighten you?” The Tattered King asked, “Regret your oath if you will, but you will keep it.”

“Nah,” Narissa said, “You don’t scare me. In fact, I was thinking you must have been a real looker when you were alive.”

This seemed to amuse the King, or at least Narissa thought she saw some hint of it in the faint shift of his stance.

“Very well,” he said, “Follow me. I know these paths in the light or the dark.”

The Tattered King began to lead the way, down one of the twisting paths of bodies, the faint light of his candle illuminating more faces warped in horrors, limbs twisted into a mosaic of silent, inanimate agonies.

After a moment, Narissa decided she’d prefer the sound of her own voice to the silence and constant clink-clink-clink of the Tattered King’s bony tread, and so spoke up.

“So,” she asked, “What is this hellhole anyway?”

“It is the netherworld of Ythol.” The king replied, “Where those that have died rest eternally and become one with the world.”

Some of the faces didn’t look very restful. But then, they were also as silent and still as stone.

“Yeah,” Narissa said, “But there’s been some kind of mix-up, because I’m not dead.”

“I know that well,” replied the Tattered King, “I was myself among the living when I was banished down here. Sadly, that did not remain the case long enough for me to find the path out.”

“Is that why you can move around, unlike these jokers?” Narissa asked, gesturing to the wall.

“As far as I can tell,” the Tattered King said, “yes. I was the only creature to move in the darkness until you came along. A most fortuitous meeting was ours, indeed.”

Fortuitous, at least, for the King. Narissa was not sure that she could say the same. She would rather not have been in the netherworld at all. Being there, of course, the King having found her was better than not…

“So,” Narissa ventured, “What’s a guy like you do with his time down here.”

“Search through the darkness for one such as yourself.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be.” Said the Tattered King, “The fact that you have a pulse is all that matters for the plan.”

Narissa put her hands on her hips and huffed.

“Is that so?”

The Tattered King gave a macabre chuckle, and Narissa thought that he was in remarkably good humor for being dead and trapped in a lightless netherworld where stone and corpses were as one.

“In vanity,” he said, “You might surpass all the ladies of my court, which would truly be an accomplishment.”

“Well,” Narissa said, “I’m the greatest Planeswalker in the multiverse, so I’m due a little.”

“Is that so?” Asked the King, but he turned away before the reply, intent upon the twists and turns of the passages ahead.

“Yeah,” Narissa said, “it is. Don’t believe me? Just wait until we’re out of here, and I’ll show you.”

Narissa didn’t know how much later it really was of her filling the eternal silence of the land of the dead with the sound of her voice, punctuated only occasionally by some comment of the Tattered King. Now and then, Narissa asked questions of her guide, not exactly caring for the answers but willing to let them, if they were verbose, give her dry throat a chance to heal a bit. Usually, they were very curt, until Narissa asked of the past of the Tattered King. She thought it a trifling matter, as much as his wives (of which he had apparently had thirty-three. Greedy bastard.) or the entertainments of his old court. But on where he was from, the Tattered King apparently had much to say.

“I was always to be the last.” He declared, “Ages before me, there was a great seer – a Planeswalker I suspect, and he predicted the comings and goings of Kings and Queens of Ythol, though very briefly to each. But by my time, all the predictions had been true, if you squinted at the right way, and so when the prophecies declared that I was the Last King, the Tattered King even as you named me, and after me only the darkness would rule Ythol, many were quite afraid. And since they held to superstitions it was not in my best interests to disavow them of, they would not seek to prove the prophecy wrong.”

“No,” he continued, “If there should be no rule after mine, they said, why let the rule of the Last King end? And so the sorcerers among them schemed, and concocted, and cast, and brewed. And I lived, Narissa. Ah! How I lived in those days, that their number seemed truly endless. Years became decades, became centuries. Millennia? Perhaps. I cannot remember the count any longer. I was the Last King, but I would reign forever. No succession would be necessary.”

For a moment, there was silence.

“Ironic,” the Tattered King said at length, “that the very spellcraft meant to forestall the kingship of darkness likely prompted it in the end.”

And Narissa thought no more of this, but told her own story of her origin, lying so far as she knew when she said that there was the blood of kings in her own veins. And to this, the tattered king made no reply.

As Narissa figured it, the time would be well into the night, for she had slept just before returning to Sorinne and was now quite tired, when they reached a new place. Here, the dead that comprised the cave faded away into grey stone, and the tunnel, which was close around, opened outward massively, and Narissa perceived light other than the light of the feeble candle that never seemed to burn lower despite the dripping of its wax down its sides.

Then she saw that this place was open to the sky, and seemingly in all ways, for when she looked up she could see that they had come out of the cave, though when she inclined her head just a little otherwise it seemed they were still within, though the great roof arched up tremendously and following its lines would lead inevitably to the clouds.

In the hollow, or perhaps chamber that was ahead, there was a solitary figure – an angel in full battle-dress. Her white hair, from beneath her helmet cascaded down over her shoulders, and her bright silver armor – helm, breastplate no doubt with open back, skirt, shin-guards, gauntlets, and the like – seemed very much at odds with the shape of Ythol. Had Narissa really cared to look, she might have seen the sorrow in the figure’s hard eyes, though even Narissa could divine, what with the state of the place, that this was probably the only angel in all Ythol.

“So,” the angel said, leveling her sword at the two travelers, “The living have come to be within the land of the dead. And you, O king, return? I did warn you what would befall you if you did.

“Bah,” said the Tattered King, “Cease your prattling, bird. I shall leave this wretched place. Narissa, remember your oaths.”

There was a dire weight to those last words, and Narissa carried them as though they were lead. There was a tug within her, and she faintly wondered if it was magic, that seemed to enforce her obedience to what she had sworn. But it was subtle as well, and soon the thought of spellcraft fled from her mind, though not the urge to do as she had said she would.

Narissa stepped forward, towards the angel.

“You may pass.” The angel said, “The living have no place in the lands of the dead, and should not even be able to come here and disturb their rest. Go, and by whatever road you came, never return until your due time.”

“Sorry,” Narissa said, “But the King’s coming with me.”

“It will not be allowed.” The angel replied, “Pass from this place with your life now, or I shall deprive you of it.”

Narissa considered herself a woman of her word, but even at the best of times she did not value it above her head. And yet, even then, she felt compelled to honor. It galled her on the deepest levels, somewhere beneath her sensation, and she could not disobey.

But, she could be sneaky about it.

“Fine.” She growled, “Fine.” And sauntered forward. She shrugged, and walked without purpose, and did not spare a glance for the angel or the Tattered King. Her hands waved about, and then as she came next to the angel, she drew her gladius and whirled, attempting to slash at the creature and dispatch her with a single stroke.

Narissa was not so lucky, for the Angel was very fast, and deftly parried the sneak attack before disengaging to a distance where she could use her better reach.

“You choose poorly.” The Angel said, “Now you can never go.”

Like hell, Narissa thought. She was the best there had ever been, and one lousy angel was not even going to be a challenge. First, she’d deal with those wings.

Narissa then tried to conjure green magic, the roots and vines to her aid that might snare a bird and bind it to the earth. But, no magic came. The more Narissa reached, the more she realized, slow though it was as she was giving much of her focus to melee, that the only green mana here was that she brought with her, and that would not be enough to avail her.

But the angel seemed content to fight on foot, pressing the attack with her hand-and-a-half blade of glimmering silver rather than taking to the skies to harass Narissa from above, and black mana seemed to be very plentiful indeed.

Narissa parried a swift cut and leapt back, gaining enough time to draw her kris before the angel was on her again. Now armed with both blades, and ready to use magic, Narissa felt more confident still, and began to move to the offense.

Deftly, she stepped within the angel’s reach, and made blows for her core. All Narissa needed to do, she reminded herself, was draw blood. After that, her magic could do the rest, and drain every last drop of life out of her foe.

But for Narissa, recklessness came as easily as confidence, and as she pressed her attack, the Angel struck her about the head with the pommel of her sword, and Narissa stumbled back, dazed. Barely, she raised her arm to block a mighty overhand strike, and for that hapless defense, the angel’s blade cut into her flesh, and Narissa’s left hand, holding her kris, was cloven from her arm, her forearm split in twain.

Narissa was no stranger to injury in combat, though this was probably the most severe she had sustained, and so she did not lose consciousness. She thought, halfheartedly parrying a following cut by the angel, that her magic, the power of regeneration that she had used by combining the elements open to her, could even fix what the blow had set wrong. But there was no green magic here, and she was losing blood very quickly.

And her kris was with her hand, vanished beneath the Angel’s feet as Narissa gave ground rapidly in an attempt to avoid her demise.

She was the best! She would not be beaten by-

Her parry was too weak, and the angel ran her through the gut. Narissa slid off the point of the sword and fell to the ground. How long did she have left? From her injuries, not as long as she might hope. But they were not the most pressing threat to Narissa’s life.

“You will feel no pain.” The angel said, leveling her sword at Narissa’s head, preparing to strike it off as an executioner. “There will be no punishment for your transgressions, as there is no reward for your triumphs. You will sleep for eternity, as peacefully as the stones sleep.”

She touched the blade to Narissa’s neck, then hefted it back.

“I commit you to-“

Then, with a faint grunt to a wet thud, the angel froze. She bowed over, and the wet thud struck again, accompanied by another bitter gasp. The Angel fell to the ground before Narissa, and Narissa saw the Tattered king, wielding her kris in a bony hand, stabbing the angel in the back a third, brutal time, crimson blood flying wasted from the blade as he drew it back and plunged it down again with brutal, sharp motions.

The angel, though mortally wounded, beat her wings uselessly, managing only to turn herself over, onto her back, and look up at the twisted visage of the Tattered King.

“I-impossible.” The angel stammered, “The dead cannot-“

The Tattered King pounced upon her, the bony claw of his free hand wrapping about her throat.

“I may not be among the living,” he said, “but neither am I exactly dead. And in any case, Ythol will still obey the will of its king!”

Narissa’s mind reached her. If she could wield the knife, wield her blood magic, she could restore her body, at least somewhat. She could live. With her good arm, she reached out feebly, and she muttered “King.”

The Tattered King did not hear her. He slammed the kris into the angel’s shoulder, through the leather strap of her breastplate. He peeled the armor away, and then, forcing the angel’s head back and digging the tips of his fingers into her face, he took up the knife again.

“King, please, I need…”

Again, Narissa was not heeded, and the Tattered King struck again with the kris, plunging it into the angel’s chest. Narissa heard ribs crack, and the King worked the blade with brutality if not skill, until he was satisfied, and cast it aside.

“All of Ythol is mine.” The Tattered King said. “The rivers, the stones, the sky… The living, and the dead. Even its angels must do me obeisance!”

At this, he plunged his hand into the gaping wound, and there came a very terrible sound, a ragged scream unlike any Narissa had heard, as the Tattered King ripped the angel’s heart from her breast.

The Tattered king lifted the beating organ to his face and spoke to it as his pale bones were stained red

“Perhaps I will allow you to learn that one day.” He said. Then, he turned to Narissa.

“King,” she begged, “The heart… I need…”

“I have one more duty to you.” The Tattered King said. He paced to her, then past her, and grasped her by her collar as he did, thereafter beginning to drag Narissa along the ground.

“Do refrain from dying until we are fully in Ythol proper once more.”

For what seemed like an eternity, though it could not have been long given Narissa’s condition, the Tattered King dragged her along the ground. They came out of the strange hollow, into the sulfur air of Ythol. Her pack snagged on a jagged rock and tore away, and then against another stone the King stood her up.

“Please,” she managed again, her speech very labored, “The angel’s heart, I can heal…”

“If you want to live,” the Tattered King replied, “Look not to me. You are outside that cursed netherworld, and thus my oath to you is discharged whether you would go directly back or no.”

“But.”

The Tattered King began to shuffle away.

“Go somewhere they can mend you.” He growled, “Or die if that is all you can do. I am done with you.”

And Narissa Enshar said nothing more, but only tried to focus her mind on the blind eternities, and the distant glimmer of hope that she might land in a healer’s arms.

And the Tattered King, the Last King of Ythol, walked that blighted world once more.

Mattias lifted the cup of water up to Sorinne’s lips and, slowly, she drank. They had been silent since the active presence of Dantalion had left them, or at least since Sorinne’s sobbing, labored as it was, had fallen to quiet. Mattias did not, however, dare to think that Dantalion wasn’t listening.

Weakly, Sorinne helped him with the cup, and breathed heavily when they brought it down. As Mattias held her, she seemed so small and fragile, and it was hard to believe the terror she had once begat, now that he had a true vision of Dantalion behind her. Mattias no longer blamed her, even in the least, for what she had done on Kalishin. Threatened with such torments, he would have done no different.

Mattias began to lift the cup again a moment after Sorinne’s breathing leveled out, but she moved her hand along his, pushing the cup away.

“Why?” she asked, her voice hoarse and strained.

“Sorinne?”

“Why did you step in?” she asked, “I’ve never done you a good turn.”

Mattias thought about it.

“I don’t know.” He said at length, “But I’d do it again, if I had to.”

Sorinne shifted a little, and turned her head away.

“I mean,” Mattias continued, “I’m not much of a philosopher. Gears and springs and powerstones, they make sense. Magic sort of made sense. Words and morals? I never worried about being a good person or bad. The meanings could change right under you, never quite made sense. They weren’t solid. I’d do the logical thing, and treat most people fairly, and assume that was ‘good’ enough.”

He shook his head.

“Ever since I found Metal, my life’s been upside down. First I meet a construct who’s smarter than me, then I learn magic, and then you show up. Now I can go to worlds I didn’t even dream existed, I have to fight for my life… it’s all over my head, but… what happened? That’s not. I understand that, and that I did the right thing. Not the logical thing, the right thing for once. And so I’d do it again, and probably with less hesitation.”

“Wish I had your conviction.” Sorinne muttered.

Mattias tried to force a smile but found he couldn’t, not with what he had seen, and Sorinne had suffered. Instead, he simply waited in silence. Sorinne, at length, lifted herself up.

“I’ll… be ok.” She muttered.

“Are you sure?” Mattias asked.

Sorinne nodded, and after a moment’s labor, stood, and stepped away.

“Don’t worry about me.” She said, “I’m not worth the effort.”

And then she walked from the room, leaving Mattias to wonder how much of what was said was Sorinne, and how much was Dantalion.

Mattias sat in his chamber, ill at ease with worry for Sorinne and frustration at his own indolence. In the time he had been in the castle, how much had he really done, for anything? How had this helped Metal? How had it even helped Sorinne?

Since her torture, she had been very furtive, vanishing from Mattias’ least glance. And he, to his shame, had let her go, out of an attempt to respect the wishes he reflected he did not know were hers, or fear that Dantalion would choose to hurt her if he misbehaved.

And in that time, short though it was compared to his whole stay, Mattias thought on Sorinne’s last words to him, of the sorrow in her eyes and her intonation when she spoke them.

Not worth the effort.

What made a person say that? Could she really believe it? Even Metal, who had been a broken machine, in the end wanted to be helped, wanted all the effort she could have to restore herself to health. But Sorinne?

She said she wasn’t worth the effort.

Or, perhaps, that was what Dantalion had wanted her to say. Dantalion, a monster that Mattias now loathed and heaped with all the evils he had seen or imagined. It was Dantalion that wanted Metal destroyed, Dantalion that had tried to kill Mattias. Murderer, torturer, slaver – was there a crime this creature hesitated to commit?

He thought again on Sorinne, and those words of hers, and Mattias decided that they were wrong. He remembered their time in the castle, the furtive secrets she had passed to him beneath the stories of her life. So many hours had they talked, and Mattias for his part smiled and laughed though Sorinne never herself had the humor. They had broken bread, and shared histories, and Mattias knew she didn’t deserve the suffering inflicted on her.

By the gods, then, justice alone was worth the effort.

Slowly, Mattias stirred himself from his near torpor of thought, and set out into the castle. Spells sung in his head – counters, dismissals, even mental attacks – ways he could strike at Dantalion if he had to, and keep himself and Sorinne alive. Ways he could end this nightmare.

Mattias searched high and low through the castle, and the force of his purpose did not diminish. At last, he came to a place deep below, following the track of many sets of footprints in the aged soot, leading the way to which doors had been used, and which he had only traveled in his early searches, faint imprints of his boots leading to them.

And then, at once, he saw a new trail, one fresher than his own steps, leading to one of those disused doors. Following it, he came upon the iron portal that he had recalled faintly having been locked when first he walked there, and, finding it now open, passed through.

Inside was the remnants of an ancient torture chamber, the wood of the machinery largely rotted and collapsed, such that it might have long been in disuse even before the choking soot had reached into this depth of the castle. Here, then, was a rack splintered across the middle, and the ends bowed and sagging. And here, rusted and blackened, stood an iron maiden, and there were chains set into the wall, and across from them pegs for whips and scourges of various descriptions to be hung, of which only faint piles of debris beneath the hooks suggested they had been, and rotted away.

And, in the far corner, there was the object of his search: in a crow’s cage of black iron, suspended a foot or so off the floor, crouched Sorinne.

She was naked above the waist, though modest for how she drew her arms across her breasts and her knees up to them, her blouse and bodice carefully folded and resting daintily upon a rack of pokers with many different sorts of barbs at their lower ends, a large key of black iron atop the clothes. Her pathetic figure, so hunched over herself, dirty, despairing, and afraid was no doubt the most wretched sight that Mattias had ever laid eyes upon, though in him it elicited not disgust, but rather the same well of sympathy as had her agonies, and made his gorge rise to even begin to guess at why he found her so.

Mattias opened his mouth to speak, but Sorinne was the quicker. Looking up at him with wide eyes, she swiftly hissed “Quiet!” and though her voice was low and breathy as the wind it had such a great urgency and insistence, that Mattias was obliged at once to shut his mouth and make no sound.

“Quiet,” she repeated, less urgently than before, “Or Dantalion could hear, and then he would kill you.”

Mattias approached close, and placed a hand against the bars of Sorinne’s cage.

“You mean he can’t hear us now?” he whispered.

“He’s gone farther into the depths.” Sorinne replied, “to work on restoring the Annulus. And for that, he’s left me, so I can’t know any more than he has to tell me about it.”

Mattias frowned.

“I don’t understand. Before-“

He meant to reference Dantalion’s power of hearing Sorinne and what happened about her, on seemingly any plane he would, but she caught Mattias’ drift, and the lack of his comprehension, and began to explain her sorry fate.

“He was with me then.” Sorinne said, “Always, inside… look!”

And at this, keeping one arm across her chest and blushing somewhat at the effort despite the dire nature of her circumstances, she drew herself upright, and her legs away from her body, and Mattias was able to see the straight, white scar that ran from just above her belly-button to just beneath her ribcage.

“Dantalion is a parasite.” Sorinne said, “a monster that can hide in a person’s body, and… control them, like he controlled me, with the threat of unbearable pain. That’s where he comes and goes, sealing the wound behind. I don’t know the full extent of his powers, or if he’s the only one of his kind, but that was why he could always hear what I said, and always punish me if I began to say the wrong thing – he was there, the whole time, there inside me.”

Mattias’s face grew pale, his jaw slack. Though he knew Sorinne spoke the truth, the monstrosity of it was beyond anything he had guessed even in his darkest fancies.

“Then let’s not waste any time while he’s out.” Mattias said, “I’m getting that cage open and we’re leaving.”

“No-“ Sorinne began to say.

“I won’t hear it.” Mattias answered, “You ARE worth the effort, all of it. I can’t just leave you.”

“Yes you can. You have to.”

“I don’t. That’s the key on your clothes, isn’t it? Even if it’s not, I could get this lock open in my sleep.”

“Please, Mattias,” Sorinne said urgently, “Please, there are more important things at stake than me.”

And the way she said that, the utter conviction, gave Mattias pause.

“The Ythol Annulus.” Sorinne said, “It’s what Dantalion was searching for, and now he has all its parts. Soon, it will be whole, and then it will feed.”

“Feed?”

Sorinne nodded. “I’ve gathered that Ythol used to be a normal place. Even beautiful. People lived here, the same as on Kalishin or any other human world. But then they made the Annulus, or Dantalion made it, or he deceived them into making it. And it drew the mana from this world. Every drop that was blue, or white, or green. All the magic of life, and light, order, thought, water and wood. Every bit of it that was or would ever be was drawn into the Annulus.”

Mattias listened intently as she spoke. There were five sorts of magic, that much he knew – one color, as the sages called them, for each of the five Great Metals of artifice: White for gold, Blue for silver, Black for lead, Red for iron, and Green for copper. So what of the other two?

“Dantalion was stopped short.” Sorinne said, “The Annulus was broken before it could drain the red or black mana from Ythol. But it couldn’t be destroyed, not entirely. The part of the ring that had the world’s mana was invincible, and the sections meant to hold the other two colors could only be separated from the greater part and each other.”

And Mattias remembered the ‘Savior Stone’, that looked to be part of a great disc, and he grew very cold indeed.

“He has to be stopped again.” Sorinne said. “With all the mana of a plane, he hopes he could make himself some sort of god. And if that isn’t enough, he’ll use the Annulus to consume another plane, and another after that. He won’t ever stop, no matter what he promises.”

“Then we fight.” Mattias said, “You and I, together. We can beat him. We have to.”

“No,” Sorinne said, “You have to run. The last time, four planeswalkers stood against Dantalion, and together they just managed to best him. The machine woman you call Metal – she was one of them, the only one still alive as far as Dantalion could tell. You have to find her, and tell her what’s happening. Dantalion is afraid of her. She’ll know what to do.”

Mattias looked on Sorinne with great sorrow. “Why can’t you come too?” Mattias asked, “Why should I leave you here, to Dantalion’s whim?”

“Dantalion wants you gone.” Sorinne said, “He doesn’t dare say so, in case you could guess what he is or what he wants, but he forbade me from seeing any more of you in the hope you’d leave. If you do, he’ll be pleased with himself, and I’ll be safe for a time. If we both go, he’ll know what happened, and could change his plans, or prepare a trap, and then we’d be lost.”

And a silence fell over the chamber, and Mattias understood.

Sorinne looked down as she curled upon herself once more.

“She lost a hand the last time she was here. Even if she has a new one now, the old can still point the way to her through the planes. It’s how Dantalion and I found her before. Go to my room in the little tower, find it, and use it.”

Mattias nodded grave assent, and then a thought struck him, and he spoke.

“I’m coming back.” He said, firm and resolute. “Whatever happens, I’m coming back for you.”

Tears formed in Sorinne’s eyes, and she looked straight into his, and amidst the terror and sorrow, Mattias saw the faintest glimmer of hope.

“I promise.” He said, and turned and went from the gruesome chamber.

Kala was looking over the assembled weapons from the cache. Ilyria had been very wise, but also somewhat frightening to have maintained this, and she indicated others like it – secret stockpiles of artifacts in case the need should arise for their use, and all functional, save one, which Kala checked over a dozen times, ensuring the old device had truly been rendered an inert shell. No matter what happened, it would not come to that.

The cache had been laid in a mountain, and warded carefully with spells, but though it was distant from all civilization now there was a town on its doorstep, and that was where Ilyria had gone. She needed food and drink to maintain her strength, even as she had recovered it, and for fetching the same not only was she the one needful of such victuals but despite her flaming hair, tawny skin, and golden eyes she was by a fair margin the less striking of the two, and thus Kala had been obliged to wait in the fastness with the devices of war for Ilyria to return.

As she sat, prodding at that ancient, dead, and doom-attended thing, Kala felt a ripple in the Æther pass over her. She had, since regaining those memories that had been hers, become more sensitive to the subtle influence and character of the Blind Eternities, and thus she knew when a Planeswalker arrived near unto the mouth of the cave, which was shrouded from sight.

A moment passed, and Ilyria did not enter the cave, nor any other soul, and it occurred to Kala that this planeswalker might be a stranger, or even their foe, as Sorinne had found Kala before despite her hundred years in the darkness. But, then a voice resounded from the outside, and all doubt in Kala’s mind was dispelled.

“Metal!” The voice called, and Kala recognized it instantly. Mattias – kindly Mattias of Kalishin, who had asked nothing in return for being Kala’s savior, no doubt at great cost to himself in the time and materials. Mattias, who had brought her out of darkness, of whom her now dearest memories regarded with great fondness.

Kala ran to the entrance and stuck her head out, breaking the plane of the illusion.

“Here!” she called, “Here, it’s a fake wall!”

And Mattias turned, and hurried over to her, and when he came up to her Kala forgot herself a moment and embraced her.

“Ach!” he coughed, “Easy! It’s good to see you too!”

“Oh,” Kala said, releasing him and stepping back a bit, “I’m sorry.”

How hard she was, and cold, and strong. Very little did she feel from her display, and a sadness passed into her at the thought, though ill-defined it was.

“It’s okay.” Mattias said, his hands still clasped around hers, “I really am glad to see you, for so many reasons.”

And at that, the mirth was truly spoiled, for at his own mention Mattias’ face grew sour, and Kala did not need to ask that there was some reason he had need to find here.

“What is it?” she asked.

“First,” he said with a deep sigh, “I’m sorry it took so long.”

“Not that long.” Kala replied.

“Metal…”

Kala tried to smile. How hard she tried. Her face obeyed, but her eyes? She couldn’t tell. “It’s Kala.” She said.

“You found out?” Mattias asked, some cheer in his voice but the shadow yet laying over it, “Your name, your past…”

Kala nodded. “Good things and bad.” She said “I’ll tell you all about it, whenever you want to listen.”

“I’d love to,” Mattias said, “But… there’s something very important. How much do you remember about Ythol, the Annulus, and Dantalion?”

Kala looked away.

“Too much.” She said, “I’d rather hoped you wouldn’t have to learn it.”

And indeed, she had. Kala had not sought out Mattias, intending instead to find him when the danger was done, so that no world would hang heavy over his heart. But all the same he had found it, was part of it now, and Kala cursed herself for her relief at the thought of the two of them going into battle together.

“Yeah,” Mattias said, “Well apparently Dantalion is back. He’s got all the parts of the Annulus and is going to use it real soon.”

“Where is he?” Kala asked, “How did you find this all out?”

“He’s on Ythol. Sorinne – that woman who barged in on Kalishin – she’s… she’s his prisoner. She sent me to find you, said Dantalion was scared of you.”

“Well has he reason to be afraid.” Ilyria said, entering through the false wall.

Mattias raised an eyebrow at Ilyria.

“And you are?” he asked.

“I am Ilyria.” She said, “and never has Dantalion had a greater foe than I. Your tidings, therefore, are unnecessary, and I would bid you farewell.”

“Not so fast.” Mattias said, “If you’re headed back to Ythol, you haven’t seen the last of me.”

Ilyria shook her head. “Ythol is no place for a child such as yourself.”

“I just came from there!” Mattias barked, “Where do you get off, calling me a ‘child’ anyway, miss high-and-mighty planeswalker?”

Ilyria frowned, and fixed Mattias with a steady gaze.

“Kala mentioned you. So, know that I was old before your civilization was wrought. When the empire whose garbage you sift through for your living was not even dreamed of, I walked the planes with the power of the gods in my breast. I have forgotten more secrets of magic than you will ever possibly learn, and lost nothing of value for that. You are a child before me, and will still be an ignorant child on your deathbed.”

“Whatever.” Mattias sighed, “So you’re old, you could handle this on your own. I don’t care. I’m going back to Ythol and I’d like to see you stop me.”

Kala looked to Ilyria, wanting to plead with her to not be harsh with Mattias. But Ilyria simply closed her eyes and sighed.

“Go.” She said, “Don’t go. Follow or don’t follow. Your fate will be in your own hands.”

“I’m going. I promised Sorinne-“

“Dantalion’s slave.” Ilyria said coldly, “Forget that one, child. Her life is forfeit.”

“What?!” Mattias demanded, “You can’t just-!”

“Mattias.” Kala said swiftly, intervening, “What she means is that Sorinne is in a terrible lot of danger, for which there’s not very much we can do. Dantalion could kill her at a whim, or force her to act as a shield of flesh for him, and either way we wouldn’t be able to help her.”

“Don’t be so soft.” Ilyria said, “The path to Dantalion is through her heart, and we are taking it.”

Kala began to protest, but Mattias answered first.

“There has to be another way!” he shouted, “I won’t let you kill her just because it’s a little more convenient!”

Ilyria frowned in her practiced way, showing displeasure and disdain in one subtle motion.

“The fate of worlds hangs in the balance.” She said, “And you would jeopardize it for what? The life of a single woman, one who you could not have known for more than a fortnight? Spare me this senseless gallantry or get out of my sight.”

“I stand with Mattias.” Kala said. “I know there are other ways to face Dantalion. I know you have wards that could force the monster from someone’s body, and no good reason to not use them.”

“Dantalion could escape.” Ilyria said, “And this woman would still likely die without more aid yet.”

“Aid you could give!” Kala shouted, “I… I don’t know as much white magic as you, but even I could try, and if you’re not willing to do that much then you can go back to Azoria and choke on its salt water while Mattias and I go on to Ythol.”

“You’ve become even more foolish and petulant since the Mending.” Ilyria said, turning her disdain to Kala. “You think you can defeat Dantalion alone? Have you not seen the foolishness of the ogre’s ways in this failure?”

“I think I understand Bar-Sagrum better than ever now.” Kala said, “We can’t become monsters just because that’s what we fight.”

“You cling to a humanity you forsook ages ago.” Ilyria said. The declaration stung, and if Kala were flesh, she knew she would have cried at least a little at such a provocation… and that only made things worse. She couldn’t even cry right, when the occasion called for it. But her cold body had an advantage yet. Her face did not contort, she didn’t show how the barb had caught her. She just locked her gaze with Ilyria’s golden eyes and tried to pretend she was resolute in her course.

“But it matters not to me.” Ilyria said looking down and away, “There is nothing for me to lose, so I will support your foolishness if that is what you demand.”

“All right.” Kala said, “Should we be off?”

“Those of us whom food might benefit should sup,” Ilyria said, tossing to earth a small bundle of victuals, hard bread and salt meat, “and I will see if any of the weapons will avail this new plan. Then we make for Ythol.”

Kala waited, tense. Ilyria had left the room, and in the dark waiting, Mattias had asked what she’d learned about herself. She told him the truth, the secret of her origin that haunted her so. And Mattias did not seem to know what to say. But surely, Kala thought, she could guess what was on his mind.

“I understand,” she said, “If you hate me for what I am.”

“What?” Mattias asked, shocked, “Why would I?”

At this, Kala found herself confused.

“Kala…”

There was a look of worry in his eyes.

“It’s…” Kala tried to form the concept herself. She was at worst uncomfortable with her nature now, though it did smart at times as at other, more numerous times it had such advantage. “On so many planes, it would be the ultimate taboo.”

“It’s not about what you’ve done.” Mattias said, “It’s about what you are – a real person with a real soul in there.” He smiled. “It’s actually a bit of a relief.”

“How do you mean?” Kala asked.

“Well,” he said, “I was kind of worried that my emotions were more fake than yours. There’s no shame in that when it’s the genuine article on both sides.”

“That’s…”

Mattias held up his hands. “A joke! Well, mostly a joke, sorry.”

He shook his head. “It’s… I think you’re a good person. Really, I do. And if I needed any proof, I’d have it today, with you standing up for Sorinne despite how you’ve had to see her. That takes courage, and principle, and other things I’m usually short on myself, made of meat or no.”

Mattias took a deep breath. “If someone wants to hate you for what you’re made of, just ignore them. They aren’t worth the trouble.” He took her hand. “It’s not this –“ he rapped lightly on her wrist, faintly sounding her casing, “That matters, it’s what’s inside.”

Mattias let go of Kala’s hand, and raised his own to his brow.

“Wow, that sounded a lot less stupid in my head.”

Kala smiled. “No, I understand. And I think it sounded just fine out loud. I just wish you would have more company in such thoughts.”

“You never know.” Mattias said, “You were in the dark a while. Times change.”

Kala thought on the nature mage, how relief, curiosity, and sympathy had attended her rather than horror on discovering Kala’s nature.

“Perhaps you’re right. The Multiverse I remember, the one the former me lived in, is gone. Maybe something better took its place.”

At that, Ilyria entered.

“If that is so,” she said, “Then we should hasten to its protection, should we not?”

Kala stood and nodded to her old associate, ancient enemy.

“Of course,” she said, “Are you ready, Mattias?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” He replied.

“Then,” Ilyra declared, “Let us depart for Ythol.”

Kala took Mattias’ hand, and reached for Ilyria. But Ilyria ignored her gesture, and turned away from them both.

“Follow my Æther trail closely.” She said, “We don’t want to become separated on reaching Ythol. I will try to bring us in close to the old castle. Should there be mercy in the multiverse for any of us, Dantalion will still be there.”

And with that, she was off, and Kala and Mattias behind.

Mattias recognized Ythol immediately, but at the same time, the world was changing. It was darker than he had remembered, and the air had an unpleasant chill in it. It no longer felt like the sky was radiating volcanic heat, and the flakes of ash and cinder that fell from it were cold, giving the impression of a winter day with light snow.

“This is… different.” Mattias said, “I wasn’t gone that long…”

Beside him, Kala put a hand on his shoulder.

“It will be alright.” She said.

Mattias looked into her eyes, and forced himself to give half a smile.

“Not if we do not hurry.” Ilyria declared. Mattias looked over to the woman. She was striking, beautiful, and harder on the inside than Kala was on the outside, or so Mattias thought. Certainly, he bore her no kindly thoughts after she had made a judgmental ass of herself time and time again in the hours they had known one another. Her crimson hair, long and loose, fluttered back from her like a banner as she stared into the icy wind that blew down from the castle, golden eyes flashing in the darkness.

“Dantalion is draining the Red mana from Ythol.” She declared, “We will have naught but Black and what we bring with us, at best, and if we take too long he will surely be invincible.”

“Damn.” Mattias muttered, “The plan still stands though. We stop Dantalion, save Sorinne, and cross any other bridges when we come to them.”

At once, he began to hustle forward, along the broken path up to that great, dark castle. Nor did he slow as the path wore on, for they had arrived, even at such a pace, about an hour out. Thus, when the edifice loomed close over them and they stood before the great gate of soot-stained stone, he was out of breath, and Ilyria as well, for all that she had boasted of her age and power, still showing mortal needs and limits. Kala, for her part, was unfazed, and was the first to reach the great door and pull upon the heavy, iron ring to open it.

The door did not budge.

“Barred from the other side, I think,” Kala said, “Ilyria, can you force it?”

“Stand back.” Ilyria said. Kala did, returning to Mattias’ side. Ilyria focused intently, and then a great spiral of lightning struck the door with a furious thunderclap.

But the door did not budge.

“Dantalion will know we’re here if he has his wits.” Ilyria said, “Try it.”

Kala pulled on the door again, but it was as stubborn as before.

“I could fly to an upper window.” She said, “Once I’m inside, I could open it and let you two through.”

At that, there came a chuckle from the rocks to the side of the path, and a voice, gravelly and hard, spoke to them.

“You will not find ingress that way, either.” The voice declared. And Mattias remembered what Sorinne had said, how he could leave any time he wished, but would not be able to return.

“Who’s there?” He called.

Out from the rocks stepped a hideous, piteous figure. It was a hunched little thing, though probably no shorter than Mattias if it had stood straight, wrapped in faded, worn, and tattered violet robes with a tarnished golden crown upon its brow. But it was not hidden that this creature was one of the undead, rubbing its malformed, bony claws against one another, beneath it’s leering skull. And that skull! Had this thing ever been human? Mattias couldn’t imagine the asymmetric, horrifically elongated shape, sickeningly reminiscent of a melted candle, could ever have supported life.

“I am the King of Ythol.” The skeleton declared, “Called Tattered King in the prophecies of kingship. This is my castle.”

Ilyria stepped forward, “Then, creature, you know of a way inside?”

“I do.” It said.

“Show us.” Ilyria demanded.

The Tattered King paced before them with his shuffling gate, tapping his metal staff against the ground as he walked.

“So impertinent,” said the King, “To make demands of royalty. Surely, you must be a Planeswalker. Am I correct?”

“Time is of the essence, skeleton.” Ilyria said harshly, “You will get us inside the castle.”

“Why?” The Tattered King demanded, “Why should I help you?”

“If you didn’t want to,” Kala replied, her tone much meeker than Ilyria’s had been, “You wouldn’t have shown yourself.”

“Perceptive,” crooned the Tattered King, “indeed, I think it would be to my advantage to let you into the castle. But then, only if my rights as King are respected, and Planeswalkers have never been known for their respect. After all, what is one world to your lot, pretenders to godhood?”

“Speak plainly.” Ilyria growled.

“Please,” Kala said, “Tell us what you require for passage.”

“Ah, you are most intelligent, aren’t you?” said the Tattered King, “It is a simple matter. I could gain from you going within, but I also lose very little from my current state if you do not. Therefore, guarantee me of profit. Swear before me that if I provide you entrance to the castle, each of you shall owe me a favor, which will be mine to name when I please it.”

Mattias would not have liked to admit it, but this Tattered King frightened him dearly.

“Let us consider.” He said.

“Very well,” replied the Tattered King, “but think quickly… for your own sakes.”

The Tattered King lifted his face to the heavens, and Mattias followed the gaze of those empty sockets. The wind had stilled, and the clouds above seemed to grow thin, as though they were beginning to clear. If the fire had gone out of Ythol with the red mana, then with the black? Dantalion could already be draining it away.

Wordlessly, Mattias looked to Kala. He didn’t care what Ilyria thought, but Kala had earned his trust, and Mattias, who did not have her past in this place, would not gainsay her.

She looked down from the sky to Mattias, saw his intent, and nodded. Then she turned to the Tattered King.

“I accept your bargain.” She said, “I swear that if you get us into this castle, I’ll repay you with what favor you ask.”

“I swear it as well.” Mattias said.

There was a lengthy silence, and the Tattered King turned to Ilyria, and made a sound like clearing his throat.

“You have two favors for one already.” She said, “Do you not think your leonine bargain is profitable enough?”

“I would have your word yet, or your departure.”

“Very well,” Ilyria growled, “I swear as did Kala.”

“So be it.” Said the Tattered King, and he walked to before the great door.

“The magic that bars the way is mighty.” He said, “Few ever knew it. Fewer can perform it. But this edifice shall yet recognize its master’s voice.”

“I am the King of Ythol!” he declared to the doorway, his voice ringing off the castle walls. “The Last King! The Tattered King! I wear the Crown of the King upon my brow! I bear the Staff of Kingship in my hand!” At this, he struck the staff against the ground, “These halls are mine, and nothing within barred to me! Make way for the King and cast open all locks before me!”

The King held his twisted arms out to the sides, and the door shuddered.

“Open!” he commanded, and the door shuddered again.

“Open!” the King shouted once more, and was answered by a great clamor, almost like the rumbles of thunder, as the door visibly shook in its frame.

“Open!” he demanded for a third time, and this time, instead of thunder there was silence, and the mighty doors opened wide in utter silence, revealing the dark halls within.

“Go ahead of me.” The King said, “My end of the bargain is upheld. Be prepared for yours.”

Mattias, Kala, and Ilyria rushed into the castle.

***

Once inside the castle, Ilyria lead the way with great haste.

“He will be in the Chamber of Conjuration.” She said, “Up in the centermost tower. That’s where the Annulus was attuned before. The place is already prepared for it.”

Up and up they went, racing through halls and around the spiral stairs until Ilyria’s unerring path had got them to the tall tower, and runed and iron-bound doors that no doubt lead to the Chamber of Conjuration, and Dantalion.

“On three.” Kala said, placing a hand on the handle of the door. “One.”

Mattias grasped the other handle.

“Two.” Ilyria stepped up.

“Three!” Mattais and Kala threw the doors open, and all three stepped inside.

Within, the chamber was roughly circular. The debris of tables, books, and equipment both of artifice and of alchemy was strewn about the walls, and in the center stood Sorinne, pale and fearful, her arms upraised to where the Ythol Annulus, its runes glowing in white, blue, red, and green sat at a confluence of black winds weaving in and around the central hole, spiraling ever tighter inward.

“Welcome.” Dantalion’s cruel voice declared as Sorinne flinched, and lowered her arms, “You’re just in time. If you’re very fortunate, you’ll live long enough to see the finished Annulus. There are mere moments left before the Black mana is sealed inside.”

“Sorinne!” Mattias called.

“Yes, Sorinne.” Dantalion replied, “I believe it is your calling to destroy the intruders.”

Sorinne hesitated, then bent over on herself.

“No.” she growled, then groaned in pain, “No!”

“Fool.” Dantalion declared.

“I won’t be your slave any longer!” Sorinne shrieked, “You can’t make me hurt anyone else!”

“Dead or alive,” Dantalion said, “Your flesh shall be my armor, now-“

“Ilyria!” Kala shouted, and the woman threw a spell. Waves of light washed over Sorinne, and motes sank into her skin. Dantalion’s voice echoed in their minds, but it was no articulate thought. Instead, it was a shriek, an inhuman wail of pain.

Sorinne fell flat to the ground. Then, her back arched, and bulged, and then something burst forth from it in a ruddy mist, tearing her clothes to tatters and leaving her heaped upon the ground.

Dantalion. Caked with gore, he looked like nothing more than some slimy flat-worm, faceless with thin, trailing tendrils as he floated in the air as a fish floats in water, above Sorinne’s prone form.

A great bolt of lightning struck at the monster and in a flash he had ducked to the side, but then a gout of fire washed over him, for Ilyria and Kala alike had joined the battle.

As for Mattias, he had one priority. He ran forward, to where Sorinne had fallen. She was still alive, breathing weakly, but her wounds… without magic, she would have no chance at all. Mattias looked up to Dantalion, dodging and darting through the air, lashing back at Ilyria or Kala with tendrils of darkness. He was on the back foot, so to speak, but time was on his side, and against Sorinne.

This battle had to end. Mattias had to help.

But what was Mattias against such? He didn’t know magic even a month ago, and what did he have? A few counters, to keep the pressure off Kala and Ilyria perhaps. Little charms to help with his tinkering. Nothing that could fight a monster. Unless…

Mattias called on his charms, and the debris around the edges of the room began to shuffle. The scrap was old, and damaged, but it was no worse than what he had worked with at home, and with even what little magic he had, he could work much, much faster.

Feverishly, Mattias’ conjurations ripped one recognizable bit or another from the edges. The combatants paid him no heed, and when he glanced up it appeared that none had made any progress, save for a gash across Ilyria’s face, beneath her eye, no doubt the toll of some slashing shadow conjured against her.

Hours of labor passed by in seconds, cogs locking into place, wires spooling themselves to the blueprints in Mattias’ mind. Sorinne’s breathing was ragged, unsteady. There was not a lot of time left, and he would waste precious seconds double-checking his work, being sure of where the arcane intersected the mechanical. But if it failed, Mattias would not get a second chance while Sorinne still lived, and so he whispered to her, begging her to hold on just a little longer.

At last, there was a click. The body was complete. Now for the power. There were no powerstone chips here, it had to be raw mana.

And then the horror overcame Mattias: there was no mana here either. The wind was gone, and the Ythol Annulus’ last set of runes gave off an eerie black glow, radiating the absence of light. Now he saw that the battle was transformed. Ilyria and Kala were no longer trying to do anything other than keep Dantalion away from the Annulus, and if they slipped but once, it would all be over.

Mana, Mattias thought, the energy of the land. Kala had taught him as much.

No, not the energy of the land, exactly. The memory of the land. Even far away, memory could call mana to you. He had exhausted the easy store within himself, but in his memories, he might find what he needed.

Mattias thought of home, not wistfully, not wishfully, but desperately, trying to concentrate with every fiber of his being on far-away Kalishin. He saw his shop in his mind’s eye, the door opening onto a small, winding street, the sign that bore the hammer and gear on one side, a crude picture of the Reclaimer in blue paint on the other.

Sorinne gave a little gasp.

Mattias saw the new Engine mine, the workers cheering him on, the glittering treasures of the past spreading before him. He felt, faintly, the tingling of their power.

There was a crash near his head, as another fiery dart drove Dantalion away from the center of the chamber and the Annulus.

“I can’t keep this up!” Kala shouted.

And Mattias remembered the old engine mine, boarded up for years, secrets in the dark. He remembered the room of pillars, and his first sight of Kala’s face.

Somehow, that was enough. Drops of power flowed into the crude metallic sphere in his hands, and the spellbomb was armed.

Mattias took it in his hand, and his eyes followed Dantalion as the creature darted and circled around the chamber, looking for any opening to make progress towards the Annulus.

One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. The azure glow from the spellbomb’s seams illuminated Mattias’ world. That was all that mattered – the spellbomb, and its mark, Dantalion.

Outward in the room, someone faltered. And Dantalion dove inward, towards the Annulus. There, Mattias saw, was his chance. He was between Dantalion and the creature’s goal.

In every sense of the words, he couldn’t miss.

Mattias hurled the spellbomb forward. Dantalion hadn’t seen it coming, and while the horror tried to pull up at the last second, the artifact burst in the air, more than close enough to the monster. Around the bomb, the Æther itself froze, and Dantalion fell to the ground, half its body sealed in crystallized air.

“Now you die!” Ilyria shouted, blade in her hand. She pounced against Dantalion…

And the monster fled the only way that it could, somewhere out into the Blind Eternities.

“No!” Ilyria shouted

“Ilyria!” Mattias called, “Over here, Sorinne-“

“What do I care for her?” Ilyria shouted, “We have to follow Dantalion! He can’t get away again. Kala, to me!”

“No, Ilyria.” Kala said, “The Annulus is still here. Without that threat, we should save a life rather than take one.”

Kala went over to Mattias and Sorinne and, hesitantly, Ilyria followed. Why she didn’t pursue as she said they should, Mattias did not know, but given the fury in her eyes she was not willing to do it without at least Kala and not happy with being denied.

“It is hopeless.” Ilyria said, cold, “I’m spent for white magic. She will die.”

“No,” Mattias said. He stood up, and grasped the Ythol Annulus with both hands, “Use this. It has all the mana you need.”

Ilyria frowned, but stepped forward as Mattias knelt beside Sorinne. She placed a hand on the white sector of the Annulus , and another to Sorinne’s wound. A soft glow suffused Ilyria and Sorinne both, and her wound slowly knitted until all that remained was a massive, jagged scar.

“Sorinne?” Mattias called.

After a long moment, Sorinne opened her eyes, and looked up at him. Then she spoke, so weakly that breath alone might have drowned out the words, but into such a silence as all could hear.

“Is it over?”

And then the reply came from the entrance of the room, the voice of the Tattered King. “Not quite.”

Mattias looked up at the thing, shuffling slowly towards him.

“The Annulus,” the Tattered King said, “give it to me.”

The Ythol Annulus, this terrible thing that ruined worlds and contained untold power… it didn’t belong in anyone’s hands.

“Why?” Mattias asked.

“First,” the King said, “Because it is mine. I am King over all Ythol, and that device contains the heart and soul of Ythol, which is my right to rule over.”

“And second?” Kala asked.

“Second, because you three Planeswalkers owe me a favor. This shall be it, for all of you. Give me the Annulus, which should be mine already, and I will hold your oaths fulfilled. And third, before you ask, because with its power I could open a portal, as the greatest of sorceries and artifice could do in the time of the first kings. And would it not be… inhumane, to leave me stranded in this wasteland?”

Mattias felt something tug at his heart. He looked at the Annulus in his hands, and he knew he would have to yield it to the King, no matter how much he wanted to refuse.

And yet, as he held the Annulus, it occurred to him that while he could not refuse the favor, he didn’t have to grant it without objection.

“You ask a lot for a favor.” Mattias said, “Even for three.”

“Perhaps,” said the Tattered King, “but that is not for you to decide. You must fulfill your oath.”

Again, Mattias felt the pull. Just hand it over, that was what he was supposed to do. It was what he had to do. And beyond even that, he was spent, and Ilyria and Kala too. Who knew what powers the King held – he might overcome them anyway.

But Mattias could do more than just hand it over.

“You hold oaths so highly, King,” Mattias said, “That you should give me one before you take your prize. Swear to me, if you can, that you will never use it to do to any other world what has been done to Ythol.”

At this, the Tattered King seemed amused. “Smart and perceptive. I appreciate your cleverness. What is your name?”

“Mattias.”

“Well Mattias, since it was not in my plans anyway, I swear, by my crown and my kingship, that I shall not use the Annulus to do to any plane what was done to Ythol.”

At that, Mattias held the artifact out with one hand, his other going to Sorinne’s shoulder.

“Take it.”

The King shuffled forward, and grasped the Annulus in both his bony claws, holding his staff in the crook of his arm.

“Yes,” he hissed, “Yes, very well, your oath to me is discharged, Mattias, and those of your lovely companions as well. Now, take your leave of my castle.”

And the King began to skulk off.

“Can you walk?” Mattias asked Sorinne quietly. She shook her head. Carefully, Mattias picked her up, carrying her in his arms.

“Don’t worry.” He said, “I said I’d come back for you.”

Ilyria folded her arms across her chest. “She will need to rest and recuperate. It will likely take a fortnight or more for her to walk, perhaps months to run, even with the healing I gave her.” Then she glared more pointedly at Mattias. “As for you, I hope you realize what you did.”

“Maybe I don’t.” he said, “But it’s done, and I for one am sick of Ythol.”

“I am as well.” Kala said, “If you don’t mind me asking, where will you go?”

“Back to Kalishin, myself.” Mattias replied, “You’re welcome to come.”

Kala smiled sweetly and nodded, “I would like that very much.”

“Sorinne? Is there someplace else you’d rather me take you?”

“No.” she sighed, “Anywhere that isn’t here, the rest is all alike to me.”

Ilyria stalked to one of the windows in the Chamber of Conjuration, and looked out it. The sky was cold and clear, and two pale orbs shone like featureless moons in the sky, giving neither heat nor cheer to the sight.

“Dantalion is still out there somewhere.” She said, “It’s only a matter of time before he causes some other hell upon Dominia.”

“I thought you didn’t care.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t.” Ilyria said, “But I can’t go back to Azoria. I’d never be at peace again. I’ll hunt him, though hell should bar the way.”

“Good luck.” Kala said, but Ilyria had already vanished into the Blind Eternities.

“So,” Mattias said, “I don’t know if my shop will be comfortable for three… but it’s a place to start.”

And thus, Mattias, Sorinne, and Kala left Ythol behind, and the Tattered King stood alone in his kingdom of darkness and silence.

Silent was the chill air, and silent the lifeless stone. Silent was the Tattered King, silent, but full of dreams. As he gazed into the Ythol Annulus, that artifact that held within it the very soul of his dominion, he saw reflected the countless failed dreams of others, of ages long gone by, and let to fade into the dust. Dreams he might realize with the power between his hands.

Ythol was dead, but its King still reigned. And Dominia was open to him.