Готовый перевод История Королевы Эльфов / The story of the Elf Queen: Интерлюдия первая.

Interlude One.

* * *

The Underworld. The lands beneath the Royal Forest Palace. The Mansion of the House of Travil.

"No. No. Possible. No. Possible. Yes. Yes. Definitely not."

Having carefully made a final note with her enchanted quill, Zairal handed a scroll containing a rather lengthy list of various items to Luaval, who was sitting across from her at his desk. Luaval, who had already sorted through his own list, handed it back to Zairal, then took the one he'd offered and skimmed it. Or rather, the notes that had appeared on it. Well, everything was almost as he'd expected. He hadn't counted on most of the items Zairal had categorically rejected, adding them solely for bargaining purposes. On the key issues, however, things were far more encouraging. The situation with her list was almost identical, and he didn't doubt for a second that she, too, had added some obviously unacceptable items solely for the sake of being able to discard them.

Luaval chuckled to himself, picked up his pen, and began carefully crossing out some of the lines on his own list. Primarily, those concerning sexual pleasures. More precisely, the right to choose their location, form, and time. It was a shame, to say the least, but he had no one to blame but himself. He'd decided to indulge in some extra levity instead of ensuring the hunt was over. Now he'd be left with a bitter reminder that sexual pleasures should never take precedence over the main goal. But how tempting had been the idea of ​​enjoying her body right there... ah...

Having finished revising the list, crossing out some items and rewriting others with more lenient options, Luaval waited for Zairal to complete the same process with his own, after which they exchanged them again. This was repeated several more times, gradually discarding the chaff, until they finally arrived at a solution acceptable to both.

The gist of it was that Zairal agreed to officially join the House of Travil and become its Supreme Catcher. With the salary, duties, and rights that came with such a high status, albeit with some caveats. Zairal also agreed to bear her two remaining of her five children exclusively with Luaval. In fact, there was no problem with this point at all; he was more than suitable as a father. Much longer was required to negotiate and haggle over the timing and methods of conceiving these children. And there was even more, an order of magnitude more, debate regarding the children themselves.

Zairal's initial proposal—one boy and one girl, the first to be raised by Luaval, the second by herself—was categorically rejected. No, he knew who she would raise, given the chance. And in the end, not in a hundred, but in a thousand years, everything would return to where it began. But it's not a given that the House's rebirth will actually begin next time.

So, even after refusing some concessions from Zairal (including those concerning her rights in bed), Luaval categorically insisted: only joint parenting, regardless of the sex of any future children. Yes, joint parenting. Yes, even daughters, if there were two. And yes, no attempts to influence the sex of future children through alchemy, magic, or divine miracles. So to speak, everything was left to the will of Fate itself.

And of course, Zairal pledged herself, painstakingly sealed on the blood and altar of Damokar, to refrain from harming House Travil or its members, to prevent anyone else from harming House Travil or its members, to protect House Travil and its members, and to promote the revival of House Travil in every possible way. But... BUT! Not at the expense of its other members. None of the classic ones, so beloved by the dark firstborn—he/she is clearly a burden to our House and would clearly, absolutely, be much better off without them, so I'll spare us their presence! If, however, any member of the House, through their own stupidity or having fallen into the clutches of someone else's will, is caught by her as capable of, or intending to cause, any harm to the House through their actions, then she has the right to act independently. But only if, again, there is compelling reason to believe Luaval himself is compromised. What to do and who to turn to in the latter case had to be discussed separately and with particular care.

In fact, the finalization of the mutual oath took most of the time and effort. And only when it was perfected to the letter did Luaval, along with a not exactly pleased, but certainly satisfied, Zairal, head up. I mean, to the surface, to the Royal Palace. To one of the service and work buildings. There, in a room specially designated for such matters, a trio of elderly priests of Damokar from the temple in White Harbor, who were under permanent contract with the Forest, await them.

Also present was one of the Forest's masters of magic, specializing in magical oaths, including those sworn in blood. He was also a very skilled legal expert. The latter, however, also applied to the Oathkeeper's priests. All four had worked together for decades, knew each other well, and, importantly, all four were also long-standing and firmly bound by more than one oath, declaring secrecy regarding the contracts they swore to. So, while they were surprised by their dark elf "clients" or the contract of their oath, they showed no sign of it or commented on it.

Thanks to their experience, preparation for the ritual took relatively little time. A review of the text, which required just a couple of minor adjustments to eliminate any possibility of double interpretation. A check of the aspirants themselves to ensure the purity of their intentions and the absence of any traces of another's will. And finally, a short prayer to prepare the altar. When everything was ready, Luaval and Zairal simultaneously stained the altar of Damokar with their blood, placing their left palms upon it and clasping their cut right hands. At that very moment, a painful chill pierced both dark elves, followed by a wave of heat as the bonds of their mutual oaths bound them... not tightly, but very firmly. Breaking such an oath would be quite difficult. Which, in this case, suited both Luaval and Zairal just fine.

Unclasping their healed hands, the dark elves bid a brief but polite farewell to the trio of priests and the light elves, who were already awaiting their next clients. Their services were far from cheap, but Luaval was fully paid by the Forest (after all, working personally for Sivila has enormous advantages). Leaving the Royal Palace's service building with Zairal, they headed back to the Underworld, to their now-shared family mansion. Luaval, leading the way, was in high spirits. There was still another task ahead today, and an exceptionally pleasant one at that. Yes, overall, things had turned out quite well, though not as he'd planned. He might not have managed to secure a huntress concubine, but a capable Supreme Catcher, whose loyalty he could be reasonably confident of even by the standards of his kind, was also an excellent acquisition.

Glancing sideways at Zairal, who was walking to his left and slightly behind him, Luaval noticed a faint, but distinct and satisfied smile on her face. Interesting...

"A smile suits you much better."

Now the Supreme Catcher of the House of Travil instantly assumed a perfectly haughty expression. However, her smile remained intact.

"I have a reason for it. After all, just recently I lost everything I had: servants, property, my place at the top of my House, the House itself. And now I have a House again, and I'm already at its top. True, it's not exactly grand yet, but that's entirely fixable..."

Luaval chuckled and said with a hint of amusement.

"Of course. I can even tell you the first and easiest step."

Zairal narrowed her eyes slightly and smiled even wider, though she still retained her haughty expression.

"I would prefer to wait with conceiving a fourth child until I have fully settled into my new House."

“You have every right,” Luaval shrugged.

They didn't specify a specific timeframe for when Zairal would once again accept the mother lot (and it wouldn't be the first time she fully accepted it). Or rather, the new Supreme Catcher was willing to conceive a fourth child, even in the near future, but with the condition of her original offer: a son for Luaval, a daughter for her. So, he had to sacrifice his right to choose the time, in exchange for...

Entering the silently swinging doors of the mansion, Luaval reacted instantly, shifting to the side while assuming a fighting stance. Zairal also reacted instantly, raising her right hand in front of her and grasping the projectile flying straight at her. It was a small, slightly larger than a quail egg, light, almost weightless, elastic, and very bouncy orange ball, and it even glowed. Clenching it in her fist, the Supreme Catcher cursed softly through clenched teeth, her eyes blazing with anger. Her reply was loud and disgruntled.

"Uaaaaaaaa!!!"

Siera, who had just greeted Luaval, held a noticeably larger Diarval in her arms. With one hand, the kicking toddler unexpectedly clutched a lock of his mother's hair, while in the other, he clutched a small wooden stick with a rounded cap, waving it furiously. Grimacing in displeasure, Zairal opened her hand, and the glowing ball instantly shot toward Diarval, hovering a moment later precisely above the cap. With a joyful coo, he waved his stick again, and the ball flew off the cap with considerable speed, bounced off the floor, and hurtled toward Luaval. Raising his right hand, Luaval caught it, a couple of palms away from his face, eliciting another disgruntled "Wa ..."

Releasing the ball, he headed toward his wife, who was studiously ignoring the fact that her frustrated son had begun tugging at her hair. However, when Luaval and Zairal approached her, her face immediately twisted in displeasure, and she grumbled.

"Did you really have to give him that damn toy?"

At that moment, Diarval waved his wand again, sending the ball released by Luaval rapidly flying as a glowing point across the entire first floor of the mansion, bouncing off the walls, floor, and ceilings.

"Absolutely," Luaval nodded immediately, his face completely serious. "Because I didn't have one like that as a child, but I really wanted one."

At that moment, Siera and Zairal snorted and rolled their eyes in surprising unison. The latter even shifted her head slightly to avoid a flying ball, prompting another disgruntled coo from Diarval. Luaval, grinning, looked meaningfully at his fellow tribeswomen and said.

"Just don't make those faces. Look me both in the eye and tell me you didn't have a toy like this when you were a kid, one you really wanted, but your elders wouldn't let you have?"

Both dark ones snorted simultaneously again. But a few seconds later, Siera intercepted Diarval, who was still waving his enchanted wand and tugging at his hair, and said.

"Like this? No."

Under Luaval's questioning and suspicious gaze, she explained somewhat reluctantly.

"As a child, I dreamed of a magic wand, the kind used by the most senior and trusted servants to move heavy furniture and other objects. I even managed to steal one. Later, though, I deeply regretted it; my mother gave me a terrible scolding..."

Having lost most of its speed, the ball returned to Diarval, who launched it into flight again. Luaval asked with interest.

"For stealing a valuable amulet?"

"Of course not,” Siera rolled her ruby ​​eyes, “I used it to trip up the eldest of my cousins, causing her to fall down the stairs in a very amusing way, right onto one of the slave servants."

Grimacing, either from the unpleasant memories or from the fact that Diarval continued to pull her hair with his other hand, she reluctantly added.

"But I was still just a girl, and I was caught almost immediately. For that, in fact, my mother gave me a scolding, thoroughly explaining that in such matters, the main thing is not to get caught..."

Not forgetting to watch the enchanted ball bouncing back and forth, Luaval nodded with a wry smile.

"So familiar, it’s not the fault of what you did, but the fact that you got caught..."

"I dreamed of the Living Fetters that the best of Spider's students had," Zairal said, involuntarily grimacing at the memory of the former Matriarch. "They're also very convenient and easy to trip up. And also to catch any onlookers with them..."

Turning to Zairal, Siera cast a keen glance at her and asked in a restrained voice.

"Have you managed to come to an agreement, or will she finally leave our House?"

Her answer was a frankly smug and dark elven arrogant smile from Zairal.

"From this day forward, this is my House too, my dear. And no matter how you grimace, rest assured that as the new Supreme Catcher, I will do everything in my power to make it great again."

In Siera's return glance, even though Diarval continued to tug her hair with one hand, there was no less of the standard dark elven arrogance and haughtiness.

"I sincerely hope that this time you will do better, and that my husband will not have to disown you and sell you for a cheap price."

"My dears..."

With one sharp and completely unexpected movement, Luaval pulled both elves towards him, hugging them tightly around the waist, and with a hint of joy in his voice, he said.

".. I remind you that if you want to sort things out, then please do it in my presence, naked and covered in oil."

Zairal, who had tensed up for a moment but then relaxed almost immediately, snorted haughtily and carefully moved away.

"I have more important things to do. First, I need to settle into my quarters and obtain all the necessary access so that the defense of our now House doesn't consider me an enemy."

"Everything's already done. I've prepared in advance. Your quarters are also ready. The servants will show you around. You can settle in," Luaval nodded calmly, simultaneously moving his hand from Siera's waist a little lower.

Folding her arms across her chest, Zairal looked at him with mild interest and the slightest feigned distrust.

"Were you so sure that I would agree?"

"Not at all. I was a little worried that the Underground Corps commanders would lure you away, but I still hoped we could agree."

Smiling again, Zairal bowed her head slightly in farewell and headed for her assigned quarters, following one of the maids waiting on the side. When she left, Siera, who had followed her with a haughty gaze, turned to Luaval and asked bluntly, in a displeased voice.

"May I know what you promised her, or how you paid her, that she decided to become part of our House? And under what conditions?"

Smiling slightly in response, Luaval, without ceasing to caress his wife’s lower back, calmly replied.

"I took advantage of perhaps one of the greatest weaknesses of all dark firstborn maidens - their often disproportionate pride.:

Ignoring Sierra, who winced slightly (although it was possible that this was not due to his words, but to Diarval’s latest jerk), he added.

"The opportunity not only to find a new House, but to immediately rise to its pinnacle, and then help it achieve greatness—this means a lot to someone who was deprived of it all. First and foremost, to herself."

Slightly narrowing her eyes, Siera leaned slightly away from the ball that flew back to her son, which was immediately launched back into a bounce all over the first floor, and asked incredulously.

"And you definitely didn't promise her some incredible stupidity in return?"

"At first, that's exactly what she wanted, but I managed to talk her out of it. And don't worry too much about yourself and our baby—I've made sure to avoid the kind of entertainment so beloved by maidens and matrons of our kind, the extermination of their own relatives. But..."

Here, Luaval looked meaningfully into his wife’s eyes.

"It works both ways."

She curled her lips in displeasure and muttered.

"You don't have to worry about that. No matter how much she irritates me, I'm not stupid enough to challenge the Supreme Catcher. Especially..."

Siera carefully grabbed Diarval to get a more comfortable grip.

".. with such an eternally hungry load on my hands."

Taking a deep breath, she curled her lips again in displeasure and sighed heavily.

"It's just time for another bath and a change of clothes for him. And then it's time to go to bed..."

Smiling slightly, Luaval saw his wife off to the baths, his son still waving the toy. Oh... How he'd longed for a toy like that as a child... A toy, not those damned training wands with which his mentors and tutors launched those same swift, but not light, and quite painful projectiles! Memories of a very happy childhood, full of care from older relatives in general, and his own mother in particular, made him want to do something very bad...

Okay. Okay. He'd settle this matter someday. He definitely would. All he needed to do was find his dear mother, whom he now knew for sure was alive. And maybe some other surviving relatives who had changed Houses. And a couple of Matriarchs, Rean on Kharan. So much for that. But to make that easier, he first needed to revive the House his dear mother had ruined. Which, in fact, was what he was going to do today.

With a predatory smile, Luaval headed to the second floor of the mansion, to one of the guest chambers, informing the senior servant via a communicator amulet not to be disturbed until tomorrow. Inside, everything was already prepared; the only thing missing was the Patriarch of the once-great House of Travil himself.

Ciadal, clad only in a thin white leather collar adorned, as Luaval had promised, with gold, sat on the edge of her bed. Over the past few hours, his first—and, it was hoped, not last—concubine had settled into her new surroundings. Her demeanor was astonishing, even incredibly modest, by Dark Elf standards. There wasn't a hint of the proverbial pride or arrogance, let alone rudeness, not to mention toward Siera or Zairal, or even toward the household servants. And in her dealings with Luaval, she was downright silken. Without knowing, one might have suspected the work of a master of Mind Magic.

It was difficult to say what played the key role in these changes, which Luaval considered to be entirely positive. Perhaps it was the rescue from the thrice-cursed Vault of Kardarot, where countless denizens of the Undeworld had perished over the centuries. Perhaps it was the complete and instantaneous healing of the subtle body mutilated in that Vault. Perhaps it was the fact of who Luaval had turned out to be. Although it was likely a combination of all three. It's interesting; you'd really have to hire a brain-twist to find out what exactly she thought of him. Or rather, who she thought he was.

It was hard not to guess that he worked for the Forest, or rather, for the Queen herself—she already knew that. And Sivila, honoring their agreement, had found time to visit and feed Diarval more than once in the past few days. But what exactly was Luaval doing for her, if he'd been granted access to undoubtedly incredibly valuable resources and/or artifacts for healing Ciadal's subtle bodies... And if you add to that the rumors she'd heard about the true identity of that half-elf boy...

Then the behavior of his new concubine no longer raises so many questions. Just like the fact that she voluntarily took on the care and maintenance of a significant portion of the mansion's household weavings. The work is indeed very responsible and not at all shameful, even for a Dark Firstborn. Okay, maybe the most routine maintenance of such weavings can be entrusted to the most valuable and well-trained of the gifted household slaves. But otherwise, such tasks were always entrusted only to trusted members of the House. Household weavings—keeping water clean and warm, keeping supplies fresh, or even refreshing and purifying the air—are sometimes no less important than defensive or offensive weavings.

And if Ciadal weren't now bound to Luaval by more than reliable oaths, including blood oaths, certified and sealed by those same four specialists (it's so good that the Forest pays for their services), he would never have let her near them. But why not? She was quite well versed in them, and for her, it was, after all, additional practice. Although in the near future, it would become practically her only magical practice.

Looking his concubine over from head to toe, Luaval smiled with anticipation. She was completely prepared, having visited the baths today and painstakingly made herself beautiful. Her hair was perfectly combed, falling down her back and shoulders like a silken cascade, and her skin glowed faintly from the expensive aromatic oil. Cleaning the linens afterwards would be a real hassle, but it was worth it. Luaval nodded slightly as his concubine rose to her feet and bowed, then silently pointed to a carved light-wood figurine standing on a small table at the head of the bed. It depicted a woman in loose robes, a hood over her head, pressing both hands to her rounded belly. A carefully adorned relic of the Life-Giver (also not cheap), it was intended to assist the expectant mother in every way, from conception to pregnancy and, of course, childbirth. And to protect the future baby from possible health problems.

A small glass vial of golden liquid—Gaia's Grace (another not-so-cheap pleasure)—sat on the table in front of the figurine. Approaching the relic with Ciadal, Luaval touched the statuette simultaneously. A moment later, he felt a wave of warmth roll from his fingertips down his arm, then down to his lower abdomen, igniting desire. Ciadal, having received her share of the blessing, felt something similar. She then downed the vial of Gaia's Grace in one gulp.

By the time Luaval had stripped off his clothes, simply tossing them to the floor, his concubine had already settled back on the bed and, with a few graceful movements, displayed the Catcher's superb flexibility, swinging both legs behind her head, striking an incredibly seductive pose. Burning with impatience, further enhanced by the blessing he had received, Luaval pulled Ciadal toward him, running his palms over her flat stomach and up to her breasts, which had already expanded somewhat, thanks to alchemy. Feeling the oiled skin beneath his fingers, beneath which the toned muscles of this rather impressive Hunter were concealed, was a distinct pleasure. Squeezing her breasts a few times, he leaned forward, kissing his concubine while simultaneously gently entering her...

The melody of the communication amulet, which allowed him to be summoned at any moment by a single woman in the entire world, caused Luaval to pull away abruptly and freeze. For a few moments, he stood there, holding his concubine by the waist and thrusting himself fully into her, while Ciadal, uncomprehending, looked up at him. Heaving a heavy sigh, he placed a finger to her lips with one hand and raised the other toward the garment lying on the floor. A special communication amulet immediately emerged from its folds, which Luaval clutched tightly, accepting the call.

//"I really hope this is something really important, Sivila."

The queen's voice was deadly serious, utterly devoid of any hint of humor. Skipping the greeting, she got straight to the point.

//"Andarial has managed to spot Master's trail. You'll set out early in the morning with Twilight's group."

Fuck. Luaval said a lot more in his head, only through experience preventing these thoughts from being aired.

//"But they're covering up..."

//"Temporarily not. Circumstances have suddenly changed; I'll give you more details later."

//"Okay. So where are we going?"

//"To the ruins of Diyarten. The trail that Andarial saw led to the very passage through which the Terror had appeared."

Fuuuuck... This time there were even more thoughts, and preventing them from getting "aired" turned out to be an order of magnitude more difficult.

//"Is this for sure? Is she absolutely sure?"

//"Absolutely. The trail leads there. Gather everything you need. You and Twilight's group will be given the best equipment and artifacts from the Forest's reserves."

//"It's not easy to get in there; the hall itself collapsed, and the neighboring ones..."

//"I know this as well as you do. Do as you see fit. The route is entirely at your discretion. You will be provided with everything possible. You know what's at stake."

//"Of course... I'll be ready by morning."

//"I never doubted you."

Well, of course.

//"Luaval. Thank you."

//"We'll discuss the form and posture of gratitude when and if I return."

Having concluded the conversation, Luaval let out a heavy, resigned groan, tossing the amulet back into the pile of his clothes. Turning to the bewildered Ciadal, he said sadly.

"I was planning to make this night last a very long time... But now I have to change my plans..."

Closing his eyes, Luaval silently whispered a short prayer to the Life Giver and, gripping his concubine tighter, began to thrust his hips rapidly. The result was disgustingly vulgar and fleeting. The only thing that saved the situation was Gaia's blessing, which intensified all sensations and made the result even more powerful. Ciadal couldn't hold back a genuine cry, and Luaval groaned loudly. Simultaneously, the Life Giver symbol on his concubine's belly glowed golden for a few seconds.

A moment later, Luaval, breathing heavily, took a step back, his heart pounding and sweat breaking out all over his body. Gaia's blessing, now fully transferred to Ciadal, had worked flawlessly. But as a result, right now, more than anything, Luaval wanted to collapse onto the bed next to her and sleep for ten hours. Or more. Alas, instead, he kissed Ciadal again, briefly informing her that he had urgent business for the good of the Forest.

Afterward, he quickly dressed, without even properly tidying himself up, and headed for the chambers assigned to Zairal. Stopping before them, he knocked loudly and insistently several times. His new Supreme Catcher, despite it being well past her time to rest, opened the doors within ten seconds, looking extremely displeased and with her hair disheveled. She wore only a single black silk bedgown. Or rather, calling it a "bedgown" was a very loose term, as it was tailored in the style of the Dark Firstborn.

"What happened?" Despite her disgruntled appearance, Zairal's voice was collected and serious.

At dawn, we set out into the depths of the Wild Territories. The Forest has promised to supply us with the best, so bring whatever gear you choose.

Without showing any surprise, Zairal simply nodded briefly and asked.

"Is it known where exactly we are heading?"

"Oh yes, and I have no doubt you will like it."

* * *

Underground. Somewhere in the depths of the Wild Territories.

The underground hall was quite large by Underground standards; one could even say, without exaggeration, large. Not so vast that a full-fledged underground city could be built in it, but quite large. At the center, it narrowed considerably due to the protruding side walls. This, combined with the very low ceilings, again by Underground standards, made the center of the hall an ideal place to build a fortification, from floor to ceiling.

And it was there. The massive stone walls, with their narrow loopholes and projecting towers, seemed monolithic, indicating the work of skilled geomancers. In front of the walls, a deep ditch had been carved into the stone floor of the underground chamber, preceded by another, smaller wall. In the center of the wall, in front of the suspension bridge, stood a separate small fortification. In short, everything was constructed in the best traditions of dwarven fortification. Thus, the fortress, whose main walls rose from floor to ceiling, completely divided the underground chamber into two roughly equal parts.

The section before the fortifications had four passages leading from other underground chambers, and in front of each of them there were traces of fortifications to block these passages. But unlike the main fortress, these were clearly unfinished. This section of the underground chamber could be described as either wild or external—there were no structures here, and virtually no underground flora, or, consequently, fauna. Only scattered rubble and bare rock, no doubt left over from the construction of the main fortress, and a couple of completely exhausted small mines in the side walls, where, judging by everything, either crystals or metals were mined.

But the second part of the underground chamber, located behind the fortress that blocked it, could well be called living. Or inhabited. Only a single passage led into and out of it, a relatively narrow one at that, blocked by very solidly constructed fortifications. A spring of groundwater, pure groundwater at that, gushed from a side wall, forming a small underground lake with clearly man-made banks. It occupied about a third of the entire area of ​​this part of the underground hall. The presence of water, coupled with a high magical background (again, by Underground standards), nourished the subterranean flora.

And not just any flora, but cultivated underground flora. The majority of the remaining two-thirds of the underground hall was occupied by numerous raised beds, fed by narrow channels cut directly into the floor from the small lake. Along the side walls, partially extending into their thickness, were various utility and residential buildings, also in the traditions of dwarven architecture—massive, powerful, and substantial.

And all of this had been abandoned long ago. A very long time ago. The once-perfect underground gardens had grown monstrously overgrown and shrunk considerably, or even degenerated entirely. The fortress itself, as well as the residential and outbuildings, were completely empty. What compelled the dark dwarves—and they clearly built this fortress—to abandon such a convenient location by the standards of the Underground remains a mystery. The ancient fortifications bore no traces of battle whatsoever. Only the faint, almost deadened echo of the defensive and offensive weaves embedded within the walls. And nothing more.

A thorough search of all the rooms revealed virtually nothing of value. Only obvious trash, such as broken pots, almost completely rotted, broken furniture, and rotted fragments of something completely incomprehensible. Only a couple of dwarven blacksmithing and stone-cutting tools were found. Everything indicated that the inhabitants of this place had simply abandoned it overnight, taking with them everything they could.

And this was something Miranthir didn't like at all. Not at all. While the first of the Sun-faced Heralds might not have been a great connoisseur of the realities of this thrice-cursed place, devoid of HIS rays, he didn't need to be one to guess that such convenient places to live weren't abandoned so easily. Especially after investing so much effort into them—the fortress, according to the Dark Dwarf slaves he'd freed, was clearly ancient, but quite impressive. Whoever built it had invested heavily in it. They wouldn't have abandoned it without a very serious reason, and certainly not without a fight. And that alone was serious cause for concern. And the fact that no one else, intelligent or otherwise, had settled here after the Dark Dwarfs left wasn't even cause for concern, but rather a cause for alarm! And if he had his way, he wouldn't linger in this place a single moment longer.

But to his immense, seemingly endless frustration and quiet anger, right now Miranthir, like those he found here, those who followed him, was forced to linger in this abandoned fortress. Because escaping the accursed Underground was proving far more difficult than the Herald had expected! Having freed the vile mind-eater slaves he had so conveniently stumbled upon, Miranthir fervently hoped that among them there would be someone who would show him the shortest route to the surface. Anyone. Anyone! The main thing for him was to find himself in the open air, and then he would easily be able to reach HIM.

But thanks to those same brain-eaters, there were none among the slaves, for they had been stripped of all "extra" memory. Very convenient. Disgusting, but convenient. But he didn't despair, for he had hope in the trio of dark elves and several other former slaves, including a pair of goblins, surprisingly intelligent by the standards of their race. All of them had clearly known the Underground and been able to navigate it in the past. And all of them were more than sincerely trying to find a way out, in every underground hall their swollen and extremely motley company entered. But all was in vain. Not a single one of them had an exit!

It was possible, quite possible, that the adjacent halls had exits to the surface. But, again, to Miranthir's impotent rage, they had no way to linger in one place and conduct a proper search. He seriously doubted that the Ilithids would ignore the brazen murder of three of their kind and the liberation of the slaves. His scouts strongly supported that doubt. Therefore, they needed to get as far and as quickly as possible from their camp and the hive city. Had Miranthir moved alone, or with a small group, it wouldn't have been much of a problem. But he couldn't abandon those who now followed him. Those who believed in him.

For it was their faith, not least of all, that was now the main thing sustaining him in this thrice-cursed place, deprived of sunlight. And a crowd of nearly three hundred, laden to boot, could not move quickly. And, what's worse, unnoticed. Therefore, since their liberation, their detachment had moved almost continuously, making only short rest stops. They needed to get as far away from the camp and possible pursuit as possible.

It was exhausting. They had to move through the Wild Territories, where dangers abounded. They had to be constantly on guard and watch where they were going. For now, two things saved them. The first was that a divine Herald, even in a mortal body, has virtually no need for sleep. So Miranthir was practically always on guard. The second was the presence among the rescued slaves of those who knew how to navigate the Underground and, more importantly, how to guide others through it. Leadership in this matter was given to a trio of dark elves, who ultimately proved to be the most experienced in matters of reconnaissance. Theirs was no more difficult than anyone else's. They were constantly forced to venture ahead to scout a safe route, while simultaneously searching for signs of an exit to the surface.

If it weren't for them, the motley crew would have had every chance of being halved, given the number of dangers lurking in the Wild Territories of the Underground. And if they hadn't acted with precision and coordination under the Herald's leadership, keeping an eye on their surroundings and keeping the weapons captured from the mind-eaters' camp at the ready. To Miranthir's particular joy, the slaves he rescued, despite their rather motley composition, offered virtually no complaints. Sure, they glanced sideways at each other and especially at the deep-sea fishmen, cursed, cursed their former masters, and denounced the Wild Territories, but they stubbornly pressed forward, never forgetting to keep an eye on their surroundings. Minor conflicts inevitably occurred, but Miranthir tried to nip them in the bud, which, on the whole, he was quite successful in doing. However, the most important thing in maintaining discipline was that they could only survive together.

Even the trio of dark elves and the few other rescued slaves who could navigate the Underground would have been highly unlikely to survive if left alone. The Wild Territories were all around them. Their destination, thanks to the memory-stealing mind-eaters, was utterly unclear. And even if they knew where the nearest underground city was and how to get there, it was far from certain that those who decided to try their luck alone would have been welcomed there, or that they would have been trapped in further slavery. So, gritting their teeth, the rescued slaves stubbornly pressed onward, under Miranthir's guidance and protection.

They were practically walking at random, trusting the instincts of the three dark elves. Because there was nothing else to rely on. Everyone was really hoping they could find a way to at least reach the nearby Neutral Territories, where it was far less dangerous, and there was a much better chance of finding the damned exit! And, to the three dark firstborn's credit, their instincts hadn't failed them so far.

Over the course of time, the detachment had successfully navigated dozens of different underground chambers, including some quite challenging to navigate (but the alternatives were always even worse). And yet, only fifteen men perished. During a rest stop, the trio of fishmen was dragged away by some deep-sea creature lurking in a narrow underground stream. The fishmen's hunter-warriors had inspected the stream, understanding better than anyone how treacherous the dark waters of the Underground were. But the creature proved more cunning and wily, skillfully concealing the entrance to its lair, which, it turned out, led through narrow cracks somewhere deep within.

As a result, when the tribe of fishmen, already suffering from the long journey through several underground halls, settled down in a backwater of the river to rest and catch some aquatic life, the creature made its move, carrying off a couple of fry and the elder who was tending them. No one had time to do anything. The only thing Miranthir prevented was the reprisal of a pair of hunters who had proved insufficiently alert for overlooking the section of the river where the camouflaged lair was located.

Another human and his dwarven companion were caught in a treacherous magical anomaly while the party was camping in another hall after yet another march. This rare abomination, generated by the magical atmosphere of the Underground, was practically unnoticeable until someone large and alive was nearby. As a result, both unfortunates were literally incinerated by a crimson flame erupting from narrow, inconspicuous cracks in the floor, evoking rather unpleasant memories in the Herald. Several other rescued slaves were severely burned, but Miranthir managed to perform a miraculous healing, although one human woman and a sturdy half-orc had to be temporarily placed on carts specially designed for the Underground, pulled by lizards.

Two more humans and a goblin fell victim to their own endless stupidity, managing to pick large, juicy berries from the numerous bushes growing there while crossing one of the underground chambers. Even though the same elven scouts and some dark dwarves had told EVERYONE that these bushes were poisonous! But no, the goblin risked trying one, trusting his stomach. And when the berry turned out to be incredibly sweet, he immediately decided it was definitely edible, and that the pointy-eared and bearded ones had gotten something wrong. So he shared some with his friends. No, he was partly right – he only collapsed after a whole handful, while for the humans, just one was enough to kill them almost immediately. By the time the alarm was raised, even Miranthir was too late to save them.

The rest fell victim to attacks by the underground beasts, which had nonetheless risked taking on the unusually large pack of bipeds, and which had managed to strike suddenly. Most of the underground creatures had sensed the Herald's power, which he didn't exactly conceal. They also saw that the biped pack was large and dangerous, meaning they could run into them themselves. But some of the creatures still risked attacking, confident in their stealth. One of them, a former cave flyer mutated into a full-blown monster by wild magic, even managed to escape with its prey.

The remaining creatures, though they had managed to collect their bloody toll, were killed either by Miranthir or by the reactive former slaves and fishmen, who used battle staffs and amulets. And ultimately, these creatures were fed to the former followers of the Deep One, who could seemingly devour everything that inhabited the Underground. And not only that. Miranthir had to explain to them separately, in all seriousness, that they could no longer eat corpses of their own. No. Even if they were delicious. Yes, they would have to give them up. Yes, this way and no other way! No, not even a piece of them!

With some difficulty, he managed to convey to the fish-folk that cannibalism—a practice they had never once shied away from—was unacceptable. Although he sensed they did not truly grasp the reasons for such wastefulness, the threat of losing Mirantir’s new gifts of ready-made food worked perfectly.

All in all, such minor losses could be considered an excellent result, yet even they were deeply painful. For at this juncture, the loss of a single follower—of anyone who believed in him—could prove fatal for Mirantir. One cannot help but grasp what it must have been like for Him during those harrowing years when everyone—in all seriousness—called Solar Iiastar the Last City to survive the onslaught of the Great Horde.

Thus, Herald strove with all his might to protect those who walked beside and behind him. Several times, he was forced to unleash his power when the party encountered truly dangerous denizens of that loathsome place—creatures confident in their own strength that dared to openly test their fangs against the pack of bipeds. They had underestimated Mirantir’s power—power he had, in fact, been partially concealing. Ultimately, both predators felt the might of the First of HIS Heralds. Yet neither the massive, insect-like beast—larger than a draft horse and resembling the twisted offspring of a praying mantis and a scorpion—nor the predatory amphibian—only slightly smaller and akin to a giant newt—had time to even feel surprise. Mirantir’s beams struck down both predators with a single, precise blow.

It demanded a great deal of energy—especially given the circumstances. Fortunately, however, the faith of his new followers compensated for the strain, even if the process was slower than he might have liked. This was particularly true of the former followers of the Deep One who had turned to the Eternal Sun; they were absolutely elated by the victory over both predators and proceeded to butcher and devour them with incredible speed. Their feasts were, of course, a rather unsightly spectacle—but this allowed them to conserve the supplies taken from the slave camp, which were dwindling inexorably by the day with no real opportunity to replenish them.

In fact, it was precisely this—combined with the mortals' growing need for proper rest—that compelled Mirantir to order the group to make camp after their latest trek and organize a search for a location suitable for a prolonged halt. There was also the fact that none of the scouts had spotted any signs of pursuit by those accursed mind-eaters; while this was a relief, it also raised concerns that they were heading into regions of the Underworld where even the Illithids dared not venture.

And at first, he was sincerely glad when one of the dark elves, returning from reconnaissance, with her eyes almost glowing, reported that she had found an abandoned fortress of dark dwarves a few halls from where the detachment was staying.

And he was not the only one. Everyone—especially the rescued slaves—was overjoyed at the chance to finally catch their breath and rest. They regarded the abandoned fortress they had discovered—which, as it turned out, contained a plentiful supply of edible flora and fungi—as nothing less than a gift from Fate itself. Yet, very quickly, those among the rescued slaves who hailed from the Underworld drew Mirantir’s attention to the place’s unsettling features. But to leave—once the party had already occupied it... leaving proved impossible.

Everyone needed rest. Especially the females and young fishmen, since the last four halls had virtually no sources of the water they needed. Yes, they could survive without it for a while. But not for too long. Now, they were practically blissfully basking in the small lake here. Naturally, after their warrior-hunters, along with Miranthir, had thoroughly checked it, ensuring that no predatory creatures had lurked there. And by the Eternal Sun, he would be sincerely pleased if any of the Deep One's spawn were discovered there. Surprisingly, it would bring peace to everyone, as it would explain why the dark dwarves had long ago abandoned this place.

But only a few species of underground, practically blind fish were found in the pond. Some were perfectly edible, and the fish-people's warrior-hunters immediately began mercilessly catching them. Some were eaten on the spot; the rest were stored for future use. The rescued brain-eater slaves were divided by Miranthir into two groups. The first took up defensive positions on the fortress walls and the passage leading from the living quarters of the hall. It took a fair amount of effort, of course, to raise the bridge and close the gates, but fortunately the dwarves had figured out their relatives' mechanisms.

The second group went to rest first, settling in the living quarters along the side walls. After these had been thoroughly inspected, some of the rescued slaves, after their first proper rest in a long time, relieved their comrades on duty, while the rest began hastily harvesting all the edible flora that had grown in the local gardens. Some dug up moss in the overgrown fields and beds around the small lake, some gathered edible mushrooms, and others kept an eye on the underground stag beetles that had been literally released into the gardens.

Well, the scouts, having rested and replenished their supplies, were sent to check the neighboring halls to figure out their next move. Or perhaps even finally find the damned exit from this Underfround. Most likely, they'll have to spend a few days here, which are very limited by the Underground's realities, to gather all the supplies and give the mortals a rest. Then they'll have to move on. The only question is where...

"Radiant One!!!"

An excited shout from behind made Mirantir—who was watching the wilder section of the hall through a tower loophole alongside several rescued slaves—spin around sharply. Laanél, one of the two dark elf women rescued from the slave camp, came running up to him; she had practically flown up the spiral staircase and was breathing heavily. By the standards of her kin, she looked utterly disheveled—and that was putting it mildly. She wore only short breeches and a vest—the sort of extremely simple, rough attire worn by most of the rescued slaves. To make matters worse, she was smeared—as was the elf herself—with the mixture of subterranean herbs and fungi that scouts used to mask their scent. In the perpetual darkness or gloom of the Underworld, one might not even immediately recognize her as a dark elf. Yet, neither she nor her two kin cared in the slightest about their appearance at that moment; it had receded not just to the background, but to the very bottom of their priorities. A single goal took precedence above all else: survival.

After briefly glancing at the scout who had returned too quickly and reminding himself to reprimand the sentries who had not reported her return, Miranthir, sensing something bad, briefly ordered:

"Report."

Falling to her knee before him, she raised her burning eyes to the Herald and blurted out, breathing heavily.

"Found it! The exit! In the next hall!"

For a moment, Mirantir froze, taking in what he had heard. And then.

"Where?! How far?! Where does it lead?!"

Laanel, who was still breathing heavily and was all in a lather, and who had obviously been running, began to babble.

"The hall next to the one accessed by the passage from the living area! On the opposite side! I can't say where it leads; I didn't dare go close."

Licking her dry lips, Laanel, who had regained her breath a little, explained.

"The living dead. Many of them. And clearly some of them are strong."

"How did you find out? Did they spot you?" Mirantir asked sharply, having managed to send the remaining scouts, via the amulets they had taken from the camp, an order to return immediately and for the former slave brigade commanders to report to their posts.

"I understood from the tracks, Radiant One." Laanel shook her head. "The living dead use that exit. Not often, but for a very long time, which is why there are so few animals around. Moreover, the surface smells strongly of grave dust and rot. So much so that it even overpowers the Underground background in most of the hall."

The living dead... An old and very familiar enemy. So much the better! Miranthir nodded, narrowing his eyes unkindly, and said with satisfaction.

"You have done well, Laanel. Your deed will not be forgotten."

"Thank you, Oh Radiant One. I am happy to serve you!"

The dark elf's face literally lit up, and she quickly bowed down, folding her hands in a prayer gesture, which she had managed to memorize perfectly. Mirantir mentally allowed himself a short grin. The Dark One never lied; he felt this clearly. As well as the tiny ray of faith coming from her. But he also perfectly understood her quite prudent motive. Having lost all memory of her own past, yesterday’s slave of the Ilitids really wanted to curry favor with him. And thereby earn yourself a completely comfortable life in the lands of the Eternal Sun. As, indeed, were two of her other relatives, and a considerable part of other slaves.

Well, she truly deserved his favor. Now all that remains is...

Looking around at the commanders of the former slave brigades who had quickly come running to him, Mirantir said briefly.

"General assembly. We'll move out as soon as the rest of the scouts return. Laanel has finally found a way out of this damned place."

The elf's face brightened even more at these words, despite being dark. Most of the commanders were genuinely delighted, but some simultaneously experienced bouts of burning envy and anger toward the lucky, pointy-eared bitch.

* * *

The lands of the Dead North. Arnag Fortress, on the outskirts of Arngarad, the capital of the Duchy of Araanag, a province of the former kingdom of Garnmarn.

Despite the centuries that had passed since its construction, and even since the Great Horde rolled like a fiery steamroller across the Northern kingdoms, the fortress of Arnag bore no resemblance to abandoned and nearly crumbling ruins. True, no brighter banners bearing the coats of arms of the dynasty that had ruled these lands fluttered above the spires that adorned its main citadel. No lights glowed on the walls or in the loophole windows of its fortifications. The daily noise of any such fortress, where, in addition to the garrison, numerous servants inevitably reside, meaning something is constantly being forged, patched, cleaned, repaired, or built, was absent. Arnag had known none of this for a long time.

But no traces of the desperate battle, the furious assault, or the bloody carnage that followed were visible on the fortress's walls and bastions. Long, long ago, all the breaches created by magic or the Horde's tame monsters had been carefully sealed and painstakingly fortified by the hands of its defenders, who had fallen just as long ago, but were still serving. A service impossible to abandon, impossible to desert, which had become their eternal curse and torment. However, the vast majority of those who had served as the guard of Araanag's last duke during the fateful fall of the city had long since ceased to realize this.

Merciless time, coupled with the shackles of an involuntary undeath, had erased and ground away almost everything that had made up their former selves, leaving only a fragment of skills and abilities, as well as endless service. Well, practically endless. Only final death could interrupt it, but such a thing rarely happened to the remaining guardsmen and other particularly distinguished defenders of the fallen duchy. For their new lord and his entourage valued these fighters greatly, unwilling to consign them to final death and, when necessary, sparing no effort or expense to return them to service should they fall from grace.

The endless centuries of damned service may have robbed the guards of their former selves, but in return they transformed each of those who once defended this place, sword, staff, or wand in hand, into not just extremely dangerous undead, retaining a portion of their former selves and gaining considerable new powers. No, the will that kept them in service, that compelled them even after death to defend their now-long-dead home, also bound them very strongly to it.

Made them part of the fortress and the city it protected, shielding the once-populous and convenient highway that passed by and through it, leading south to the Middle Sea and the Neirat Peninsula. And each new year strengthened this bond, making the shackles of damned service ever more secure. And to break them, it has long been impossible simply to physically destroy any of the cursed guards. Given time, the death-soaked land itself will restore them to service. And with the support of their new overlord, no less entrenched in the dead city than they, that time will be very short. To truly lay the unfortunates to rest, it was first necessary to clear at least part of the land on which the lost fortress and city stood. Ridding them of the death that had permeated the earth and stone was no easy task, even if the undead had not interfered.

And they would have. For their overlords had not painstakingly transformed both the fortress and the city into vast burial grounds and necropolises, only to stand aside should anyone dare attempt to encroach upon them. Yes, the vast majority of the fallen defenders of the city and fortress had long, long ago lost their sense of self. As had those unfortunate souls who were deprived of the familiar afterlife in these lands long after the fall of the North. But this was by no means the case for all the living. Some of the commanders of the undead army retained, if not all, then at least a significant portion of their former selves, albeit radically reconsidering their views on their new unlife.

Not to mention those they now served. Not everyone in the family of the last Duke of Araanag and his entourage dared to take such a desperate step during the days of the war that was so fateful for the North, let alone approve of it. And of those who did, not all were smart, strong, cunning, or treacherous enough to survive the final fall at the hands of the Great Horde's warriors and survive for centuries afterward. Many of them, especially in the early years, met their final end. Some at the hands of the living, others at the hands of their rivals.

But the new ruler of Araanag, who long ago personally ended the lives of the last duke and his two eldest offspring, simultaneously seizing much of what was tied to their bloodline, was precisely one of those who had successfully "survived" all these centuries. And although he was not one of the most powerful rulers of the Dead North, recognizing the partial overlordship of one of the rulers of the Dead Cross, he continued to cling to his dead fiefdom with a truly death grip. As well as to other remnants of his legacy and those stolen from the defunct dynasty of rulers of Araanag.

Therefore, all the walls of Arnag Fortress were carefully restored and strengthened, and the moats deepened and cleared. Therefore, all the walls of Arngarad no longer bore a single trace of the fateful assault that had failed to be repelled. True, most of the buildings of the dead city had long ago been dismantled or almost completely rebuilt, for the undead had no use for them in their former state. But the walls surrounding the city and key structures had been restored with more than due diligence. The palace of the last duke, towering in the very center of the city, almost completely plundered and seriously damaged during the war that was so fatal for the North, had long since returned to its former appearance. Almost adjacent to it, the tower of the chief courtier and city mage, once razed to the ground, had been rebuilt. Together, they were surrounded by another ring of walls and a moat, built on the site of the dismantled or destroyed houses of the former nobility.

And on these walls, countless undead warriors or disembodied ghosts kept their eternal vigil. Specifically, on the high and mighty walls of the Arnag fortress, right now, he stood guard, the one who had long been the right-hand man of the Duke's guard commander. He had commanded the first company of said guard and, along with his remaining soldiers, continued to carry out their eternal and damned service.

He had long since forgotten his own name, nor the names of those with whom he had once fought side by side, nor those who still stood by his side, nor the reason for his continued service. He no longer recognized the cursed shackles of undeath that hung over him and his soldiers. But this in no way hindered him from faithfully carrying out that very service. Someone cruel and cynical enough might even say that death, in this regard, had only benefited him. The dead guardsmen knew no fatigue. No boredom. No fear. No doubt. And while the shackles of their accursed service held fast, their loyalty to the one who held those accursed shackles was absolute.

Specifically, their new dead overlord and a relatively small number of his confidants. And they, of course, remembered not only their own names, but also boredom and fear for their unlife, which many would have been more than willing to finally end. Moreover, they feared the living significantly less than some of the overlords of the Dead North, whose relations were anything but loving and warm. After all, it would have been far easier for the latter to seize control of the already death-saturated city and fortress, thereby increasing their power.

And even with some of the living, the new ruler of Araanag had quite successfully conducted trade. After all, there was no other way to find new servants, new guards, and new toys, not to mention sources of power. Of course, he could set out himself, leading the dead warriors, into the lands of the living in search of prey, but... to leave the place of his power... the power that had been accumulating for centuries... where meeting final death was orders of magnitude more difficult than beyond its borders... No, such a course could only be decided in the most extreme and desperate circumstances.

Which happens very rarely in the Dead North, whose rulers don't face such an annoying inconvenience as death from old age. So it was far safer and more convenient to conduct trade with the living than to mount raids against them, although that did happen. Fortunately, the living were willing to bring goods, living or otherwise, to the dead rulers themselves. It was always a question of price. And the dead rulers have plenty to offer, and not just ancient gold and silver that the warriors of the Chieftain of Chieftains didn't find or plunder. The products of dead artisans, despite the ambivalent attitudes of most living people toward them, were sometimes very, very useful. Not to mention all sorts of necroconstructs, which make wonderful guardians, no worse than some golems. They don't sleep, they don't get bored, they don't beg for food. Well, they hardly beg for it; they still need some nourishment. And even then, not always; if the place is suitable, filled with death, then they can exist there, in theory, indefinitely.

And just today, one of the trusted servants of the lord of the dead city, gifted in life and retaining a considerable part of himself in the unlife, having also acquired considerable strength over the past centuries, is set to meet with the servants of one of the living who has long supplied living goods to the Dead North. And who, quite recently, suddenly demanded a great deal from the dead lord of Araanag, offering a considerable price for it.

However, the man who had once commanded the First Guards Company was unaware of all this and was completely uninterested. The purpose of his duty today was to await the return of the caravan carrying the living, and also to constantly ensure that no one and nothing entered the domain of his undead overlord unnoticed. And the empty sockets, long since deprived of even the last trace of eyes, fulfilled this task more than successfully. Even the ancient, sealed helmet, like the rest of his armor, almost completely saturated with death, didn't hinder them.

Yes, they couldn't distinguish colors, but they could clearly distinguish between the living and the dead. And also between that which was dead, but not entirely. Without closing the absent eyes, they tirelessly watched the fortress's environs and the remains of the once-bustling highway, which would have long since been overgrown if not for the death that permeated the earth. Very little could survive in this place, and so the nearest trees began several kilometers from the fortress, and even those were mostly, frankly, stunted or completely dead. The living forest, which over the centuries had consumed almost all the Northern lands not contaminated by dead energy, began considerably farther from the dead city and fortress.

So, getting close to the walls unnoticed is very difficult; the entire area is in plain sight, but this is no reason to let your guard down, because the enemies can be very cunning...

The alarmed cry of one of the ghosts that lurked in large numbers in various places around the city and fortress, and within it, didn't catch the commander of the first company off guard for the simple reason that he no longer understood what "off guard" meant. As soon as he heard the almost immediately interrupted alarmed cry emanating from the fortress's interior, or rather, from its vastly expanded and deepened dungeon, he reacted instantly without hesitation or unnecessary deliberation, and with impeccable precision. Along with some of his warriors, who stood with him on the walls, he rushed to meet the unknown enemy.

If he'd retained even a shred of his former self, he might have been surprised and at least pondered how enemies could have appeared within the fortress's dungeons. But he'd lost those shreds long ago, and so he simply rushed down the stairs from the wall, into the courtyard, toward the citadel gates. Other guardsmen, clad in death-soaked armor or equally death-soaked chainmail, rushed there after him. Incorporeal servants of their dead lord swarmed; various necroconstructs, including very large ones, sprang into motion, created not only from the bodies of living bipeds but also from various monsters. The lesser undead, which rose en masse and hastily from the numerous burial grounds located both around and within the fortress and city, are needless to say.

Although each of them was far weaker than any of the ancient guardsmen, they had accumulated in great numbers. The guard commander, now also the fortress's commandant, was seriously alarmed when he heard the alarming cry and summoned everyone he could. For whatever enemy had breached his fortress's dungeons, it was clearly powerful—one after another, new alarming and ultimately death cries rang out from the ghostly observers. Silently, yet quite perceptibly, the warriors and necroconstructs guarding or stored in the dungeons also died.

This was a very serious reason for the former guard commander to fear for his own unlife, for he was acutely aware of the forces required to so quickly and so easily consign his warriors to a final death on death-soaked ground! No ordinary person could pull off such a thing! In the city and at the Duke's palace itself, word of the surprise attack had already spread; undead warriors were already taking up their posts as guards, and even more were hastily rising from the omnipresent burial grounds, generously infused with necrotic energy. The city, which had only recently seemed truly dead, especially in the darkness of the night, was rapidly coming to life. Or rather, it was filling with movement, like a disturbed anthill. But the army of the dead would need time to reach the fortress from the city, and the garrison had to buy that time...

It wasn't that these very thoughts were running through the mind of the commander of the First Guards Company; bound by the damned shackles of his unlive, he simply knew what to do. What his master wanted of him. And so, at the head of his squad, lined up in several ranks in the courtyard, shielded by a huge shield that would have required considerable strength for a living man, he rushed toward the inner gates of the fortress, leading to the first floor of its citadel. The enemy had already broken through; he knew it, which meant...

The massive metal-bound doors, imbued with necrotic energy and reinforced with various enchantments, shattered into tiny splinters with a deafening roar and a blinding flash. A wave of unbearable heat, filled with divine grace and the fire of the depths, forced the commander of the first company to instantly shield himself, forming a wall with his soldiers.

The protective weaves and amulets, crafted from various bones and embedded in the heavy shields of the guardsmen in the front rank, held back the heat wave, though they largely crumbled into dust. For a few moments, blinded by the light and heat erupting from the ruined gates, the commander of the first company saw several dozen living beings standing shoulder to shoulder. Armed, including magical wands, they were protected by barriers of personal and communal protective amulets. And to his dead eyes, they literally glowed with sunlight, filled with divine grace. And not only to his eyes.

The living, who had emerged from nowhere and fought their way out of the fortress's dungeons, were literally glowing, especially their eyes. And the light surrounding them not only dispelled the darkness of the night but also, ever so slightly, burned away the necrotic energy that permeated everything around them. In fact, without this light, the vast majority of these living beings would have become very ill long ago. Quite possibly even fatally so.

Yet, the physical state of the living was of no concern to the commander of the First Guard Company. He recognized who stood before him—what kind of enemy they were—and immediately took action. Then again, had he retained even a fragment of his former self, he might well have been astonished to see that these living beings—clearly servants of the Sun God, whom the lords of the dead so loathed—comprised a diverse array of races, including several deep-sea fish-folk. But the commander of the First Guard Company had long since lost the capacity for astonishment. Thus, having identified the enemy and gauged their strength—as well as the fact that they were well-armed and well-protected—he instantly assessed the situation; fortunately, he required no voice to command his soldiers. Indeed, he had long since lost both his vocal cords and his eyes.

In an instant, the remaining undead warriors—sheltering behind the backs and shields of the guardsmen in the front rank—prepared to unleash the power of their own battle amulets and wands (the vast majority of which were made of bone or incorporated bone) upon the hated living. Meanwhile, those who had been gifted in life—and who retained that gift in their cursed afterlife—gripped their bone staves, ready to either bolster the assault with necromantic magic or provide additional shield cover for their erstwhile comrades and brothers-in-arms.

But they were too late. A pair of enormous wings suddenly erupted from the back of the foremost living being; he flared with a brilliant light that illuminated the entire fortress and banished the night’s darkness. In the process, the radiance literally disintegrated the weakest of the swarming ghosts, drove back the stronger ones, and blinded even the eyeless guards and the massive necro-constructs that had rushed to their aid. The lesser undead—raised in droves by the fortress commandant and caught within close range—were instantly put to rest by that light and searing heat; the divine grace simply purged every trace of necrotic energy from their bodies and bones. And this occurred despite the fact that it was not a targeted strike. The main surge of grace, unleashed by the winged living being, shot straight up into the night sky, illuminating not only the fortress but also the surroundings of the dead city for kilometers in every direction.

Someone else, gauging the strength of this sudden adversary, might have faltered—might have retreated, if only to regroup. But the undead guardsmen knew no fear, and neither the blinding light nor the searing heat loosened the chains that bound them. Shielding themselves behind a wall of bucklers, the guardsmen arrayed in the fortress courtyard unleashed their assault upon the living—who, as it turned out, numbered in the hundreds and had already seized the citadel’s entire ground floor. Supported by the warriors stationed atop the walls, they clashed: the divine grace and conventional magic shielding the enemy met the onslaught of necrotic energy.

At the same time, the former commander of the Guard was preparing to unleash the full might of the dead masters' creations—of which the fortress held no shortage—upon the sudden and unexpectedly dangerous intruders. His master, meanwhile, had already taken his place atop the tower beside the ducal palace—a structure that had begun to glow with a sickly green, tomb-like light, saturated by the overwhelming necrotic power surging within it.

Even though the invading enemy proved unexpectedly strong and dangerous, they were vastly outnumbered, and a concerted strike…

A small sun that flared into existence directly above the fortress unleashed a blinding radiance, utterly dissolving the specters nearby as well as some of those just converging on the site. The undead closest to the light were instantly blinded by the sheer power of divine grace. A moment later, dozens of beams cascaded straight down into the inner courtyard and onto the fortress walls; their heat and light instantly incinerated every trace of necrotic energy from everything they touched.

Had the commander of the First Guards Company of the last Duke of Araanag retained even a shred of his former self, he might well have been sincerely grateful for this divine miracle that finally put an end to his cursed service—as would many other guardsmen of the First Company. As it was, however, stripped of all necrotic energy, dozens of ancient bones collapsed into shapeless heaps upon the fortress courtyard’s scorching cobblestones, along with their age-worn armor.

"STEP BACK, LIVING DEAD!

The thunderous voice that rang out over the dead fortress and city could likely be heard for ten or twenty kilometers.

"CALL OFF YOUR SLAVES, AND I SHALL NOT HARM YOU OR YOUR LACKEYS ANY FURTHER! I WILL TAKE ONLY THOSE WHO ARE LOYAL TO ME!"

No one heard the response of the Lord of the Dead City—who, instead of striking at the living within the fortress when a small sun appeared in the sky above, had hastily shielded himself and his retinue atop the tower with a multi-layered barrier. Yet, the entire undead host instantly froze in place. The sole exception was the fortress commandant; the moment that small sun ignited above his stronghold, he and a portion of his most valuable retinue immediately teleported to the dungeons beneath the Duke’s palace—far away from the celestial being that had manifested.

The small sun above the fortress took on the outline of a male figure—nearly ten meters tall and equally blinding. With a wave of an arm, a slender beam struck down into the fortress courtyard; a moment later, it transformed into a wide, ring-shaped portal, into which hundreds of living beings—many of them wounded—rushed headlong. A winged man was the last to take a heavy step toward the portal, yet he did not enter; instead, he froze, fixing his gaze upon the massive, glowing figure.

"WELCOME BACK, SON OF MINE!"

An instant later, the winged man arched his back, and beams of sunlight erupted from his gaping mouth and eyes, shooting straight toward the celestial being that had just manifested. When the beams ceased, his body dissolved completely, leaving absolutely nothing behind—not even a pinch of dust. Only his empty clothes fell, only to instantly ignite from the solar heat and burn to ash. A moment later, the portal vanished. A moment after that, the Sun-Faced One disappeared as well. Meanwhile, deep in the dungeon beneath the duke’s palace—a subterranean expanse that had long since surpassed the surface structure in size—the realm’s current undead lord was raging in a fit of genuine hysteria, right in the heart of the necropolis. He was displaying a level of emotion truly surprising for the undead. The cause of his hysteria lay in a simple, understandable desire to know: what the fuck had just happened?

* * *

The Underworld. Wild Territories. Somewhere…

Failure. Again. It was becoming irritating. Closing her golden eyes, Fayana exhaled slowly, subduing her emotions. Naturally, she hadn't expected to pick up Mirantir’s trail immediately. Yet, she had hoped the search wouldn't take quite so long—or, at the very least, that she might catch a lead on the missing Herald. However, her squad had already covered a vast distance across the Underцщкдв and investigated several potential leads provided by her informants. And, alas, they had all proven false. None of them had any connection to the missing First Herald.

The lead closest to the site of the fateful battle—the one she investigated first—turned out to be linked to an internecine squabble between several dark dwarf clans from different cities. It was a practically classic tale for the Underworld. One of these clans had struck it lucky, discovering a remarkably rich deposit of gold and true silver in the Wild Territories—a massive prize that would be difficult for them to swallow on their own. Yet they tried, deciding not to share their find with anyone. Naturally, several clans from a neighboring city soon got wind of it and attempted to seize the deposit. Gritting their teeth, the original bearded prospectors were forced to call in help from their "sworn partners"—other clans within their own city. And since the deposit proved truly bountiful, the ensuing conflict—just one of countless minor underground wars—turned out to be exceptionally fierce and bloody, thoroughly unsettling the local wildlife.

Fayan had no interest in how the situation there would play out. Having barely ascertained the cause of the conflict, she and her squad immediately moved on—following the next lead. That one, too, proved to be a dead end: a surge of energy from a powerful, wild source of magic had triggered an eruption of fire elementals, transforming the underground chamber into a subterranean lake of fire—with dire consequences for the local flora and fauna. It was quite possible that the accursed Terror of Diyarten was to blame for the surge, but Fayana cared nothing for that. Let the geomancy specialists sort out such technicalities. She quickly established that there was no trace of Mirantir there and immediately set off for the next location her informants had pointed out.

That, too, turned out to be a dead end: the commotion among the subterranean fauna had been caused by a surface-dweller expedition—one organized quietly yet professionally by one of the merchant Houses or guilds. That didn't save them, however; the group stumbled upon a wandering beast from the depths of the Wild Territories, which proceeded to wipe them out. It wasn't an easy fight, though—judging by the traces Fayana found, some of the surface-dwellers had actually managed to escape. Yet, the dark elf couldn't have cared less about that. Having identified the source of the local wildlife's agitation, she resumed her search.

Admittedly, Fayana first had to take a brief break to get back in touch with a couple of old acquaintances from her past life. For a handsome fee, they shared the latest news with the former Supreme Catcher and pointed out a few more potential leads on Mirantir’s whereabouts. Through them, the party also restocked their supplies—after all, racing blindly through the Underdark while relying on whatever forage they could find was a recipe for disaster. The riding lizards they had purchased were hardy creatures, but covering vast distances across the Wild Territories required quality feed—ideally, feed rich in magical energy. Such fodder was expensive and not easily obtained; or rather, it wasn't easy to acquire without some unwanted extras or strings attached.

Fayana’s old acquaintances did not let her down; for a not-insignificant sum of silver, they pointed out several promising locations to search for Mirantir and supplied her with both provisions and some gear. It wasn’t Elven-made, admittedly—it came from Dark Dwarf craftsmen, the sort of goods they produced for sale rather than personal use—but in her situation, it would suffice. She would certainly acquire gear made by her own kin later, but that was a matter for the future. Right now, she needed to find the missing herald. And there was a chance she could. Her informants had been honest enough to warn her that they couldn't guarantee the leads actually pointed to the missing herald. Even so—in exchange for a separate, albeit relatively modest, fee and the promise of a far more generous reward should their information prove accurate—they agreed to keep their ears to the ground and notify Fayana immediately if they learned anything concrete about Mirantir.

Or if they found out that someone else had managed to pick up his trail. To say the former Supreme Catcher was displeased that her informants knew exactly whom she was seeking would be a massive understatement. Yet, figuring it out hadn't been difficult at all. Who else would surface-dwellers from the Solar Theocracy be looking for in the Underworld? Especially a dark elf who had so radically shifted her life’s priorities—a defection to a new faith that had caused quite a stir in certain circles. And to hope that none of the Underworld’s denizens would take an interest in the missing Herald was the height of naivety and foolishness. Consequently, she had to pin her hopes on two things: her own luck, or the chance that her informants—those who hadn't severed all ties with Fayana—would learn something and report it to her first.

Hopes for the latter were not entirely far-fetched, given that the question of who was more likely to cheat and withhold payment for valuable information—the Theocracy or her dark kin—wasn't even a laughing matter. Yet, for the time being, her informants had sent no word, and Lady Luck had not smiled upon Fayana either.

Yet another lead, which had seemed quite promising, turned out to be a dead end. Not that she wouldn't have been keenly interested in her past life: discovering the lair of a massive, serpentine predator—only slightly smaller than a young dragon—in a half-flooded underground chamber. A beast boasting three heads and a single pair of powerful limbs; highly venomous, armored in tough scales, and possessed of formidable magical might. It was dangerous prey, certainly, but also a prize well worth the risk. Alchemists would eagerly buy up such a creature's innards, bones, and venom. Moreover, a beast like that could serve as a convenient weapon—one that might be lured and unleashed against the outlying outposts of bitter rivals from other Houses.

Yet now, the predatory beast—clearly gorged on prey somewhere deep within the Wild Territories—provoked nothing but irritation in Fayana; she realized that yet another lead had turned out to be a dead end, forcing her to move on to the next one and hope for at least a fleeting smile from Fortune. Not that one could say Lady Luck hadn't favored the former Supreme Catcher—far from it; she had more than once dismissed such doubts and offered her thanks.

In the time that had passed, her small band—comprising new brethren in the faith, none of whom hailed from the Underworld—had not lost a single member. This was, of course, largely to her credit, as she was the most experienced and knowledgeable regarding survival and stealthy movement through the Wild Territories of the Underworld. Yet, it had to be acknowledged that they, too, understood the realities of operating in a realm where neither the Eternal Sun nor the ordinary sun ever shone. Otherwise, Fayana simply would not have taken them along; she would have been better off conducting the search alone. Her brethren strove to do their utmost, making virtually no errors and carrying out every order from the former Supreme Catcher without question.

By the Eternal Sun—Fayana would never have thought she’d say such a thing—but guiding her new brethren through the Underworld was far more pleasant than leading kin from the House she had left behind. True, the latter were generally better trained and prepared, yet dealing with them meant constantly watching out for all manner of petty threats. Like getting a knife in the back or poison in your drink courtesy of some arrogant bitch determined to take your place. Or some talentless nobody whose only real skill was pleasuring his Superior with his tongue, yet who still harbored delusions of grandeur.

In this regard, her brethren in faith were head and shoulders above their kin. They fully grasped that Fayana was more experienced than all of them combined; if she gave an order, the thing to do was not to ask questions, but to act. Questions could wait until they made camp. Once they returned to Iiyastar, she would definitely need to focus on molding them into a proper Underworld Hunter squad under her command.

But to do that, she needed one small thing to start with: actually finding Mirantir. Or at least picking up his trail. That, however, was proving problematic. The latest lead—one on which she had pinned considerable hope—had turned out to be a dead end, bearing no connection whatsoever to the First Herald. Mind you, in her past life, discovering a secret camp belonging to a renegade squad—comprising both Dark Elves and Dark Dwarves—amidst the ruins of a long-abandoned Dark Dwarf mining settlement in the Wild Territories would have sparked her keenest interest. After all, the fact that they were managing to survive here, so far from the nearest Neutral Territories, implied one of two things: either they were no mere rabble—having chosen to flee (or having been exiled, though that was less likely) from their home city or cities—or they were operating under someone’s command, albeit covertly.

In the first scenario, it would have been essential to determine how they could be used for the benefit of her House. In the second, the task would be to find out whose puppets they were—and how they could be used for the benefit of her House. But right now, none of that interested Fayana. After finishing her surveillance of the ruins where the renegades were hiding—and noting that their sentry arrangements were solid enough to make a quick infiltration for the purpose of taking a captive impossible—she gave a silent command to Warren.

The gray-haired veteran of the Bright Order was one of the most experienced members of the squad—second only to Fayana—and she took him along on scouting missions more often than anyone else. Despite his age, he was still remarkably hale; he moved through the Underworld with confidence, understood commands from the slightest gesture, and was excellent at covering her back—or, by the standards of surface-dwellers, downright superb.

Leaving the hall where the renegades were stationed via a side passage—and remaining unseen—Fayana and Warren crossed another chamber, moving along the base of the side wall to avoid attracting the attention of the local subterranean wildlife. These creatures favored the small stream flowing through the center of the hall—a stream rich in magical energy that caused fungi and underground flora to grow with particular luxuriance along its banks. Still undetected, the pair reached another narrow, inconspicuous opening in the side wall, concealed by rock formations jutting up from the floor.

Beyond it lay not another underground chamber, but the entrance to a relatively small side-cave—one that, crucially, could also be accessed via several other inconspicuous passages, one of which led to yet another underground hall. It was a decent spot for a base camp: well-shielded from prying eyes on one side, yet boasting multiple exits on the other. True, they were currently in the Wild Territories, where the odds of encountering intelligent Underworld denizens were far lower than in the Neutral Territories. But such encounters were still possible—and the renegade camp they’d just stumbled upon was proof enough of that, damn it.

Fayana’s mood—soured by the fact that the lead had turned out to be yet another dead end—improved somewhat when Gnarkh, standing guard, finally spotted them returning despite their active concealment amulets. Only after confirming that it was indeed the former Supreme Catcher and Waren did the burly orc lower his combat-ready magic wand. A second later, Hjarm—who had been covering him—did the same, dispelling his invisibility illusion. The young priest nodded politely to Fayana and immediately asked, in a brief tone:

"What news?"

The dark elf also shook her head briefly.

"Nothing."

A shadow of annoyance flitted across the faces of the orc and the young northerner. Waren, who followed Fayana, explained in a weary voice.

"In the long-abandoned ruins of the Dark Dwarves, we discovered a camp of renegades from various cities. They were the ones who made those few scavenging parties—the ones the Elder’s informants spoke of—disappear. There is no sign of the First Herald here."

Frowning, Gnarkh looked questioningly at Fayana.

"Are you sure, Senior? Maybe we should stick around and try to capture a prisoner? Maybe one of them knows something?"

The dark elf shook her head.

"It won’t be easy, even for me. The ones holed up in the ruins aren’t just a rabble of outcasts and exiles—otherwise, they wouldn’t have survived here. There are some truly capable Hunters and Catchers among them. Catching one of them for a quiet chat right off the bat won’t work. And even if we did manage to corner one, there’s no guarantee we’d learn anything of value. So, let’s not waste time; we’ll move on after we’ve rested. We still have a couple of places to check, and one of them isn’t all that far away. We should be able to reach it soon."

No one argued with her; all three nodded silently. The rest of the party was resting at the moment. After all, the long and relatively rapid treks through the Underworld were taking a toll on the surface-dwellers. But that was fine; they would learn. She would see to that and ensure it happened. Walking past the lizards—which had been such a tremendous help—as they lay along the side walls, and confirming they had been tended to properly, Fayana nodded with satisfaction to Hjarm, who was responsible for them. Over time, the young priest had not only mastered riding these "underground horses" but had even grown fond of them; he had actually struck up a friendship with the one he rode alongside Fayana.

The cunning, scaly rascal shamelessly took advantage of this, constantly trying to wheedle extra treats—like the edible mushrooms or berries their party frequently encountered along the way. After all, the Wild Territories were nothing like the meticulously cleared Neutral Territories, let alone the Habitation Territories. Here, one found not only deadly perils but also incredibly rich areas teeming with valuable—and, for some, delicious—flora.

++Fayan wouldn’t have minded at all if he wanted to spoil his beloved pet—were it not for the fact that most of the treats mount-lizards forage for themselves are poisonous to humans (as well as to elves, dwarves, orcs, and beastkin). Consequently, she was very slow to allow Hjarm to gather them during their brief rest stops; she only gave the go-ahead once she was convinced he was truly cautious and understood how to handle them properly.

In her past life, of course, she certainly wouldn’t have pitied a fool who managed to poison himself while gathering those very "sweets"—as the Hunters and Catchers called the extremely toxic yet surprisingly sweet-tasting berries. At most, she would have merely lamented not having slit his throat sooner to spare the House the disgrace. But losing a brother-in-faith—especially in the current situation—was utterly unacceptable. And so, Fayana made considerable allowances, patiently explaining and demonstrating the intricacies of survival in the Underworld to Hjarm and the others. To their credit, they were very capable students.

After finishing her inspection of the camp and the surrounding tripwires and alarm wards, Fayana returned to find that Hjarm had already prepared mokhlam porridge for her and Waren, heating it in a special small pot. The vessel was enchanted for durability and the ability to heat its contents without fire or smoke—a highly convenient utility item for the trail, requiring only periodic recharging or the replacement of a small storage crystal. Accepting her bowl and offering a brief nod to the priest—who had returned to his post alongside Gnarch—Fayana quickly ate the meal, not even grimacing at its rather unpleasant taste. It brought back involuntary memories of her youth and apprenticeship, when mokhlam had been her staple food. Yes, she certainly preferred the food of the surface-dwellers in that regard...

It didn’t matter; the unpleasant food was a trifle. Less than a trifle, really—nothing at all compared to her main objective. The mere thought of it made Fayana’s heart beat a little faster. After finishing her meal, she nodded to Warren—who was still struggling to choke down his portion—and went to rest. She removed her outer layer of clothing and climbed into her sleeping bag, which was set up slightly apart from the others, closer to the side wall.

Closing her eyes, Fayana pictured her and involuntarily licked her lips. Mother Aurora. Reverend Mother. The woman whose place she would one day take. So desirable. Feeling her heart begin to race, the dark elf imagined her in a multitude of poses and situations: writhing helplessly in the bonds of passion upon her own bed, overcome by Fayana’s caresses; kneeling naked before her beneath the very desk—now Fayana’s desk—and covering her subordinate’s legs with kisses, from her feet all the way up to her sex; Aurora, stark naked with alabaster-white skin and wearing nothing but a jester’s cap, performing circus tricks—each more depraved than the last—for Fayana, who sat enthroned in her former chair...

As she conjured up one lewd image of the Reverend Mother after another, Fayana didn't even notice the moment she began caressing her own breast with one hand while sliding the other lower. Freezing at the very last instant, the dark elf groaned inwardly at the surge of arousal but managed to stop herself. This was neither the time nor the place for carnal pleasures. Later! Someday! She would—she absolutely would—once she had fulfilled her mission! And then...

Suppressing her mounting arousal by sheer force of will, Fayana made herself settle more comfortably onto her other side and tried to fall asleep. She didn't have much luck, however, as thoughts kept crowding her mind regarding the highly desirable Mother Aurora. Specifically, she wondered which would be better: using Aurora as the mother of her future grandchildren, or finding a suitable father for her so that she herself could conceive a child by Aurora's son? Both options were tempting and arousing in their own way, and they required careful consideration. But one thing was certain: she would mingle her blood with Aurora’s...

* * *

Taking the plate from Warren—who had finally finished his meal, looking utterly miserable—Hjarm gave him a brief nod and wished him a good rest; then, signaling Gnarh, he set about meticulously scrubbing the plate and the enchanted pot clean of the leftover mokhlam porridge. He had volunteered to oversee the cleaning of the cookware and the preparation of meals for the entire squad almost from the very first day of their journey, all without shirking his other duties, such as tending to the lizards. His comrades were delighted and deeply grateful for this, attributing it to the youngest member of the group—by age, if not by rank—showing respect to his elder brothers in faith. That was true, in part. In part.

For there was another reason—one, in truth, that even Hjarm himself did not fully realise. Just as he failed to recall that he had spent one of the nights leading up to the current mission into the Underworld not alone, it had been a thoroughly pleasant encounter—mutually gratifying and free of prying eyes—with a sister in the faith whom he knew only casually. She held no priestly rank, nor was she a novice; she was a Daughter. Yet, he had conscientiously fulfilled certain words and requests voiced that night—once the passion had subsided—even without consciously realizing it. Fortunately, those requests were simple enough and in no way conflicted with the cause of the Eternal Sun, to which the young priest had dedicated his entire being with truly fanatical…

The symbol of faith resting on his chest beneath his gear—a small sun of pure gold, a gift bestowed upon him personally by the Priest-King before the campaign—suddenly grew noticeably hot; Hjarm, who had just finished washing his dishes and cooking pot, froze in place. A moment later, he thrust his hand beneath his clothes and clutched the amulet, squeezing it so hard his fist ached. The young priest’s eyes closed, yet even through his lowered eyelids, a brilliant flash of sunlight could be seen. Gnarh noticed this and started in alarm, but before the burly orc could raise the alarm, Hjarm opened his eyes—the glow within them slowly fading—straightened abruptly, and sent a brief signal through the amulet.

Within ten seconds, their entire small squad was on its feet—including Fayana, who had practically leapt into her gear in a matter of moments. Glancing at his wary companions, Hjarm spoke, his face literally beaming with relief.

"I have received truly bright news from HIM. Miranthir has returned. He has found a way out of the depths of the Underground. We are commanded to return home."

For a few seconds, the camp fell silent; then, almost in unison, everyone traced the sign of the Sun-Faced One. They felt a desperate urge to scream aloud, but Fayana had firmly drilled it into their heads that any unnecessary noise in the Underworld meant death.

* * *

With her lips pursed, the dark elf riding the lead mount felt conflicted. On one hand, she was genuinely glad that the First Herald had been found and had returned safely from the Underworld. On the other... The Eternal Sun was her witness—she couldn't help but feel bitterly frustrated that she hadn't been the one to find him. So much effort—and all for nothing... No, no, no! Not for nothing! Even if she hadn't found Mirantir, the mission—which had certainly qualified as a major long-range search—had served as excellent training for her squad! It was a crucial step toward transforming them into a full-fledged unit of Hunters—a group that might eventually grow into the Sun-Faced One's underground forces. But still...

Fayana reacted instantly to the low rumble echoing from somewhere beyond the side wall of the underground hall—along which her squad was moving via a narrow, entirely natural path—as well as to the sudden shift in the ambient magical background. Decades of training, compounded by centuries of experience, had not gone to waste; reflexes ingrained in muscle and bone instinctively took over.

"Landslide! Everyone back! To the passage! Quickly!"

With their shouts and curses drowned out by the sudden uproar of panicked subterranean beasts, the squad came to an abrupt halt and hurriedly wheeled around toward the passage they had so recently exited. It was a stroke of luck that the riding lizards hadn't succumbed to panic, and no one had tumbled off! With the blood surging in her veins, Fayana—who had maneuvered her mount better than the rest—cursed through gritted teeth and raced back the way they had come.

"Quick, follow me! Faster, or it’ll catch up with us!"

Her words were drowned out by a roar as the side wall behind her, right where the squad had been heading, erupted into a spray of stone fragments (including some sizable chunks) and a thick cloud of dust, intensifying the clamor and chaos among the underground beasts. The entire subterranean hall shuddered violently, causing several stalactites to crash down from the high ceiling with a deafening crack, while the lizards narrowly avoided twisting their limbs in the upheaval. Fayana’s squad practically burst into the passage they had just exited, covering nearly half the distance to the next hall without pausing—there was ample room to ride, after all—before the dark elf finally ordered a halt.

Freezing in place and signaling everyone to fall silent, she listened. The rumbling had died away. The terrified animals were still clamoring, but the rumble could no longer be heard. And the ground beneath her feet was steady. So, it wasn’t a landslide, as she had initially thought…

"What was that?" Hjarm’s voice was quiet but tense.

Shaking her head, Fayana quietly answered.

"I don't know, but I'll check right now. Warren, come with me. The rest of you, stay here and stay alert! The beasts might rush into this passageway if there are more tremors!"

After dismounting, the dark elf and the elderly veteran—shielded by their camouflage—cautiously made their way back to the underground hall on foot. Chaos reigned among the subterranean beasts, which had been driven from their burrows and lairs, but Fayan was interested solely in the side wall they were currently skirting. A cloud of stone dust was gradually settling—aided by the hall’s excellent airflow—revealing a scatter of debris at the wall's base. What the…

Moving with the utmost caution, Fayana approached the site and widened her golden eyes in astonishment. A relatively narrow opening now marred the side wall—which until recently had been a solid, unbroken expanse—and a faint yet distinct draft of air wafted from within. And it wasn't just air. Fayana was keenly attuned to the magical aura of her native Underworld, and what she sensed now stirred a lively interest and the thrill of the hunt within her. Well, well, well—what an unexpected turn of events. It appeared she had witnessed the Underworld giving birth to a new hall. Such occurrences were not exactly commonplace, yet they happened regularly; her homeland was never static—some chambers would collapse or flood while others drained dry, and new passages, like this one, would emerge elsewhere.

After hesitating for a few seconds, Fayana signaled Warren to stay put and slipped silently into the passageway. It wouldn’t take long. Besides, she might just discover something valuable there; such things were not uncommon in newly formed chambers. As the dark elf made her way effortlessly through the narrow, fissure-like passage, her imagination was already conjuring up visions of glittering, pure raw crystals or other treasures from her homeland—when suddenly, her keen hearing picked up a noise coming from ahead.

Instantly on guard, Fayana began to move much more cautiously and slowly, keeping her weapon at the ready and her long ears twitching vigorously. Carefully rounding another ledge in a very narrow passage, the dark elf froze in her tracks at the sight that greeted her, and for several very long seconds, she couldn't take her golden eyes off it.

* * *

Somewhere…

When consciousness returned, Bert did not immediately grasp what was happening or where he was. His thoughts were muddled, and his limbs felt as though they had been filled with lead. Any attempt to move or call for help proved utterly futile. It took several long seconds to realize the reason for this failure—at which point the heart of the young assistant and apprentice to the venerable Master Flavius—an expert in the laws of the Free Cities, a licensed attorney specializing in trade and maritime matters, and a respected member of the Quill and Ink Guild—skipped a beat.

His hands and feet were securely bound, leaving him able to move only his fingers; his mouth was stuffed with a tight gag and firmly tied shut, just as his eyes were securely blindfolded. Thoughts raced through the young man’s mind, each more terrifying than the last. His first thought was of the Night Guild operatives—men who occasionally made a living by kidnapping people for ransom. But he was small fry, still just an apprentice—albeit a diligent one (and just try slacking off under Master Flavius!). Even if a ransom were paid for him, it wouldn't be enough to justify the trouble of a kidnapping. That led to a second thought—also concerning the Night Guild, but this time focusing on the operatives who hunted down live merchandise for sale.

And that was what truly terrified Bert. He knew plenty of stories about the slave markets—places like Kuordemar (may the Islanders sink to the bottom of the sea right after their armada!) or Sakhib-Nere—and he had heard even more of them lately, ever since the raid on Morgrave. He knew just as many gruesome tales about practitioners of dark sorcery, who had just as much need for human chattel as the mine or plantation owners in the Caliphate—malefics, necromancers, black alchemists, and worse!

The imagination of the terrified assistant to the esteemed "knight of quill and ink"—as Maître Flavius ​​liked to call himself—conjured up a succession of increasingly dreadful images, causing his heart to pound wildly in his chest. Yet, despite the overwhelming fear, Bert managed to realize that he was not merely bound, but actually tethered to a massive chair that was bolted immovably to the floor. He found it impossible to rock the chair or even so much as budge it.

"Oh, are you awake already?"

A woman’s voice ringing out from the darkness made the young man freeze in place, listening intently. The sound of quiet, approaching footsteps made his heart pound even harder and erratically, despite all his attempts to master his fear. Right, okay—now he’d find out just how bad things were. Oh, Ascended ones, let it be Lortan’s local thugs—please, let it be them; he could somehow strike a deal with them—just let it not be…

"Well, let's talk, my dear..."

At these words, the blindfold was torn from Bert’s eyes, and he instinctively squinted against the light from a pair of magical lamps hanging on the wall. Though the light wasn't particularly bright, the blindfold had blocked it out completely, and his eyes had grown unaccustomed to it. For several seconds, the young man blinked frantically, adjusting to the dim illumination. When he finally succeeded and saw who was standing before him, he froze in sheer terror. Beside him stood a tall woman with pale skin, a generally attractive face, and long dark hair, clad in an outfit that—to Bert’s mind—was incredibly revealing. A black, silky fabric clung tightly to her slender body and distinctly womanly curves, leaving nothing to the imagination. By the standards of the Free Cities, it was the height of indecency—even without a plunging neckline.

Yet the hapless assistant to the esteemed legal expert of the Free Cities paid no heed to the beauty of the female abductor standing before him. His wide grey eyes were riveted to the single image on the bare stone wall behind her: a black hand. The Dark Brotherhood. The terrifying realization of imminent death made the young man thrash against his bonds—or try to, at least; they had been tied with expert thoroughness, leaving him little room to move. Bert’s desperate scream was likewise completely stifled by a tight gag.

"Well, well, well, don't be so afraid, my dear. I'm not going to kill you."

The kidnapper's gentle voice and the smile that appeared on her face didn't inspire any confidence in Bert, who was half-dead with terror. Neither did the red sparks smoldering in her eyes, like those of some terrifying possessed woman, the kind the servants of the Ascended spoke of in their sermons.

"Hush, hush. I told you, I’m not going to kill you. Provided you behave and stop thrashing about! Just calm down!"

Bert did not trust his captor a whit more—not by a single thaler, nor even a clipped copper coin. Yet a shadow of hope treacherously flickered in his heart, and the young man froze at his captor’s shout, continuing to stare at her in terror.

"Well done! Now I'll take out the gag, and you'll continue to be a good boy and not scream at the top of your lungs. Otherwise, I'll rid you of your tongue."

The last phrase, although said in the same gentle voice and with a smile on his face, made Bert's heart skip another beat, and the young man nodded quickly.

"Nice!"

Leaning forward, his captor undid the binding in a single motion, and the hapless assistant and apprentice of Master Flavius ​​felt the gag in his mouth vanish of its own accord, dissolving into bitter, acrid black smoke. Coughing, he managed to exhale the fumes, barely restraining the urge to spit. The very next moment, he froze in terror once more as his captor sat on his lap with a graceful movement and placed her hands on his shoulders. Tilting her head slightly to the side and gazing into the terrified eyes of the wretched young man, she smiled broadly, revealing remarkably straight, clean teeth.

"Well then, my dear, let's get acquainted first. Tell me, what is your name?"

Bert swallowed and managed to croak out through his dry throat.

"Bert, son of Voldr."

“And you can call me Quarta,” his kidnapper smiled even wider.

And the young man's heart, which was beating in his chest like crazy, hinted that it did not agree to such tests.

"So, Bert. As I said, I won't take your life if you're a smart, obedient boy who does everything I tell him and doesn't do anything stupid. Tell me, Bert, are you a smart boy?"

Swallowing again, the young man nodded feverishly.

"Yes, mistress."

Which elicited a cheerful, upbeat laugh from the woman sitting on his lap, completely out of place! And which made it even more terrifying.

"Call me Quarta, Bert. And I'm glad to hear I wasn't mistaken! Then tell me, will you be a good boy?"

This was said in an exceptionally gentle and ingratiating voice, and with a toothy smile on her face. But Bert's heart again hinted that he had never agreed to such crap.

"Yes, m... Quarta."

"Wonderful!" his captor positively beamed and leaned in so close she was practically touching the poor lad, while simultaneously giving his short, dark-blond hair an affectionate ruffle.

"I'm so glad I wasn't wrong about you, Bert. Then, let's not delay!"

With one fluid motion, Quarta rose to her feet and snapped the fingers of her right hand. Instantly, the bonds restraining Bert dissolved into smoke. Pointing to the corner of the room—which turned out to be quite small—where a low stool, a couple of water jugs, a wooden basin, and a coarse washcloth sat, Quarta commanded:

"Wash yourself thoroughly. Leave your clothes here; you won't need them today. As soon as you're cleaned up, come out; I'll be waiting for you outside."

Leaning toward Bert, who remained seated on the chair, she reached out her right hand and poked her index finger at the tip of the nose of the young man, who was afraid to move.

"Wash yourself properly, but don't make me wait too long. And Bert..."

Quarta's voice became especially ingratiating.

"…if you do something stupid, I will be very disappointed in you…"

One elusive movement and in the hand of Quarta, which had just poked Bert in the nose with her finger, there appeared a blade formed from black smoke, frozen at a distance of almost a hair from the boy’s throat.

"…and I'll slit your throat. Do you understand me?"

Half dead with terror and afraid to breathe, Bert nodded with his eyes only.

"Wonderful! I'll be waiting for you outside, then!"

With these words, Quarta left the small, single-doored room where they had been—a room that, as it turned out, contained nothing but that wretched chair and some bathing gear in the corner. Pausing in the doorway, Quarta turned sharply and, wearing a smile, spoke in that same unnervingly affectionate voice.

"I almost forgot, Bert. Don't even try calling any of the Ascended. They won't hear you here. But I will. And if you're too persistent..."

The respected lawyer’s hapless assistant—who had just managed to get back on his feet—failed to notice Quarta’s movements. Something dark flashed through the air with a predatory hiss; he did not even realize what it was. A moment later, his trousers fell down, for the sturdy, expensive leather belt holding them up—a gift from his father when Maître Flavius ​​had taken Bert on as an apprentice—had been sliced ​​through on both sides.

"...I'll realize you're neither smart nor obedient. I'll kill you."

After flashing one more broad, white-toothed smile at the lad—who had slumped to the floor as his legs gave way—Quarta vanished through the doorway, leaving Bert all alone. For a few moments, he sat motionless on the floor, afraid to move. Then, he felt a tremor take hold of him—first a faint shiver, then violent shaking. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuuuuuck! How—how could this happen?! Why?! Why him?! It’s not fair—no, this can’t be happening! It’s just not right; he’d only just... Damn it all!

Recalling the order not to keep her waiting, Bert—on the verge of hysteria—tried to get to his feet but immediately fell, tangled in his trousers. Damn it all! After clumsily shedding his clothes, he approached the bathing supplies. One of the pitchers held hot water, the other cool. Beside the basin sat a small bowl of thick bathing soap. Scooping up a generous handful, Bert began to wash himself feverishly, all the while struggling with every ounce of his will not to succumb to terror.

Because everything he knew about the terrible fanatic killers with whom his strict mother and even stricter old nanny frightened him in childhood, along with other evil spirits, spoke of exactly one thing. It is impossible to come to an agreement with them. They cannot be bribed. They only want to kill in the name of some terrible patron, in the name of their fucking Black Hand, whatever that is!

Therefore, he did not believe that this creepy lady would spare him. But he really wanted to believe it! Well, why does she need him?! After all, she could have killed him at any moment. So there is hope?! Well, it can’t be like that... Damn it, it’s not fair! He had just successfully passed the first test of knowledge of trade law and the statutes of the Free Cities, and Master Flavius ​​allowed him to do real work, entrusting him to deal with two real matters on his own! He was about to start helping him in one of them in the city court! Why him?!

Cursing his bad luck and the injustice of the universe, Bert nonetheless hurriedly and quite successfully washed himself—scrubbing with a rough, scratchy loofah more vigorously than ever before in his life. He approached the door, slapping his bare feet against the cold floor, red as a boiled crayfish—and scared out of his wits. At that moment, he didn't even give his nakedness a thought.

Carefully opening the door, he found himself in a narrow corridor illuminated by dim magical lights—and completely empty. Bert glanced around and started to open his mouth to speak, but didn't dare call out to anyone. He turned back to the door and gently closed it. He immediately slammed his back against it, recoiling in terror, for upon turning around he saw Quarta’s smiling face right in front of him—a sight that sent her into another fit of merry laughter. Crossing her arms over her ample chest, she stared for a few moments at the poor, frozen lad with her eerie eyes, in which red sparks glowed. Then, she suddenly leaned forward and sniffed the air, cooing with satisfaction.

"You smell nice. That's good. Follow me."

Without even registering the compliment—which, under different circumstances, he would certainly have been pleased (albeit flustered) to receive from such a striking woman—Bert followed her cautiously down the corridor. For a fleeting moment, the thought crossed his mind to lunge at Quarta, who had turned her back on him. It vanished just as quickly. That damned fanatic would kill him in a heartbeat—perhaps even without resorting to her dark sorcery! She was almost certainly testing him...

Stopping abruptly at the door at the end of the corridor, Quarta opened it with a graceful movement and said.

"Come in."

Stepping inside past his captor, Bert found himself in a room much like the small, windowless, single-doored one where he had first regained consciousness. The only difference was a large, sturdy bed made up with clean linens. And on that bed... Eyes wide with astonishment, Bert stammered out.

"R-Reverend Dorothea..."

The young man suffered yet another shock at the sight of the Senior Priestess of the Life-Giver—the city temple’s abbess, who had gone missing not long before. It was not so much the identity of the person before him that stunned him, but rather the fact that the completely naked Reverend Dorothea lay with her legs spread wide apart. Her wrists were securely bound to her ankles and the headboard of the bed with dark cords—much like the ones that had tied Bert himself. This left the unfortunate priestess, lying on her back, in a shockingly lewd and obscene posture, exposing her most intimate parts to full view.

For a few moments, Bert tried to wrap his mind around what he was seeing—and what was going on here. Yet, to his own shame, he found himself unable to tear his gaze away from the body of the priestess—a woman who, despite being no longer young, was actually quite attractive and desirable. Upon seeing him and Quarta, she let out an indignant muffle through her gag and shifted restlessly on the bed. She cast a look at Bert’s captor that was openly furious, yet devoid of any trace of fear.

Quarta, meanwhile, closed the door, walked past the frozen Bert, and—with a quiet laugh—approached the bound priestess and asked cheerfully.

"Oh, I see you recognize my friend!"

"A.... a...."

Bert, so astonished, could only squeeze out those two inarticulate sounds. Dorothea, however, let out another disgruntled grunt. This, however, only elicited a broad smile from Quarta, who had sat down next to her.

"Oh yes, recently Dory and I have become not just friends, but besties!"

Casting a mischievous glance at Bert, who had completely lost track of everything, Quarta lay down next to the priestess, wrapped one arm around her shoulders, and pressed her cheek to hers. With her other hand, she playfully ran from her pussy to Dorothea's breasts, which were considerably larger than her own. She was, after all, the High Priestess of Gaia. And Quarta herself was not without curves…

"And friends are supposed to help each other, right, Bert?"

Casting a meaningful glance at the poor boy and receiving a hasty and convulsive nod, she continued.

"So I decided to help Dory. You see, Bert, right now her dear Lifegiver isn't hearing her prayers. And she can't send her grace, which Dory has spent every drop of. And she can't draw strength from her temple; it's a real disaster. But..."

Ignoring Dorothea's latest indignant moan, Quarta left her breast alone, moved her hand lower, to her pussy, and playfully drummed her fingers on it.

"... fortunately, the priestesses of Gaia have a way to replenish their grace without contact with temple altars or the Life-Giver herself. A very pleasant way..."

With these words, Quarta, casting another amused glance at Bert, who was still unable to tear his eyes away from the madness and depravity unfolding, spread the flushed priestess's lower lips with two fingers, eliciting another particularly loud, indignant moan and a particularly angry glare, which she cast at the young man as well. He, as if coming out of his stupor, quickly turned away. Quarta, with a surprised expression, asked cheerfully.

"What's the matter, Dory? Don't you like this wonderful boy? I was specifically looking for one you like. Obedient, smart, and just look how cute he is!"

Her answer was another indignant grunt. However, it was drowned out by Quarta's laughter, who, with one deft movement, rose to her feet and walked over to Bert, who was unsure where to look. Placing a hand on the startled boy's shoulder, she cooed.

"Be a good boy, Bert, and..."

Lowering her hand, she lightly squeezed the dick of the young man, who was afraid to move.

"...help Dory regain some of her strength. She really needs it. And be a good boy..."

Bringing her lips close to Bert's ear, Quarta cooed.

"…try hard to make her like it. Really like it. Otherwise…"

In one elusive movement, Quarta's hand moved to Bert's throat, and a knife of black smoke appeared in it again, causing the boy to hold his breath in horror.

"…you will regret this."

"UMMMPHHH!!!"

Dorothea's moaning was particularly loud and indignant. With a flushed face, the priestess glared angrily at Bert's captor, causing her to suddenly burst into loud laughter. The knife in her hand disappeared, and she patted the unfortunate youth on the head.

"Oh, don't be so boring, Dory! He'll try harder that way!"

Once again, she brought her lips close to the boy’s ear and cooed languidly.

"Give Dory a real treat with your tongue, Bert, before you use your friend. I've prepared her well, cleared away all the moss, as you say, and washed her thoroughly. Meanwhile, I'll have a chat with someone else. One boy, even a good one like you, won't last long..."

With these words, Quarta gave the unfortunate boy a resounding slap on the lower back, causing him to jump. Already at the door, she turned sharply and put on a stern expression.

"Don't you dare do anything stupid, Bert. Otherwise..."

"UMMMPHHH!!!"

Another indignant moan from Dorothea was drowned out by Quarta's ringing laughter, as she closed the door with a loud slam. Bert, startled by the sound, licked his dry lips and glanced over his shoulder, then at the bound priestess. With a look of utter misery on his face, he stammered out, struggling to speak.

"P-please forgive me, R-Reverend Mother…"

In response, the priestess let out another heavy groan and rolled her eyes. Bert carefully climbed onto the bed, leaned forward, and—squeezing his eyes shut—grasped the priestess by her spread thighs, gently running his tongue along her slit. Unbidden, lewd tales shared by other apprentices and assistants serving different members of the "Quill and Ink" guild—stories swapped during their downtime—flashed through his mind. He thought especially of the few among them who fancied themselves real ladies' men. Why hadn't they been the ones abducted by this clearly unhinged, fanatical bitch?! Those damned lechers would have been only too happy about it—damn them! It wasn't fair!

And you know what? To hell with them! Yes, exactly there! Those damn loudmouths—running their traps about how many girls they’d groped in dark corners! Half those stories were total bullshit, and the other half were paid for—we know the type, sure we do! But can any of them boast about actually fuck the High Priestess, the Giver of Life?!

Even as he cursed and railed against his acquaintances, Bert found himself working his tongue with increasing speed and diligence, eventually burying his face entirely between the thighs of the softly moaning Dorothea. As he delved as deep as he could—kissing, enveloping, and teasing her bud with his lips—he lost track of the very moment passion and desire completely swept him away. At one point, the bound priestess let out another particularly loud moan—one that was certainly not indignant, but rather filled with sheer pleasure. Bert felt it with his face; wiping it clean, he then carefully shifted his attention to her breasts.

Such magnificent, huge, and delightful breasts! Even bigger than those of the perpetually disgruntled chief assistant to the head of their "Quill and Ink" guild branch! Oblivious to everything else, Bert kissed, nibbled, and fondled the priestess's sumptuous bosom, not even realizing the moment he entered her and began to move his hips. He was completely consumed by the pleasure of Dorothea’s body—so warm, delightful, delicious, and utterly yielding.

The climax came with startling suddenness. Just as he, consumed by passion, poured into the priestess—with an intensity unlike anything he had ever known—the young man was struck by a sudden paralysis. His eyes and mouth flying open, Bert froze, unable to scream or even draw breath. His hands remained clamped around Dorothea’s breasts, his index fingers pressing against her hardened nipples, while the symbol of Gaia flared with golden light upon her belly.

A moment later, Bert felt—quite literally—his strength draining away along with the pleasure and his seed, while fatigue began to paralyze his body. Meanwhile, the symbol on Dorothea’s belly glowed ever brighter; at one point, a golden light flared in the priestess’s eyes as well. It lasted only a few seconds before abruptly ceasing. Instantly, Bert collapsed onto the bound priestess—face-first against her ample bosom—unable to so much as twitch a finger. It felt as though his body had once again been filled with molten lead. He had no desire to move or think; he simply wanted to lie there and…

Damn it!!!

The realization of what he had just done miraculously gave him strength, and Bert managed to rise above the heavily breathing priestess. His eyes wide with horror, he whispered slurredly.

"Reverend… I… I don’t…"

Dorothea let out another indignant moan, but this time, unexpectedly, the gag in her mouth turned into black smoke, and the priestess, clearing her throat, said in a heavy voice.

"It's not your fault. This damned thing has coated my womb and chest with a tasteless, odorless love potion that clouds the mind and heightens passion."

"What?! Oh... it's mean...:"

"So what are you unhappy about, Dory?"

A cheerful voice ringing out from behind him made Bert scramble aside in terror, nearly tumbling off the bed. By the doorway, seated on a chair she must have dragged over at some point, sat Quarta; she was watching the young man and the priestess with interest. Standing just behind her—her arms held stiffly at her sides—was a tall, thin, pale girl; she was actually taller than Bert, who was by no means short himself. She had short, boyishly cut red hair, a freckled face, a hunted look in her gray eyes, and thin, pale lips.

Like Bert, she was completely naked and, judging by her wet hair, had just washed. The young man’s gaze involuntarily slid over her bare body. Her breasts were small—almost girlish—with tiny pink nipples; faint scars from cuts were visible on her body, especially her arms; and low on her belly was a triangle of that same curly red hair.

Still smiling, Quarta folded her arms across her chest and continued.

"Or do you think that without my help this frightened boy would have been able to squeeze out even a drop? Did you see his friend when he came here? And with a little help, he did quite well."

To say that Bert wanted the ground to swallow him up at that moment would be an understatement. He also desperately wanted to punch that smug, crazy bitch right in her ugly mug. Instead, however, the young man simply scowled in silence and tried to cover himself with the blanket. Quarta snapped her fingers, dispelling Dorothea’s bonds, and touched the girl standing beside her with that same hand:

"Now that you're done with him, you can move on to your prodigal daughter. Don't you recognize her? A couple of years ago, she fled the novices of your temple, joining Lortan's flock, and has been hanging out with them ever since. But she never forgot the mercy of your dear goddess, sneaking into the lesser shrines. Otherwise..."

Turning to the girl, who had clenched her fists and looked down at the floor, Quarta continued in the same cheerful voice.

"...her new friends would have long ago torn off her cherry. If they were to forcefully pick the cherry that grew in Gaia's garden, they might as well lose the cherry picker."

“Yena…” Dorothea whispered quietly, not taking her eyes off the pale girl.

"Oh, you remembered! Well, that's wonderful; you'll have something to talk about. Later. But for now, since you're finished with this boy, you can move on to her."

The girl shuddered at these words, her eyes widening as she looked from Dorothea to Quarta. Her mouth wide open, she tried to say something, but the mad fanatic beat her to it, her mockery undisguised.

"What's so surprising, my dear? Do you think the Life-Giver priestesses can only squeeze power out of men? No, girls, too, especially young ones, can very well share their strength with them. So come on, go ahead; Dori is desperately needed... What the hell?!"

In one movement, Quarta was on her feet, causing everyone else to flinch, and Yena to jump back. The fanatical killer's eyes suddenly flashed with a particularly bright, eerie scarlet light, and she was enveloped in black smoke. A panicked thought flashed through Bert's mind for a moment: that was it, this creature would kill them. He didn't even notice how he clutched Dorothea in terror.

But Quarta merely turned sharply to the side and stared with her terrifying eyes straight at the wall, and stood there for several seconds. Then her eyes dimmed, and the black smoke cleared. A particularly eerie smile appeared on the Dark Brotherhood fanatic's face, and she whispered.

"Well, my, such luck..."
* * *

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Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/86674/598603

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP