“We will be ready,” Del’rek said.
“I admit,” Lindon went on, “I expected it to be harder to convince you to give up your territory.”
Larian gave a short laugh. “Ha! No. I’m ascending. You think I want to stay behind and police this place? I’m going to the heavens, and I’m taking my fortune with me.” Forlorn, she leaned over her driftwood bow, plucking its string. “If only I had a weapon worthy of my journey…”
From his soulspace, Lindon withdrew a bow.
It was sleek and blue, covered in fine scales. Its string crackled with lightning, and it gave off spiritual weight worthy of a Dreadgod weapon.
“I’ll leave naming it to you,” he said, presenting it to Larian. “There is no binding, as instead I dedicated its entire internal structure to conducting and magnifying your power. It should be highly compatible with your Path of Whispering Wind.”
The Bow Sage picked up her gray weapon and hurled it into the distance. With both hands, she cradled the Dreadgod weapon like it was a newborn baby.
“Sssshhh,” she whispered to the bow, “it’s okay, the scary man is gone. You’re with Mama now.”
“Why am I the scary man?” Lindon asked.
[You should be more disturbed that she referred to herself as ‘Mama.’]
Del’rek had traveled over to pick up Larian’s weapon. This place was a distortion of space, rather than solely a spiritual projection of their bodies. If Lindon had let it collapse, the bow might have ended up lying a thousand miles away.
He looked down to the weapon in clear disapproval. “You carried this bow for almost a century. It is disrespectful to treat it this way.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Larian said to her new bow. “He’s jealous.”
That reminded Lindon, and he looked up to Del’rek. “I had one more reason to meet with you all today. The Weeping Dragon doesn’t suit your Path quite as well, and I haven’t received the Wandering Titan’s corpse yet, but I did have…”
He withdrew another weapon from his soulspace. “…a piece of its sword.” A jet-black stone spear with a jagged obsidian spearhead; its spiritual pressure was in no way inferior to the bow.
Larian’s old driftwood bow clattered to the ground again as Del’rek snatched up the spear. It was sized to fit him.
“I didn’t have too many samples of your Path of Singing Bones,” Lindon said. “Let me know if it doesn’t fit you.”
Del’rek executed one half-speed spear thrust and the entire space trembled. “It’s beautiful. You didn’t make one of these for each of us, did you?”
“I can find a use for the other six. You two answered my call, so you—”
Larian appeared at his shoulder so fast that she reminded him strongly of Eithan. “It sure would be a shame to see those others go to waste.”
“They won’t be wasted. My sect follows many different Paths, so I can leave them behind.”
Del’rek looked at something in the distance. “Hm. Perhaps we should have kept ourselves quieter.”
“Quickly!” Larian cried. She grabbed Lindon. “I’ve always thought we had a beautiful friendship. Two kindred souls, you and me. Don’t you want to just give me all those other priceless weapons?”
The blue-white edges of the space trembled and a human man in golden armor staggered through. He had red hair, a wide smile, and a greenish cloud hovering over his head. “Whew, sorry I’m late, it’s amazing all the…traffic. You don’t happen to have a sword left, do you?”
A dark-skinned woman with burning purple hair appeared in the distance, creeping closer as though she meant to remain unseen. The bright gold of her armor would have made that impossible if her power hadn’t already given her away.
“Night looms over all of us,” she whispered. “We must chart our course with care, now that the maps have been burned.” She crept a little closer. “…I’ll take a dagger.”
Larian shook a fist at them and at the other gold-armored figures who poured out of nowhere. “Fiends! Jackals! Vultures! Get away!” She leaned closer to Lindon and rubbed her thumb and forefinger together. “Their greed is so obvious. Doesn’t it just make you want to teach them a lesson? By rewarding those of us who showed up first, for instance.”
Lindon pulled further weapons out of his soulspace.
He had prepared more than enough.
Princess R’leya of the Fractured Realms worried she was too late to stop the end of the world.
She stood in the wide ritual room at the top of the ancient Archmage’s Tower as a dozen of her kingdom’s finest wizards struggled to contain the spell they shaped together. The spell itself was an intricate three-dimensional tapestry of light and otherworldly energies, swirling in what resembled an endlessly exploding kaleidoscope.
On the wall behind the spell was a map of the Fractured Realms, marked with flags of various colors. By far, the most common flag was black.
The monsters were everywhere.
Zyrellon, Lord of the Broken, had conjured up his forces from places of darkness best unspoken. Dark Lords had risen and fallen throughout the long history of the Fractured Realms, but this one was…different. It was as though destiny itself bent to help him, giving him victory after victory.
Princess R’leya had only one duty left that had any chance of working: summoning heroes from another world.
Zyrellon had destroyed the first two heroes she’d summoned. He grew stronger both times, and now she feared he was unstoppable.
This would be her third and final attempt. After this, their fate would be truly irrevocable. Many of the oracles and seers of the Realms had already given up, telling her to surrender herself to the inevitability.
There was no point to that. If she was going to die either way, she might as well struggle to the very end.
One of the wizards called to her, and she grabbed her staff. Her part in the ritual had come.
She inserted the fist-sized diamond at the end of her staff into the spell and, as she felt magic drain from her, she cast her call into the place beyond the world.
“Heroes of realms beyond, hear me! Our world is in dire jeopardy. We face a threat we cannot withstand, and we need a warrior without peer. Without you, our—”
She cut off as she felt something grab the end of her spell. The spell, her staff, and all the light in the room instantly turned red.
Hands grabbed her and shoved her backward. Cuts appeared here and there on the skin of several wizards, as though the air itself turned to blades. Wind whipped so violently it was impossible to hear.
One elderly wizard, the most senior among them, put his mouth close to her ear so she could hear him shout, “Run! We’ll contain it!”
R’leya’s eyes spun. What were they panicking about? The hero summoning had succeeded, and so easily! Certainly, the power was frightening, but that was to be celebrated!
Then she looked deeper into the spell.
There, she saw visions of violence she could not comprehend. Monsters slain. Oceans of blood spilled. Flashing swords, battles, and violence beyond what her eyes could hold.
R’leya staggered toward the entrance of the room, but she was too late. There came a blinding flash of scarlet light with a silver edge.
As the light cleared, she turned to see what demonic warrior they’d summoned.
A girl emerged from the light—a girl who appeared to be only twenty years old—coughing and waving her hand in front of her mouth as though to blow away campfire smoke.
She wore smooth black armor, but no weapons R’leya could see. Her hair was equally black, with one lock dyed red. Her eyes were red as well, but otherwise she looked like the sort of girl R’leya could find anywhere in the Central Realm.
“Bleed and bury me,” the girl said. “Thought that would be a smoother trip.” The summoned girl looked around at the old men, who were conjuring defensive spells, and ultimately settled on Princess R’leya.