Talking to The Three wasn’t something Tyron needed help to do. He had a ritual he could use to contact them whenever he wanted, and he was fairly confident they would answer him. However, having a rising star amongst their Priesthood by his side certainly didn’t hurt his case when negotiating.

Even if he didn’t pay attention to everything taking place in the city, Tyron knew Elsbeth was considered to have the favour of the Gods. Her rapid rise may be due to the times in which they lived, but she was able to wrangle blessings out of Crone, Raven and Rot where others would never dare to ask.

It was something to consider, why they favoured her so much. He wasn’t so self-centered as to think that it was due to her connection with him. Elsbeth had always been a pure soul, devoted and willing to help others even at personal cost to herself. In a world full of selfish and grasping people, it made her shine like a golden ray of light. It was what had attracted him to her in the first place, a generosity of spirit that he could barely understand and knew he could never replicate.

He was glad she’d learned something from her… entanglement with Rufus. Extending trust to people was all well and good, but it left you vulnerable. He didn’t know exactly what she’d done, but he’d noticed the way she was more sensitive to people’s intentions. It was probably the same reason she found it so difficult to meet his gaze.

“Are you going to perform your ritual, or do you want me to just… pray?” she asked him, looking a little nervous.

“You ask them,” he said. “It’ll save time if they answer that way. I’ve got a lot to do.”

“They’re Gods, Tyron. I don’t think they care for your convenience.”

If she knew the Three, they’d never thought about inconveniencing a mortal in their entire existence. Why should they? The only difference between a human and a fly to them was that humans were more entertaining.

She drew a deep breath and centred herself. Communing with the Old Gods wasn’t something done lightly. If she tried while in a poor mindset, they may strike the sense out of her head in irritation. There was more than one Priestess who had gone mad while praying since coming to Granin. Just because the Gods had become more receptive recently didn’t mean they were willing to tolerate fools.

Once she was certain her thoughts and emotions were under control, she began to pray.

The act of prayer had changed for Elsbeth, as she had become stronger in her role. The connection she shared with The Three wasn’t something that operated via magick, or that was facilitated by the Unseen. This was something older and deeper than those, something bound to the fabric of the realm itself. Crone, Raven and Rot had placed a measure of their trust in her, and that strengthened their connection, to the point that even a simple act like clasping her hands and reaching out to them with words and thoughts was enough to bring her into their presence.

Her prayer was short and to the point, the way the Old Gods liked them, and when she finished speaking and raised her head, she found that she was no longer seated by the fire. The cozy sitting room was gone, replaced with an unfathomably old forest, the trees looming around her, darkness and shadows whispering ancient truths behind the gnarled roots and toughened bark.

Elsbeth was a little shocked. She wasn’t brought here, to the realm of the Gods, just for any old thing. Clearly, The Three had an inkling as to what Tyron wanted to discuss. More than an inkling. Considering she had been brought here…

She turned to her left, and, sure enough, Tyron was there, sat on the edge of a gnarled tree root, a mildly annoyed expression on his face.

“I suppose it was too much to hope that they would be happy to deal with you alone.”

It took a moment for her to realise that the impressions she gained from her blessing were gone, allowing her an unobstructed view of Tyron’s face. It had been some time since she had last seen him this way. He looked tired. Then again, he always looked tired.

“Surely you didn’t expect them to grant you favours you didn’t ask for in person?” she huffed. “These are not generous Gods.”

“Indeed, they are not.”

Another voice reverberated through the trees, not unfamiliar to the two still seated on the twisted roots. Elsbeth turned and bowed, but Tyron only groaned.

“Messenger. How wonderful to be in your presence again.”

The sarcasm was heavy in Tyron, and Elsbeth shot him a warning glance.

“Messenger. I thank you for coming to guide us,” she said respectfully.

As always, the servant of the Gods appeared wearing a heavy robe, pulled so low over his face that there was nothing but shadows within.

“Welcome to the Dark Forest, children

,” the Messenger hissed.

His voice, as always, was a slithering and twisted thing. It seemed to emanate from within the hood, but also from every tree and dark place around them. Elsbeth had always found it unnerving, found the Messenger himself unnerving, yet she knew he was due a level of respect.

“Have you come to lead us before the Gods?” she asked.

“I have. Follow me.”

Tyron rose from his seat beside Elsbeth, and she poked him in the side before he could say something rude. As high a level as he was, his flesh was like steel, completely unyielding. She cursed and shook her finger, glaring at him, but he only shrugged.

“I didn’t make you do it,” he muttered to defend himself.

“Just be quiet and show respect. The Messenger is the servant of Gods.”

“He reeks of death,” Tyron said, his voice low and eyes hard. “I couldn’t sense it before, but now… there is a stench about this… Messenger.”

“What do you know of death, mortal?” the Messenger hissed, without turning around to glance at the two following in his wake. “You think you have mastery? Of life? Of Death? Of magick? You are a child playing in the sand with toys. Hemmed on all sides with walls to protect you and keep you safe.”

Tyron barked a sharp laugh.

“I don’t totally disagree with you, but I would like to think I am starting to catch a glimpse over the top of those walls. I’m not sure I like what I see.”

“Why should we care about your likes and dislikes?” the Messenger replied, mocking. “You are only tolerated for what you may become, not for what you are now. Children should be silent in the presence of their elders. You may speak when you are grown.”

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“Are you one to silence me?” Tyron asked, an edge to his voice. “Your masters have ordered you to lead us, not to offer your opinion where it isn’t welcome.”

Red-faced, Elsbeth slapped Tyron on the arm, only to yelp and shake her hand furiously.

“Shut. Up,” she told him.

He only rolled his eyes, but thankfully fell silent. The Messenger also ceased to speak, a small blessing, though the remainder of the journey was short.

They were brought to a familiar place, a locus of power within the Dark Forest, where the three statues of the Gods were to be found. As they drew closer, she felt the vast presence of The Three begin to turn toward them. Immense, unfathomable existences that loomed like mountains in the distance, turning just a fraction of their attention towards this place. It felt as if the air were weighing down on them like stones.

The Messenger walked behind a tree and vanished, leaving the two of them alone with the statues of Crone, Raven and Rot. Tyron raised a brow at her.

“You want to go first?”

“I don’t even know what you want to ask them.”

“Didn’t I tell you?”

“No!”

“I probably should have.”

Tyron glanced back toward the statues, which were, thankfully, still statues. The Gods themselves had not appeared in physical form, which was a good thing. Being in their presence was taxing, to say the least. He looked back at Elsbeth.

“Should I just…?”

She glared at him and gestured for him to proceed.

“Respectfully,” she reminded him.

It was difficult for Tyron to suppress his irritation. The Three had threatened Elsbeth once, in order to secure his allegiance, and he had never forgiven them for it. But since then, the truth was that, of the three ‘sponsors’ who had chosen to ‘generously’ bestow the Anathema Sub-Class upon him, the Old Gods had by far been the most supportive.

Yor, on behalf of the Scarlet Court, had done more to help him than he knew of, he was certain of that, but her aid had been secured by Magnin and Beory. The Abyss had rendered aid, but at a steep cost, paid in currency Tyron did not enjoy conveying.

The Old Gods had shielded Tyron from the wrath of The Five, and indeed continued to do so, along with the other material aid they provided him through their followers. He’d done much for them too, of course, but the fact remained that his revenge would have been impossible without their aid, and for that he considered himself deep in their debt.

He didn’t like that.

Ultimately, his goals aligned with theirs. The Dark Ones had finally stirred themselves to topple the false gods they themselves had created, and Tyron wanted them dead. Of all his patrons, they were the only ones who wanted the same things he did. Theirs was a natural partnership, yet he still didn’t like them.

He took another glance back to Elsbeth, still watching him hawkishly, her expression warning him not to say anything he shouldn’t. She needn’t worry so much. Tyron might have a fractious relationship with the Messenger, but he wasn’t going to insult The Three in their own domain for no good reason. Particularly not when he wanted a favour.

“Dark Ones,” he said clearly, and politely, “I have come to you seeking a boon.”

He waited. The atmosphere in the forest was oppressive, even the air tasted old, as if it were from an earlier age. The three statues remained still, though he knew they were listening, he could feel it.

There was no response from the Gods, so Tyron continued.

“I am planning an assault on the Realm of the Dead, though I know I am far from strong enough to achieve my aims. To that end, I have come asking for your aid.”

Again, he waited. Again, no response.

What were they waiting for? They knew why he was here. They knew exactly what he wanted from them, so why drag it out? To prove that they could?

WE WILL SPEAK WHEN WE WILL.

None of The Three spoke, and yet their words reverberated through existence just the same. It was Raven who addressed him, its voice laced with hurricane winds and thunder.

Holding himself steady as best he could, Tyron couldn’t help but think the God had only confirmed his theory. They hadn’t answered simply because they didn’t want him to think they would reply when he spoke. How can a being so powerful be so petty?

Keeping his thoughts to himself, Tyron only bowed, slightly, at the waist.

“Of course. You know why I am here, and what it is that I seek. My goals are aligned with yours. If I am not strong enough to protect the remnant that has been saved, then everything you hope to build will be lost.”

WE HOPE FOR NOTHING. WHAT WE WILL, IS.

That was true… when they could be bothered to do something. Most of the time, The Three left things alone, favouring those who were able to survive and thrive without their help. Was this more of the same? Did they want Tyron to prove he didn’t need them, and thus that he was worthy?

As if he could be bothered with their games.

“Then I take it you do not wish to help. I will take my leave.”

He bowed again and turned on his heel. Only, when he turned, he found he was still facing the statues. They didn’t want him to leave yet, so he wouldn’t be permitted to.

THE REALM OF THE DEAD IS BEYOND OUR POWER, Raven told him. WE ARE OF THIS REALM, AND CANNOT LEAVE IT. WHERE YOU SEEK TO GO IS DISTANT, A PLACE WE CANNOT SEE OR TOUCH.

It was interesting to hear the Raven confirm what he had already suspected. The Three were intrinsically linked to the Realm in which they were born. They had come into being along with the world on which Tyron lived, but they could not extend their power outside of it. The Realm of the Dead wasn’t like the Abyss, which touched everywhere equally, or the Realms beyond the rifts, which had worn away at the Dimensional Weave.

The Realm of the Dead was deep and dark and distant. It wasn’t a hop, step and a jump away, it was much, much more than that.

“I am confident there is a way to extend your reach, in a limited capacity, to such a place,” he said. “I don’t need much, only that you sustain my life while I am there.”

SO YOU KNOW THAT SETTING FOOT THERE WILL KILL YOU.

It wasn’t hard to figure out. The Realm of the Dead was not for the living. Tyron already knew that the Ossuary occupied a space somewhat adjacent, yet outside of, the Realm of the Dead, and the rich, dense energy within it was likely drawn from that place. If Tyron, a living human, were to go somewhere with an even greater concentration of Death Magick, he would die simply by being there, his flesh corrupted as he absorbed more and more of it.

“I figured it out,” he said wryly.

SO CLEVER, SO WISE, the Raven mocked him. A KNOWER OF THINGS. FEATHERING YOUR NEST WITH BRIGHT AND SHINY KNOWLEDGE.

He could almost feel the God picking through its feathers with its beak, lightning crackling in its eyes.

YOU KNOW THAT THERE IS A COST FOR WHAT YOU SEEK. A MEDIUM WILL BE REQUIRED, A RESERVOIR FOR OUR POWER.

No sooner had the Raven finished speaking than Tyron whipped around and pointed a finger at Elsbeth. She had her foot in the air, ready to step forward, a hand on her chest and a bright, determined look in her eyes.

“Shut the fuck up,” he growled at her.

“What?!” she glared at him, furious. “I haven’t said anything yet!”

“I know that. Don’t start talking either.”

“I was ju–”

“I said shut up. Do you have any idea what will happen to the person I take with me? They won’t survive the process. Far from it!”

“All the more reason tha–”

“No.”

“You don’t control me, Tyron,” she hissed. “I will choose my own path, including how I die. Not you.”

All three of the Gods had leaned in, and he could almost feel their interest, their faint sense of delight. He realised then, just what Elsbeth was to them, exactly like what the Venerable had been before her. An interesting toy, a strange little creature who would let them poke her with needles over and over again so long as it helped someone else. How much pain and suffering could they heap on Elsbeth until she was no longer able to endure it? How much would she willingly accept, in order to help others, and not herself?

She fascinated them. To The Three, she must have seemed like she was broken somehow. This golden-haired human who didn’t work like the others, didn’t take, only gave, and was glad of it.

Tyron found it revolting. She was not a toy, nor was she defective.

“If you volunteer, I will simply refuse to go,” he told her. “Besides, I have another candidate in mind for the role.”