First thing in the morning, I pull out my new armor, looking at the sun icon etched into it. Yesterday, I wrapped things up with the Isles so we can return to Guildania straight away. Needless to say, we’ve stopped all trade and monetary dealings with the Guild. Lucy’s recommending Byra do the same. I pulled Nothri and Herkja aside and flipped a coin in their view. Herkja’s in charge. I don’t even care if they fight over it. Mutiny’s nothing next to the world being thrust into darkness and despair. If I survive this, it’s a problem for another time.

  I whistle open the door to find Sven yawning. He turns, and I beckon him inside. He’s still wearing his ragged chainmail from the Shadow Vault, although his pristine driftwood shield’s slung across his back and trusty Vasterholmian shortsword at his hip. He closes the door behind him.

  “Warchief,” he says with a curt nod.

  “Here,” I say, holding out my chain jacket. “Wear this. It’s magical, so it’ll keep in good shape. Also, I still owe you some buggery, but it’ll have to wait for another time. Can I suck you off for now?”

  He stops, mouth wide enough to waltz through. “Um… uh… sorry. Those came at me from completely opposite directions. I’d, uh… I’d be honored. For the armor, that –”

  “Lovely.” I point at his chainmail. “Get that off, and we’ll take care of both at once.”

  He unfreezes, then slings his shield on a chair and unbelts his weapon. I hoist the chainmail over his head, then push him back onto the desk, scattering papers, ink pots, and daggers. His breath is hot and wet when I kiss him. It’s briny and savory, like an oyster. He’s a quivering mess beneath my hands when I seek downward. He's already reaching for me.

  An hour later, I meet the team outside. Sven’s dewier than usual, his aquamarine cheeks flushed violet. He’s wearing my chain jacket, which fits him perfectly, even without magically resizing. Carrojack and Victoria are there, too, raiders and townspeople gaping at the wyvern getting pets from Jingles. All eyes are drawn when I appear.

  The Champion’s armor now fits like I was born to wear it. The extra room for tits subsided, the rest magically molding to my form. Once I put the last piece on, it gave a warm pulsing sensation I’ve felt before. That must be the spell Arriel mentioned. My fur-lined cloak of light gray-green is fastened snugly, my mandolin strap threaded through the shoulder loop to keep it from slipping. My weapons are belted exactly where I need them. Somehow, I look like I just stepped off a sandy beach – I’ve suddenly got glowing, sun-kissed skin and my hair’s bleached and sea-laced. I look like I’ve got a spotlight shining on me, too. Whiskey keeps chasing the glints on the ground.

  I clank up to the team.

  Deach is an androgynous dark elf with deep ashy-blue skin and white hair to their mid-back. They’re wearing sharp, overlapping leather armor in the undercity fashion. They give a knowing smile. Jingles starts clapping. Everyone joins in. I sketch a sweeping bow. Whiskey rubs across my shin. A pink bandana’s tied around their neck that says sun’s out, tongues out with a little white sun icon.

  I rub my hands together. “Thanks to my dear patron, the Light Daddy, I’ll be taking us to Guildania directly. Does anyone here have a fragile constitution?”

  Karla puts her hand up. A moment later, Sven does, too.

  “Lovely,” I say. “This’ll be unpleasant for you. Get close.”

  They shuffle closer. Somebody puts a hand on my ass. I bring my mandolin around, clearing my throat. I’m quivering. I peer inward at my fifth ley line connection, thrumming with the rest of the nearly complete chord, wrapped in glimmering light.

  I grab it and sing:

  For some lovely people with whom to mack,

  Please take us to the Fuzzy Back

  Pink magic swirls around our feet. We’re sucked through darkness. My stomach flips. We’re thrown from a slingshot.

  And we’re splatted against something utterly solid.

  Stars explode in my vision. Pain crumples my insides. I grunt. Then I’m falling. The ground rushes. I flail. I land in a metallic heap. My breath is socked from my guts. More bodies thud around me. I lay stunned and gasping for a moment. I feel sick. My ears are ringing. Groaning and keening voices drift from nearby. Somebody hurls. I smell blood. My head throbs.

  Not again.

  “Gods, are you okay?” It’s Deach. They stagger, rolling me over. They’re holding their bleeding nose. One finger’s at an odd angle. They’re squinting, gold eyes watering.

  “I’m alright,” I rasp. I push myself up. Sharp pain pierces my side. I look around. There’s sun overhead. We’re splattered on a dirt road. This is definitely Guildania, judging by the pristine stone wall. We look like someone dropped a bag of adventurers from the top of it. I peer at the wall. A faint shimmer reflects. There’s a familiar bright pink smear, much larger this time.

  “Cocksucking wards!” I spit. I chuck a fistful of dirt at it. “Karla, have those always been here?”

  “No,” she says, limping to her feet. She wobbles on her high heels. Her makeup is smeared, and she’s holding her elbow.

  “Those are new,” Jingles squawks. Their wing hangs lopsided. They’ve got a crack in their beak. Feathers bluster in the breeze.

  Sven hobbles over and helps me to my feet. He’s bloody, as is a nearby rock. He pauses to hold his lower back. He frees a clod of earth from between my plates. Lucy’s coaxing an annoyed Carrojack, who’s missing a few antler tines. Her armor is scuffed, and her bark-like skin is cracked, weeping sap-like blood. Richard’s looking sour and shaking dirt from his hair. The right half of his face is bruised. He retrieves his longsword from where it went flying. Victoria flops a bit before taking to the air. Oka’s a facedown pile of guns and fur. Karla helps him up. He doesn’t have a speck of dirt on him, but his mustache is crooked. He’s got a crumpled whisker. Somehow, his hat is still on. Genk dusts himself off and looks utterly fine.

  Ow. OW. Human, why did you do that?

  It’s Whiskey. They’re limping, dirt clinging to their ruffled fur. Their pink bandana’s spun around and flopped over their ears. Their tail has a noticeable kink.

  I sigh and grab them. They squirm while I pump a healing spell. Their tail straightens with a small crack, which sends them sprinting away until they realize they’re fine.

  “Oka, where are we?” I ask.

  He peers around, adjusting his wide-brimmed hat. His whiskers twitch. “I reckon we’re on the southeast side of the city. That’s near enough where we need to be, Mr. Seven Oaks.”

  “Right on target,” I say, dusting my hands off. I peer at the wall.

  “Okay,” Deach says, snorting blood back. They hawk it out. “We have two people who can fly – a third if Karla turns herself into a bird. The wards shouldn’t block that. Oka and I can head through the gates and retrieve the carriage. The rest of us will stay out of sight here. I can draft paperwork like we’re delivering it back to Jor. We’ll come back and grab everyone who’s left. We’ll have to go in a different way than we came out. Chouncey can make himself invisible in the carriage, so it’s only Lucy and her bodyguard, Genk –”

  I bring my mandolin around and strum a few chords. A pink square appears, and I drag it over to the stone wall. It expands, and I push it all the way through.

  A tunnel opens to a street on the other side.

  I beckon. Deach cuts off mid-breath, blinking. They sigh, glancing around incredulously. The team heads through, and I linger behind. Deach flips a middle finger at me. I do it back with both hands. Then, they fall in, too.

  We landed on the outskirts of the city's poorer residential areas, which, by Carthesian standards, isn’t saying much. Deach takes us to a nearby safehouse – an old, abandoned Guild Hall. We stay there for a bit, licking our wounds. Jingles, Richard, and Victoria head off to scout the Fuzzy Back and meet us there. Then Oka conceals us with headache-inducing magic while we head into the higher ends of the city. We become incorporeal and hard to spot, shifting to blend in with the background. Unfortunately, it works on everyone, so I keep hold of Oka’s tail. Deach glares at me for clanking too much.

  We find where the carriage was stowed, a block from the Cherry Blossom Resort. From what we can see, repairs are underway on the top floor. The locked stall containing our carriage is guarded. Whiskey plays cute and runs off with their breakfast - a bag of dumplings. I draw the other one off with an illusion of a fight breaking out down an alley across the street. Deach picks the lock, and we sneak inside. The carriage has a wheel clamp, and Genk tears it off. We stand around and question the wisdom and logistics of bringing an elk. Karla mutates Carrojack into a turtle, and we all climb into the carriage. Oka gives a piercing whistle, and Sone and Konno are conjured from thin air.

  Twenty minutes later, we stop in front of the Fuzzy Back.

  It’s a three-story building made of spired, carved wood, with a curved, gabled roof. More roofwork slants at each floor over shuttered windows, giving it a stacked appearance. It’s painted bright red and jade, with warm light and the airy scent of jasmine drifting out. Multicolored lanterns hang from buttresses and sway in the light breeze along with pink cherry trees in a quaint courtyard ringed with a tall wood fence.

  Oka stows the carriage, and we hustle inside.

  Inside, the rosewood walls are hung with vividly explicit paintings and tapestries. The space is open and geometric, and a few patrons mingle with workers on lush pillows and pads. Despite the mid-morning sunlight outside, it’s dim and seductive. Curling instrumental koto music drifts from a sandy-scaled lizardfolk in the corner. Their eyes widen when they see me. I put a hand against my chest and give a small bow and a smile.

  A tall forest elf approaches wearing only a clinging breechcloth. His hair is deep sage green, his skin the color of clay, sculpted over a chest I’d make a meal of. “Good morning, Warchief. I’m Yasuda. I can bring you to your companions. Right this way.”

  We ascend to the top floor, following branching balconies that wrap around the central room. We’re taken down a hallway and through a large sliding door to find a big, open chamber.

  It’s an orgy room.

  Low beds are piled with pillows and silken sheets. Several reclining couches are clustered on the floor. Jingles and Richard are lounging on one cluster, sipping steaming tea.

  Two familiar figures are there, too, and I’m fairly sure I know who the third is.

  Mittens and Hiroi, the half-giant, greet us. Rus is in the form of a lean blue dragonkin, the deep color of a cloudless sky. Slender ivory horns curl around the sides of his head. “Warchief. What a pleasure to finally have you here,” he says languidly, looking me over. He’s wearing a hakama and shirt wrapped low in the front, baring the gentle blue waves of his chest.

  “And what a pleasure to meet you fine people again,” I say. The team settles in, lounging on pillows and couches. I put my mandolin and weapons aside and sit between Mittens and Hiroi, getting cozy. Mittens runs a white claw-finger over one of my shortswords, pupils wide and playful.

  “I don’t know why you sold this place,” Lucy says, tucking her legs under her on a plush couch.

  “It’s in good hands. I hear the new owner’s quite generous,” I say, winking. She gives a knowing smile back. Whiskey sniffs a pillow on the floor, kneading their paws into it. With a tearing sound, stuffing spills out.

  “What can we do for you?” Rus asks.

  “I’ve informed Rus of our mission,” Richard says.

  “Well, I’m told you’re one of his regulars,” I say.

  He bristles. “Who told you that?”

  "You just told me that. And judging by that painting in your room, I think we all know your poison." I point at Rus, whose azure scales glint with amusement.

  “I’ve done no such thing,” Richard throws back, cleft chin jutting up.

  Lucy snorts a laugh, giving him a lingering glance. "Shame. I'd watch you both."

  He stiffens and looks away.

  Yasuda, the forest elf, appears again with a tray of tea and pomegranate candies. “We need a base of operations,” I say. “The fact Lucy owns the place should keep any unwelcome vampires out, but let’s keep an eye on visitors. I’d not put it past them sending thralls to chuck a bomb in here.”

  “I’ll hire more security,” Rus says. “After the destruction of the Cherry Blossom, we can say we’re implementing more thorough screening to keep our notable clients safe.”

  The old manager of the Fuzzy Back left after I bought it, taking his cut of the sale and retiring. Elected by the workers, Rus took the position, working on the side for a select few clients.

  “Perfect,” I say, accepting tea from Yasuda. It’s a spicy blend of cinnamon and mandarin. A splash of whiskey would make it divine. I’m about to ask for a bottle when Deach shoots me a look. I keep talking instead. “I’m sure you’ve heard we’re getting the factory workers to strike. Let’s pull together some sort of a… oh, what’s the word in common? A union here, so the idea gets out. Make sure your workers let slip.”

  Rus nods. “I'll see it done.”

  The Fuzzy Back started as a working-class establishment, and some of those clients still frequent it. We’ve already doubled wages and set up a pool of funds for health expenses, funded by profits. They’re no longer getting paid by the client, but hourly. They’re getting paid breaks and sick leave, too. Making it all official shouldn’t be much of a step.

  Yasuda exits through the sliding door. Through the gap, I spot a group of fey elves trickling into another room, giggling and halfway undressed already. One of them waves at me.

  “Chouncey.”

  I turn back. Deach is looking at me. They gesture toward Rus.

  “I was just saying the latest news is that Kanon Obara has been removed as Minister of Finance,” he says. “She’s gone missing. Minister Miyake let slip that fact during our appointment this morning.”

  “You’re still seeing him?” I ask.

  “Privately at his residence, yes.”

  I pause, then nod. “Keep wheedling him for any information you can get. We’ve gotta lure him out eventually. For now, we’ll set up here. We’ve gotta bring this city to a halt.”

  We spend the next few days camped inside the Fuzzy Back. They take on fewer clients under the guise of increasing security, screening everyone for signs of enthrallment after I show them what to look for. Genk oversees it, helping them pick new guards. One thing protecting us is the stakeholders who’ll ask questions if someone lobs a bomb into the most notable pleasure establishment in Guildania. I'm once again reminded of seeing Torm's ship blasted to bits after I dropped a Horonese bomb in it. It's reallybest for everyone that we keep an eye out.

  According to Rus, the Ministry’s blaming the destruction of the Cherry Blossom Resort on a defective sigil, even taking the manufacturer to court. As for my whereabouts, they claim they're unsure. Strong rumors are coursing that I returned to Jor but was shipwrecked along the way – an embarrassing end for a Warchief. I’ve gotta make my presence here known. I'll make for a particularly notable martyr, if not a handsome one.

  In the meantime, we redouble our efforts to smuggle reading materials to the workers. We sit around making copies, and Deach strategically drops them around the poorer areas of Guildania. Oka gets his children and former wife to one of Deach’s safehouses, and drives around Lucy and Karla – they obstruct shipments and carriages owned by important stakeholders. Lucy coincidentally needs to take the exact same route with our busty carriage. Oka causes a jam so Karla can alchemize the goods. Richard contacts Masato to ensure the justicars look the other way. Deach establishes plants within the factory, equipping the workers to strike. Jingles even distributes pamphlets, somehow returning with pay for their hours worked. The factory workers begin gaining momentum. There’s talk of my name behind it all. The slaves who’ve returned will do half the work for us. For the others, it's unlikely they haven’t heard of me by now, as a liberator before anything else.

  The Fuzzy Back’s got plenty of rooms with beds, and we occupy almost the whole upper floor. The orgy room becomes our meeting place when not being used for its intended purpose. Deach and I share a room, without talking about it. His confession of being in love with me has been in my head constantly. The fluttering I feel when I look at him is one thing, but the rest? Why didn’t I realize it until he said something? Why do I feel a damp, cold sense of dread when I think about whether I feel the same?

  My dreams are odd that night.

  My mind’s eye condenses into the strange reality I feel when Iros brings me to that room. But it’s blurry and dim when I appear, rendered haphazardly in gray. It’s wavery and blustering, like moments before a hurricane sweeps in. The edges of the furniture, the bed, fray. The whole picture is shot with darkness, not gold light. There’s a droning roar, like the lapping of the ocean, but magnified. Blurriness presses down on my mind.

  It’s cold. I shiver, glancing around. This isn't right. Something’s pulling at the back of my neck, raising the hair there. I whirl. In the shadows of a corner, a faint outline lurks.

  A hulking, spiky, black dragonkin.

  My nerves freeze. Sweat pours from me. I’m shaking. I step back. A claw reaches out.

  “Help me,” a strangled voice whispers behind me. Its register is familiar, but warped with darkness. It echoes and reverberates. “Please. Before it’s too late.”

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  It chills my bones. Something's sucking me down with it, like grabbing claws, like a longship sinking into the abyss. I whirl, my mouth dry. I stumble.

  Outside the expansive balcony, there’s no longer a sunlit, rocky beach over endless calm ocean. It’s a starscape of utter blackness. My breath stops. My legs become liquid. In the midst is a blank, black orb. Stars warp and elongate, stirred into a pot, trapped in its clutches. Amber light swirls around it, a ringed outline of inescapable, fading light. It’s massive and eldritch, looming like I'll fall toward it. The pull is inescapable, otherworldly, immense. It vibrates my chest, screeching like the tortured echo of the eighth ley line, someone wringing it by the neck. It’ll swallow me – nothing but cold, empty darkness, like the bottom of the ocean.

  “Chouncey,” it whispers. The voice disintegrates me. My body’s throbbing, waves battering against the seal over the pool of my mind. It’ll shatter at any moment. “Help.”

  I tear awake.

  I thrash, my chest heaving like I’m sprinting. I’m soaked in sweat, shivering. My heart’s hammering at its limit. I feel sick. My throat’s dry. Was I screaming? The room’s utterly dark, no moonlight cutting through. Something stirs beside me.

  In the corner is the lurking outline of a black dragonkin.

  I fly from bed. I fumble for the nightstand. I grab a shortsword, flinging the sheath away. Things clatter to the floor.

  “Fuck me!” I rasp. Pink flame roars, flickering and dancing around the room. I hold it up.

  There’s nothing there.

  I’m shaking. My chest is raw. The room’s deathly cold.

  “What the hells?” I flinch, spinning. It’s Deach. He’s in his half-orc form, naked except for his undershorts. He's fisting a dagger, crouched with the bed between us. He puts a hand up to block the searing pink light.

  Whiskey appears from underneath a chair, brushing my shins. Their tail is curled downward and poofed. They look up at me.

  Did you hear it, too?

  I can only nod. I’m desperately thirsty.

  “What’s going on?” Deach demands. His tanned leather eyes flit with caution. He approaches and touches my neck. He's cold.

  I swallow dryly, finding words again. “Something terrible’s happening.”

  His face becomes hard. “What do you mean?”

  “I –”

  “Help me!” The same voice cuts like sharp ice. It’s faint this time. It gives a strangled cry, echoing in my head. “Please!”

  I whirl. Out the window, the cityscape of Guildania’s gone. The room fades. I see only blackness swirling around an inky void ringed with eerie amber light. The crushing, thrumming sound returns, drowning my head. My chest seizes. I’m paralyzed.

  “Chouncey!” Deach hisses. He’s in front of me, gripping my arm. I blink, and it’s city again. The sound of chirping insects returns, and a warm night breeze brushes through slatted windows. Dim lantern light casts in. Whiskey’s looking outside, paws posed on the sill and tail swishing. “What’s going on? You’re scaring me.”

  “It’s Lomir,” I croak. “They’re doing something.”

  The door cracks open, and I whirl. Sven appears, squinting at the pink light from my sword. He’s got a weapon, too.

  Deach turns back. “There’s nothing we can do right now. Are you okay?”

  I’m fine, I almost say. But his dagger vanishes, and he puts a hand on either side of my face. Arriel’s words whisper in my head. You’ll have to open up.

  I need a drink. It’s unbearable. “I thought he was here.”

  “Lomir?”

  I shake my head.

  His tusks twitch. Sven gives the slightest sad smile. I have to get out of here. I relax my grip on my shortsword. My hand’s almost locked up. I free myself from Deach and step toward the door. He’s suddenly blocking me. “Get some sleep. You don’t need what’s out there.”

  He’s right. But he’s also dead wrong.

  It’s okay, human. I’ll watch for predators, Whiskey says in my head.

  “Thanks,” I say quietly back.

  Do you want something special for breakfast?

  “That’s kind of you, but I’ll pass.”

  They bump their head against my hand.

  I can hardly stand. I release the flame on my sword. Sven catches me before I collapse, helping me back into bed and sheathing it for me. The sheets are soaked. He leaves, and I hear his voice outside, along with Genk and some guards. Deach cuddles behind me, wrapping his arms around my chest. Whiskey stays at the windowsill, tucking their paws and curling their tail around while they keep watch. I snap my fingers, fetching my pick. I hum and light it up, letting it dimly filter through colors. I fist it, watching the light bleed through my skin.

  It's an hour at least before I drift into uneasy sleep, my dreams shot with distant cries for help or the lurking black outline in the corner of the room. Somehow, whether waking or sleeping, I see the shape of the statuette on a table, faint pink light casting.

  When I’m nudged awake by Deach, it’s still dark. I sit up, exhausted. Lucy’s there, wearing a robe and towel around her hair, a toothbrush in her mouth. Jingles slips in behind her, wearing a Drowning Man sweater several sizes too big. I hear more voices outside.

  “The sun hasn’t come up yet,” Deach says soberly, perched on the bed.

  After a moment, I realize what he means. It stops me cold.

  I push out of bed. Whiskey’s still keeping watch on the windowsill.

  Where’s Light Daddy? They ask.

  “That’s a good question,” I say, looking outside. Something terrible's stirring in my guts. “Jingles, what time is it?”

  “Ten twenty-seven,” they immediately squawk. “In the morning.”

  It looks like the middle of the night. I shudder. Are we too late?

  “It’s only Shirano,” Lucy says, her mouth full of toothbrush. “I sent word to Dain. He says it’s daytime down there.”

  I make myself breathe. Maybe we’re not too late yet. But this is the beginning of something. And we’ve gotta be ready for it.

  According to Jingles, we meet in the orgy room at three minutes after noon. Richard returns from flying around with Victoria, his hair cocked and with a bruise on one marble cheek, reporting they smacked into a magical dome at the edge of the city. Carolus is trapping everyone in. It’s sobering.

  “Which means we’re not pulling out until we’re finished,” I say once everyone’s gathered. I’m reclined on some pillows beside my mandolin, Yasuda massaging my shoulders.

  “From what you said, this ritual has started,” Karla says. “Lomir is becoming powerful enough to put the whole city in darkness.”

  “The next step will be the entire world in darkness,” Richard says, like he’s been practicing it.

  “We double down on that strike, then. Or better yet, get the whole city on board,” I say. “But we’re low on time. You’d think people would quit working, but here we are.”

  “Breaking contract sucks,” Genk rumbles. He’s taking up a whole bed by himself. “You pay back earnings for the year. If you can’t do that, then you keep working.”

  I’m sure it’s designed for this very situation – people needing to keep their expenses paid right up until a vampire turns them into spawn. I pause, thinking of Lanese. “A friend of mine in Carthesia used to work here. She said it took her years to get a contract lawyer to help her get out. Let’s find one.”

  “You’ll want Arata Koan, Mr. Seven Oaks,” Oka says. He’s lounging on a couch with one leg crossed, hat hung on a knee. He’s in shirtsleeves with his fur mustache freshly waxed. Whiskey’s on his lap. The clink of his glass is pricking me. “He’s a name every worker here knows.”

  “I’ll reach out sssso we can sssspeak with him,” Deach says. She’s a sleek serpentfolk, her skin sheening with the faint implication of deep jade scales. Despite being reptilian, she’s still got tits, somehow having found a way to perfect art.

  “Lovely. Let’s get him here. I’ve got questions.”

  We spend the rest of the day scrambling. We grab every available worker at the Fuzzy Back to copy new pamphlets calling for a citywide strike. Jingles and Richard drop them over the city in handfuls. Deach prods his people to start protests. They’re meager, but they’re something. I contact Arriel and tell her what’s going on here. Needless to say, she's alarmed, but reassures me we’d know if Lomir had ascended. I’ve no clue how much time we have. But we’ve gotta cut off the Guild’s gold supply - and fast.

  The sky doesn’t change. It remains dark as midnight. It’s got me feeling unsettled and off. I’m already feeling shaky after last night. It felt as real as the smell of innards on packed dirt. Deach convinces me to see Argus for a massage and some extras, and after that, I try to nap. I don’t sleep, instead lying in bed with a lantern burning, trying to shut my eyes against the things burbling to the rippling surface of the pool. The city bustles as usual, people hawking wares and carriages rattling by. Rus says there’s polite chatter from the patrons about what’s going on, but that’s it. It's business as usual. At nine thirteen the next morning, Jingles reports, Arata Koan arrives.

  Arata’s a bald deep dwarf with dark, slate-blue skin and a clean, white beard. He looks middle-aged, carrying creases around his almond-shaped eyes. He’s got a middling-quality suit and carries a ream of papers under a short arm. He hesitantly steps into the orgy room, escorted by Genk, where we’re all lounging and partaking of sushi.

  “Welcome. It's generous of you to meet with us on short notice. Can I call you Arata?” I ask. I’m lying on a bed in a plush pink robe while a slender gnome pours chartreuse-colored tea with a lemon slice floating in it. Deach has been feeling particularly female lately and lazes beside me as a stunning half-devil of maroon skin, void-black hair, and petite breasts peaking through a thin gown. For all intents and purposes, she looks like a worker. She strings her fingers through my hair.

  Arata adjusts his ascot – it’s pilled and frayed. He gives a bow. “Of course. And you must be Chouncey of Seven Oaks.”

  “The very same. You’ve not gotta worry about speaking freely here – we’re all allies. Please, take a seat.” Our phallic nondetection vase firmly protrudes in the middle of the room. In fact, we were just in a heated discussion on whether its base is flared enough.

  He hops onto one of the couches, adjusting himself. Sven hovers just behind him, fully armored. Whiskey sniffs at Arata, then sits on their haunches, staring at him from mere feet away. He clears his throat. “I believe I know why you’ve contacted me. I’ve been watching what you’re doing here, and I’m impressed.”

  “Then I can spare you the details,” I say. I gesture toward the dark windows. “I’m sure you’ve noticed all this. The short of it’s that the Guild’s trying to bring about the end of life as we know it. Stopping them depends on making the whole city strike.”

  “That’s a tough order,” Arata says after pausing to take in the weight of what I just said. “The Guild has conditioned workers for centuries to fear breaking contract. They make it impossible for all but the most fortunate. And successfully breaking contract puts you on a blacklist, putting any future employment in question. Seeing as nobody can physically leave the city, it leaves people with very few options.”

  “And you’ve looked at a lot of these contracts?”

  He nods, accepting tea from the gnome. “I’ve made a career of it. Generally, they all follow the same template – pay, stipulations, hours, and benefits, if any. They might vary from industry to industry.”

  I pause. “What about the factory workers?”

  He sips his tea, looking thoughtful. “Theirs tend to be more cut-and-dry, but all shifts work long hours, and they’re usually some of the worst contracts as a whole.”

  I nod. There’s gotta be some loophole in those contracts that means they’re not breaking them by not working. And then it hits me. I blink.

  All shifts.

  “Does the Guild draw up separate contracts for night work?”

  Everyone looks at me. Deach’s fingers stop. The air hums.

  Arata slowly nods, seeing where I’m going. “They do. It’s a special classification.”

  Deach strokes fingers down my arm. It’s distracting. “So, you could argue that since it’s dark out, nobody who’s a day worker is breaking contract by not working?” I ask.

  Arata rolls his head back and forth. “Daytime can be signified by a sun being in the sky, or by the hours on a timepiece. If nothing else, it'd buy you time while they split hairs over what constitutes a day. They could argue that night workers have to keep working, but their contracts might be constrained by the number of hours.”

  That’s it, then. We can get nearly every industry and worker on board with that. It could stop the city in its tracks tomorrow.

  “If I might say,” he continues. “I’ve been making a case against the Guild for years. I’ve been collecting evidence of them getting away with horrible workers’ rights violations. I’d planned to send copies to courts in Byra, Lengenfeld, and Carthesia before you came along. I hope we can work together on this.”

  “I’ll look at it,” I say. “I think we can put together a good argument.”

  “Don’t send it to Lengenfeld, darling,” Deach says silkily.

  I gesture at her in assent. “Kanon told me Holly’s working closely with the Dynasty. But I’ve got a friend in Carthesia who can see it to the right place. And Lucy can do the same in Byra. Which is all well and good for when things fall apart at the end of this, but we’ve got a few steps before that.”

  “Like what?” Deach asks, cocking her head against a slender shoulder.

  I look at her. It’s hard not to follow her maroon curves. “It’s time to wear that mask again.”

  That evening, I meet Richard in the garden outside the Fuzzy Back. Victoria’s there, too, a horned menace among the drooping cherry trees and sculpted shrubs. They’re beginning to wilt in the darkness. Sven’s inside pouting about not going with me, but there’s simply not enough room unless we’re planning on getting very cozy. I don’t mind, but Richard would.

  “Champion,” he says curtly. He’s rigid, hand on his longsword and heels together. His honey hair’s lustrous even in the faint lantern light.

  “At ease, Senior Dickcheese,” I say. “Just get me up there.”

  “Of course. Hold tightly, but don’t worry. Neither Victoria nor I will let you fall.”

  I press my lips together, giving my best polite smile. I think he’s been practicing these in the mirror, making up for showing us his protruding asshole. That, or he’s trying a new thing. Past him, I spot Whiskey perched on the edge of a fish pool, tail swishing. One of those is gonna be on the floor when I get back.

  I hold my breath and mount Victoria behind Richard, straddling the hump of her back. She’s strapped with an expensive leather saddle, but she’s still terribly sharp near the unmentionables. I grip a couple ivory spikes. She can smell my fear. We both know I'd be dead before I know it. She strains and flexes beneath us, bounding and leaping. Her leathery wings flare and catch air, filling and expanding. My stomach bottoms out. We rocket upward.

  It’s a beautiful view, if disconcerting. The cold night wind whips by, and I’m glad for my cloak. The lights of Guildania shrink beneath us. My guts flip. At least the darkness obscures our altitude.

  “When you saw Selena, did she seem well?” Richard asks over the wind.

  “She was skipping rope by the river, sipping Garnacha. Why do you ask?"

  He pauses. "Really?"

  "Of course not. She's chained to a tree. She looked like crusty ass."

  He’s quiet. “I should like to see her again, but I don’t think I will.”

  “Why in the sweet hells wouldn’t you?”

  “It’s my penance,” he says thoughtfully, his voice wavering. “I’ve wronged a great many people in the name of power and profit –”

  “Oh, fuck off, you half-baked gallant. Go find her, at least to save us from your one-liners.”

  He stiffens. “And what should I tell her? My own mother was responsible for her containment?”

  “You sent her mother-in-law to the ninth layer of hell with the rest of them. She'll slob on your knob for that.”

  His knuckles strain against the reins. And then they relax. “I’ll consider your counsel. I suppose it would be unseemly of me to appreciate your assistance with my mother.”

  I think that’s as close as I’m getting to a ‘thank you.’ I hear only the wind and the flap of leathery wings as we ascend. “Do you miss her?”

  He doesn’t answer for a moment. When he does, his voice barely holds together. “I miss that I never really had a mother to begin with.”

  My chest tightens. I pat him on his armored side. “Then don’t let this all be for nothing.”

  We reach the center of the city, and I risk a glance down. I’d fall for a full minute. Admittedly, it’s beautiful, lantern lights twinkling far below us. Victoria simply flaps in place. I reach overhead.

  My hand finds a smooth, curved, invisible wall. It’s absolutely rife with magic, far more than any mortal being could dispel. A faint resonance thrums with it – the eighth ley line.

  I bring my mandolin around and snap out my pick. I hover fingers over the strings, plucking harmonic tones and harnessing a connection. I grip it, channeling everything I’ve got. The ley line ignites like a bolt of lightning, coursing through me. Gritting, I steer an illusion from pink magic. It’s massive. I strain, holding it there.

  The illusion becomes a magical display against the dome wall, hundreds of feet across, floating in the sky within sight of every occupant. A bright instrumental version of the Biggest, Blackest Dragon – featuring a mandolin – blares as an introduction, drawing attention to the spinning pink heart in the middle of the display.

  Then, I appear against a white background.

  I look as I do now, fully armored and with my mandolin slung behind me. I’m standing with hands clasped and shortswords at my belt, whip coiled. The sun icon on my breastplate glints.

  “If I can draw your attention up here, Shirano, I’d like to personally bid you fine people a good evening.” My voice carries over the city. In the illusion, I put a hand over my chest and bow. “May I be the first to introduce myself if we’ve not met. I’m Chouncey of Seven Oaks, the Warchief of the Byrian Isles and chosen Champion of Iros, the Dawn Lord. Some of you know me as a bard of some renown, founder of Drowning Man, the world’s most prolific music festival. Others of you know me as a performer in both the fine and martial arts. And still, a select few of you know me as a breaker of chains.”

  Across the bottom of the display scroll translations in every language I know, delayed by a few moments.

  Is it working? I think over the chat.

  Yes, Deach says back. It’s definitely working.

  The street is full of people, Karla says. Some of them are cheering.

  “As you can see, we’ve entered a dark period for our beloved city. At the moment, it’s precisely –”

  Jingles, what time is it?

  Five fifty-six.

  “Five fifty-six in the evening, and there’s no sun to be seen. This is not the new normal, and you don't have to live with it. In fact, it’s time to be completely honest about what’s happening, seeing as your Ministry’s not.”

  In the illusion, I step aside. A model of Carolus’ head appears. His mouth is open, revealing sharpened incisors and red eyes. Pointers appear, labeling them. It spins. More faces appear in a similar state.

  “Chairman Baumbach is a centuries-old, powerful vampire lord. Ministers Miyake and Dupuy are also vampires of his making, as well as the late Minister Manchego. In fact, I found their blood slaves under the Palace during the recent Gala. If you’ve got any knowledge of vampires, you know that darkness suits them. The Chairman intends for this darkness to spread, and he’s locked us in, hoping to turn us into spawn, slaves to blood he’s holding. He’s gonna do this using your hard-earned gold he’s stolen over the years. And so, I’m asking for your help. Something terrible is coming, but it can be stopped.”

  The models disappear, and a pamphlet takes its place – the ones plastered all over the city. In the illusion, I gesture at it.

  “I’m sure you’ve seen these around. Give it another glance when you've got a moment. The only way we can starve Chairman Baumbach of his insane lust for gold and power is by stopping all labor. I’m talking to every worker. If you’ve got a contract, these are the luckiest days of your life. It’s not daytime, so you’re not required to work. It’s as simple as that. But don’t stop there – support each other and find a way to hamper production, services, sales, anything. And for those of you who’re night workers, do the least. Slow down, sabotage, find excuses, comply to the letter where it causes disruptions. And have fun - they hate that here.”

  I pause. I cling to the spell. Inside my head, the ripples flare. My ankle itches terribly. I have to be open about this. I’ve gotta share. I’ve gotta inspire millions of people to want change. I’ve gotta show them that there’s light to be found.

  “But why should you trust me? I’m sure you’re asking yourself that. I’ve got no business here, by all appearances. This isn’t the Byrian Isles. But that’s where we differ.”

  The pamphlet vanishes, and a symbol replaces it — a dragon's head.

  “This is a brand. I’ve got one on me now and for the rest of my life. Many of us on the Byrian Isles were slaves – we’re among you now, trying to carve out happiness for ourselves. Still, somehow, a certain class of people always finds a way to make that an impossible task. I’m here to stop it. I’m here to free more slaves, because that’s what you are, whether you realize it or not. You’re enslaved to your contracts, you’re enslaved to your expenses, you’re enslaved to the Chairman who wants you living alone in the dark, desperate for light, and he wants the blood and gold of you and your children for generations to come. If you don’t believe me, ask yourself what the Guild’s personally done for you. If it’s creating a job, ask yourself why you need that job to live in the first place. And why it’s never enough.”

  Richard’s gone quiet while watching the illusion, enraptured.

  Things are spicy down here, Mr. Seven Oaks, Oka says.

  Are you still okay? Sven asks.

  I’m doing just fine, I think. I’m shaking. I pause, forcing the words out. This is awfully hard.

  You’re doing great, Deach says.

  We’re here with you, Chouncey, says Lucy.

  Richard stiffly pats my knee. It only makes a clump in my throat.

  In the illusion, my voice hardens. “There’ll be no more slaves. Nobody else is property, not by ownership or contract. I’m asking you to join me in this. You’ve got nothing to lose but your chains – take it from someone who wore them. And if you’re thinking it’s an impossible feat, I thought the same once. But if there’s one thing these people hate, it’s ideas – especially ones saying that things can be better. On the Isles, we’ve got a famous story about a woman and a Titan. She says that any Titan who can be permitted to stand can be demanded to fall. We might think this Titan’s inevitable, but it’s made of Ministers and stakeholders, of slavers, and they’ve got names and addresses. They’ve got hearts between their ribs and lungs that need to be filled. We’ve permitted them to stand. Now, I’m demanding that they fall.”

  I pause again.

  “But I can't do it alone, and as I hear you’re fond of adventuring groups, let me introduce you to mine.”

  An indiscriminate figure strolls from behind me and stands silently at my side – they’ve got no discernible gendered features underneath the dark gray shirt and hakama they’re wearing. A single dagger is holstered at their side. A deep hood is pulled over their face. And a black, slitted mask is fitted over their eyes.

  “A few years ago, the Mask tried to assassinate one of your corrupt Ministers and was chucked in the deepest, darkest prison the Guild can offer – the Shadow Vault. The Guild’s got plenty to hide, and the Mask was rooting out the worst of your leadership. If that’s not a condemnation, I don’t know what is. But they’re back to try again. I’m sure you know them.”

  Over the humming of the wind, I swear I can hear ragged cheers drifting from below. In the illusion, Lucy appears in full armor beside me. She smiles coyly.

  “Lady Luciavir Mesura’s a noble from the Byrian council and no stranger to governance and property law. That’s right – we’ve got the backing of one of the oldest and proudest cities in the world, in case you Ministers were getting ideas about taking us out. She’s here to free slaves and fuck her husband, and her husband’s not around.” I wink.

  In the illusion, Richard steps out, joining the assembly in his silvered armor and deep purple cloak. He gives a curt bow, hand on his longsword.

  “I'm sure you're familiar with Senior Justicar Richard Manchego Ortega, highly capable warrior and lover of himself –”

  “You cur,” he hisses back at me.

  I stifle a laugh and keep concentrating.

  “He was being groomed by the Ministry, including his own late mother, to take charge of the justicar force, serving the interests of these vampiric profligates, especially once they turned him. Even the force dedicated to keeping order and law in Guildania would’ve been serving the Chairman’s interests. As you might guess, Richard's not doing that anymore.”

  In the illusion, the rest of the team steps out and assembles around me.

  “I’ve got other friends, and I’m sure you’ll see us around. You’re not alone – you’ve got a Champion doing what needs to be done. I’m here to help, but I need you to help me. Take care of each other, pool your resources, keep each other safe, don’t comply in advance, and don’t lose hope. And above all, stop laboring. Stop making these bloodsuckers rich. Stop hesitating. And when you think you’re alone in the darkness, remember the bard of Seven Oaks.”

  I once again put a hand on my chest and bow. I smile.

  “May the light find you ever so brightly in the darkness.”