Che’ell-Cressen.

The Blood Pit.

A decade ago, if someone had told Elvia Lindholm, freshly expelled ex-student of Lilith’s Presbyterian College for Girls, that she would be fighting for her life in the gladiatorial arena of an arboreal Pocket Plane inhabited by immortals in nine years’ time…

… she would have politely agreed, then slowly walked away at the first opportunity, because the prospect of saying “no” and causing a confrontation was a fate worse than death for a demure introvert such as herself.

Nine years later, she was performing open surgery under the luminous glow of alien crystals, watched by the fanged faces of Svartálfar as they jeered at her Essence-infused Faith craft.

The Elvia of old, no doubt, would have fainted dead away the moment she saw an open wound, much less force her mind into syringe-sharpness as she guided a pair of Sprites to join bone, stitch muscle, and suture the skin of a Knight of St Michael on the brink of expiration. The Elvia of the present, conversely, performed her duty with skill and without regard for external distractions. With absolute confidence, she managed to pull her Knight back from the Pearly Gates to continue his service to the Nazarene.

Under her care, foreign fragments were expelled, muscles rejoined, nerves mended, and skin regrown.

“Blessed Nazarene, Evee.” The young man beneath her miraculous hands raised both palms to signal that he was lucid and awake, and sufficiently restored to a state of life. “How many of my organs did you have to regrow this time?”

“Double pulmonary perforation, oesophagal rupture, splenic laceration, and torsional tear of your thoracic T1. We were very lucky the bite avoided your cervical vertebrae, Matty. Any more to the left…”

“That wasn’t luck,” her Knight Companion coughed blood. “That was on faith. I knew you would bring me back…”

Elvia felt her organs violently contract. “I told you…”

“I know, I know…” Mathias coughed blood, though it was only to expel the clots before they hardened and congealed. “But at least now we’ve got Sir Smallwater back. That’s assuming these Svartálfar keep their word…”

“The Jabbress d'lilth Sulphi-lath always keeps her word,” a deep, droning chitter emerged from the shadow at the edge of the sand-strewn areana, uttered by the monstrous likeness of a Svartálfar Drone conjoined to a monstrous spider. “Of that, you must have no doubt.”

“Then shall I assume, Mistress Qila, that Sir Smallwater will be restored to us?” Elvia’s voice rose an octave as she drowned out her screaming, internal self.

“Presently. With his equipment, as well?” Mathias accosted the towering spider-being on her behalf.

“He was belligerent, but we are generous,” the Drone’s facial skinfolds peeled back to reveal spider-like mandibles as it chuckled, communicating its mistress’s mirth. “You have done well, Temple Guardian. Now your number grows. Your Mistress must to the Spire now, rare guests wish to meet experience her fleshcraft first-hand. Remember, Vessel, the more favours you curry with our Mistress, the more likely your suit will be considered by the Divine Mother.”

“Of course, Mistress Qila,” Elvia was glad at least that she could, through sheer willpower, control her breathing and her blood pressure. “I shall be there shortly, after we recover Sir Smallwater.”

The Drone’s expressions once more grew limp and lifeless. Once Mathias collected his damaged armour, they were assisted by a trio of silent Svartálfar in the garb of Pit Wardens and escorted to the cellblocks where Mathias and their cabal of Knights were kept.

The Blood Pit, Vlos Vthath, was not a pit. This knowledge was gleaned via Elvia’s gift of linguistics from the Yinglong, for the Svartálfar phrase meant “trial, or contest”, with a side of “elevation,” and “offering” inferred by the cultural context of the Dark Elves.

As a popular prize and plaything of Mistress Qila, Elvia had witnessed that the Blood Pit was not a sunken pit, but the carved interior of a hovering, conic, suburb-sized stalactite, hollowed by Svartálfar magic into something resembling a great web-funnel, with the uppermost section serving the function of a colosseum.

According to Mathias, past the vast arena space, there were entire catacombs that formed prisons and other utilitarian necessities in the structure’s interior, making it more akin to a Mage Tower topped with a gladiatorial stadium.

It was into this network of warrens that they now entered, threading through cells and open-spaced sections of ivory granite curved into elegant arches and impossible angles. When they had first arrived, they were intimidated by the hostile architecture, though not even Elvia would deny Che’ell-Cressen’s disturbing allure.

A set of large cell doors, wrought with a strange metallic substance, soundlessly folded unto itself.

“Sir Smallwater!” Elvia almost leapt at the sight of the unarmoured Knight Commander, his skin covered with keloid scars from his decades of service. “Are you alright? What did they do? Did they give you food? Water?”

Knight Commander Smallwater of the Ordo St George usually sported an immensely impressive and meticulously oiled moustache, though now his prideful growth was a half-burnt mess. In his armour, the man possessed the likeness of an unmoving mountain, his great body blocking everything the Undead Mer could throw at Elvia and her companions without a breath of complaint.

Now wearing only the inner layer of his Armour of Faith, the man looked unquestionably diminished.

“I have helped myself to their generous offer of mushrooms and legumes… and the protein, though I dare not think what it may be,” the Knight Commander returned her nug, then exhaled loudly “Thank the Nazarene you’re not a prisoner, Knight Major. The Rectoress’ foresight was unmatched; I could not have imagined the outcome if we were laid low without your healing or your ascendance. Have you heard from the others?”

“Lady Qila assures me that all who survived the initial ambush remain within the Spire City. Though we will need to fight to have them returned.” Elvia did her best to translate her Dark Elf Mistress’ communication. “You’re free now, if you must know. Matty won you from… your er… owner. We will need to keep fighting if we wish to rescue Sir Cromwell.”

“We’ve confirmed that Lady Qila also holds the ownership of Sir Putner, while another sister has the custody of Companion Timberton.”

“We were ten—” the ageing Knight swallowed hard before kissing his rosary, his implement of Faith, which he was allowed to keep. “And now we are five. Da, Domine, pacem in diebus nostris, quia non est alius, qui pugnet pro nobis, nisi tu, Deus noster.”

There is no other who fights for us, except you, our Nazarene. Elvia followed the Knight Commander’s prayers with a great twist of agony.

Two weeks ago, they had entered the Amazonian Orange Zone with the full confidence that they could uncover the exact nature of the Undead Mer infestation, perhaps even put a halt to this blight upon the Prime Material.

They were guided by Inti’s rangers through arboreal Pocket Plane after Pocket Plane, killing more Trolls than Elvia had known possible. They also found monstrous insects, including leeches the size of hounds, beetles the size of houses that sprayed acidic firewater, and giant salamanders that blended into the skyward trees. True to the Senechal’s expectations, the greatest obstacle was the forest itself, for carelessly laying hand upon a branch to support oneself could result in enormous eruptions of diseased excretions that melted both steel and flesh.

Haplessly, once they were in the deep canopy, Kiki and Sen-Sen had to take point, coaxing the forest to stifle its hunger, simultaneously exposing unintelligent hostiles to the Knights’ wrathful flames. More importantly, thanks to Elvia’s blessed Kiki, the group avoided the fate of falling to allergies, for though the Poor Soldiers of the Nazarene had conditioned themselves to risk their lives, they had not signed up for life-threatening hayfever.

A week later, their guides had left them to foray into a zone forbidden to the Inca.

Inside the darkening Orange Zone, their foes increasingly became Undead. A day later, they found the pits.

Some would call what they were witnessing a blasphemous bubonic farm; however, the operation they saw from a jutting escarpment was far larger, connecting the base of the Andes to a plantation hidden by the upper canopies of the Amazonian forest, which ultimately must connect to the sea.

From their vantage point, they had deduced that the spiral-shaped pits must be part of a ritual of sorts, for crude Glyphs in a language not even Elvia could decipher formed a network of runes that led into the dense rainforest. It was a vast, foul, Drudic Grove of rot, fungi, disease and death, its edges laboured upon by Necromancers and Mer-Priests alike.

“The Mer in those pits…” Sir Smallwater had the best vision among them, except for Elvia. “This must be a dark ritual of sorts. That’s not a Mer-soup down there, I am certain that’s the Phage we’re seeing almost everywhere around the globe.”

“Infection…” Elvia tapped deep into her studies, for the Yinglong had also endowed her with a perfect memory. Perhaps that was why she and Gwen could never forgive and move on—for the worst of their moments were captured in crystal clarity, while their budding love had preceded their perfect blessings. “Normally, it’s common knowledge that Demi-humans are near-immune to zombification, not to mention the Mer. Normal Undead can’t even cross deep salt water.”

“I can see that the disease is eating away at their… everything.” Sir Smallwater was already procuring lumen recordings. “But it’s not just a plague. It’s…”

“A transformation,” Elvia felt a bolt from the blue strike her frontal lobe. “The Phage is… It’s like the lycanthrope polymorphic infection!”

“Or perhaps, the Vampiric Essence Curse,” Sir Cromwell, who was personally far better versed with staking Vampires, gave his insight. “The Phage is changing the Mer’s physiology, changing their Cores to be more pliant. Those that die become little more than material for the soup…”

“While those who had finally escaped the unending pain,” Elvia found herself clutching Kiki against her modest breastplate. “Find that they have risen.”

“Worse still, I perceive a looming miasma of psychic anguish." Sir Smallwater’s eyes were golden with the Ordo’s unique variation of Detect, used to track the traces of Necromancy even long after the offenders had left. “It’s not Faith like ours—but energies born from misery, desperation, horror, cruelty…”

“The Mer are many.” Sir Cromwell slapped his vanbraces as an epiphany dawned upon them. “But they believe only in the higher power of those who prey upon them. Yet, as creatures endowed with feelings and emotions, gifted by God with the Faculty of sapience, they are capable of belief. If that belief can be manufactured, attuned, funnelled…”

Elvia watched as the two Knight Commanders rubbed their chins with their gauntlets, her eyes growing suddenly hot and red from the unbidden empathy. “Combined with Necromancy… maybe it's possible…”

“KIKI—!” Her floral Sprite suddenly began to struggle. Before they had left their guides, Elvia had deposited several seed pods at the perimeter of the base camp. Born from Kiki, these detached parts of her Familiar were able to guide her Knights back home, piercing Amazonia’s transformative arboreal spaces.

“The base camp is under attack!” She had instantly reinforced the exo-plating of her armour with Kiki’s vines. “We’ve marked this place, so let’s get out and get a Message through. Tupac’s men won’t be able to fight off the Undead!”

The rest was history.

Tracing their path back into the shallower regions of the Orange Zone, their ten-man squad was ambushed, not by Undead, but by hosts of half-spider, half-Elf creatures joined by thousands of battle slaves from Trolls to demi-Humans. Two of the senior Knights were pulled into the undergrowth, chanting the name of the Nazarene as halos of holy fire transformed their surroundings into a sea of golden flames.

When they finally carved a path of ichor and blood back to the basecamp, there was only a polymorphed Cloud Puma leaping from tree to tree, evading the hunters with their nets and barbed lassos.

With her Faith Healing, Elvia had been certain that, so long as she kept the Knights healed and lucid, their foes were finite and manageable. Their numbers were few, but they had all the time in the world to cut down a Tide.

Her faith had been unwavering until the casters she now knew to be Witches of the Spire, the Cess’naśin, arrived.

As Ordo Knights, one of the principal advantages they held against heretical casters and monsters was their unique School of Magic, derived principally from the sorcery of Faith. As a blend of Biomancy, Mind Magic and mixed Imperial Spellcraft, an Ordo Knight fought with superhuman strength, resistance, mental fortitude, and chantless magic. They self-healed, restored their allies, and used their Spellswords’ innately etched Glyphs to create variations of elemental magic.

But they had never fought the Svartálfar.

Without warning or incantation, her team became sans eyes, sans smell, sans sound.

Their equipment was enchanted to ward against such instances of cheap, nefarious disruption, but nothing they possessed seemed to trigger even when the Knights fell under siege.

As they fought, spells misfired. Glyphs burned without effect. Haywire mana coursed through the Knight’s well-trained bodies. It was as though, inexplicably, the explicit rules of the Imperial Magic System no longer applied to their present world.

Within that depthless darkness, Elvia, whose Sen-Sen possessed tremour-sight, saw grotesque spider-elves arresting her companions with enormous webs that defied both blade and flame, promptly dragging the men into dimensional tears.

Even Knight Commander Smallwater, who had lobbed off the entire torso from his arresting creature, was frozen in a Force Cube, then slipped soundlessly into the same spaces the others had been taken.

Within minutes, only she remained, for Elvia was an immovable fortress clad in the barkskin of her Draconic Gingseng—until a husky voice pierced through the muted dark and informed her of her choices.

“The Vessel of He who Heeds shall attend the Mistress,” the Cess’naśin had informed her with their skull-pervading voices. “The lives of your cabal depend solely on your choice.”

Her final act was to place herself between the uncertain number of Cess’naśin and the panting Tupac, who was madly dashing from the perimeter of the sense-robbing sorcery the Witches had fostered upon her team, using instinct as a guide.

Only when the Cloud Puma was out of sight had Elvia offered her hand, much the same as she did now, to accept the invitation of Qila Quar-Tath, Mistress of the Suffocating Dark.

Che’ell-Cressen.

The Middle Spires.

Gwen Song, Daughter to the serpentine Dreamer in the Well of the World, lay her back against a divan of Svartálfar make, feeling the pleasurable sensation of hand-spun silk against bare skin.

The room in which she and her hostess occupied was Romanesque, only the pillars and domes beloved by the Italians of antiquity had been replaced by arboreal curves and organic asymmetry, conjoined by an aesthetic geometry that reminded her of spider webs. The flooring, composed of mosaics polished to a mirror shine, refracted the lilac glow of the bioluminescence that made Che’ell-Cressen appear as though a city in a fever-induced Midsummer Night’s Dream, making her heart sour for its impossible beauty.

Behind her stood her two guards, both of whom had not relented upon their crude attires of war. As for herself, she had chosen to face their Jabbess with a promise of diplomacy, for she was confident that her role as Guardian and Vessel offered her diplomatic immunity.

What made her less comfortable was Vestra’s offer of refreshments and snacks.

The first consisted of a flute of crimson liquid she was sure was blood, and fresh blood at that. The second was a plate of worms with pale, segmented bodies marinated in lime zest and tossed with vibrant spices. Opposite the enormous, half-moon divan she used as a sofa were a set of thrones in obsidian, elegantly curved like pliant, feminine bodies and wrought with a motif of chitin in the likeness of supine spines. To Gwen, the design language of the Svartálfar seemed almost Geiger-like, only with much more emphasis on arachnophobia.

The room they occupied was furthermore staffed by the Spire Mistress’ entourage of Dark Elf Elementalists, all of whom were female, and a few dangerous-looking Drones that folded their bodies near the central entrance, appearing as immobile statues.

For her attire, Gwen had to forgo her present wardrobe of Elf-wrought living dresses. Instead, she chose a flowing maxi in diaphanous jet, a gift from a Parisian Designer who was inspired by her crow-skin Da-peng suit, allowing her to move with the likeness of an inky fountain.

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Unfortunately, neither fashion nor small talk was of interest to their mistress, and so their conversation had moved without delay to the topic of her heart’s desire.

“I desire the return of our Knights of the Ordos,” she had informed the Dark Elf. “I desire the return of Eliva Lindholm, Vessel to the Yinglong.”

She had anticipated many answers from the Svartálfar.

Excuses, mostly, perhaps a denial, and absolutely, a demand.

What she had not expected at all was what amounted to an amused shoulder shrug.

“The Vessel of the Yinglong is beholden to our senior Sister,” the Svartálfar had shockingly replied with her worst possible suspicion.

“And who is that?” Gwen spoke as she picked at a worm in her mithril cocktail cup. When the protesting larvae stared her down, she apologised and returned the cup to its resting place.

“Our senior sister, Qila of the Suffocating Dark,” the Svartálfar replied with implied sadism. “As a Vessel, the Yinglong's Daughter is a rare prize, but her mortal companions are chattel. As intruders into the Domain of our Mother, they are marked as offerings to her Blood Pits.”

“Elvia did not petition for entry?” Gwen asked, then realised that she was judging Elvia too harshly. Having lost her role as the Yinglong’s fulcrum, Elvia’s esoteric knowledge of Dragons could not compare to herself, who was at least an impudent peer. Besides, it wasn’t as though the Elves cared about intrusions when her IIUC ate a small piece of Amazonia.

“She was found by our sister in her region of claim, whose purpose and designs are her own,” the Dark Elf replied. “But before we continue, I can see from your confusion that your human imagination has grown wild. Are you familiar with the Decree of Quar-Tath, Regent?”

“I am lacking in that regard,” Gwen confessed. “May I be enlightened? Is this about fighting in the arena?”

“It is.” Vetra took a sip of the bloody liquid from her crystal-carved flute.

The effect of the glistening, crimson liquid on the lilac lip of the Svartálfar was a pleasant one, though for some reason, Gwen found herself thinking of Sobel.

“May we share a tongue?” The Dark Elf’s voice changed to what Gwen recognised as Draconic. “There are missing nuances in your incomplete Svarlin.”

“Of course, Mistress,” Gwen mentally switched to Draconic, feeling the stone on the nape of her neck tremble as the invocations engaged. “Pray, enlighten my ignorance.”

Vetra folded her body in a way that drew the eye, then let loose a torrent of syllables in a language as old as the origin of the Svartálfar.

In the beginning, her hostess extolled, there were many more sisters than existed now. In their eternal duty as Guardians of the World Tree in Amazonia, within which they now inhabit, they defended the Quar-Tath’s lair against the predation of Dragons and Peng both large and small, until such time that their mistress was without equal. These aeons of strife, Vestra informed her, had marred Quar-Tath, and by proxy, the quintessence of the Svartálfar. Once the Svartálfar had marked their dominion, they turned to one another for sport to whittle away the torturous boredom of time, for the Dragon’s whims were etched into their souls, as immutable as Quar-Tath’s presence.

“Seven of our Mother’s Vessels remain,” Vestra conjured a series of vague images. “Sinsura is the oldest of us, though as the Handmaiden of Quar-Tath, she hosts the Great Game. Qila, the hostess of your Elvia, stands atop Che’ell-Cressen as our Grove Warden, hence her arrest of the trespassers. The rest of us have our plots and ploys, as is our existential purpose in the balance of powers.”

Draconic, Gwen marvelled, was what HDMI was to analogue. Nonetheless, she still had questions that only a Svartálfar ruler could answer. “So… you people master the races that live within Amazonia, and war with… yourself?”

“The Matron of the Long Night has forbidden us from taking direct action against our sisters and brethren," Vestra informed her, then noted Gwen’s critical tone of voice, not to mention her thin, judgmental lips. “Do you seek to scandalise your predecessors, Regent? Your supplication to Tyfanevius is known. And it is only by your closeness to Ancient Sythinthimryr and Illaelitharian that we hold you above our pettiness. The Emerald Drake has long warred by using the lesser race as a proxy, pruning his allies and foes as he sees fit. Are we so different, Regent, that you would curl your lips thus?”

Taking Bloom's advice to never speak of her relationship with Tyfan, Gwen conceded that the Dark Elf Mistress was right.

“Let us return to the topic of Elvia,” she politely changed the subject. “How do I get her back?”

“The Clor de' Blos, of course,” Vestra’s expression reminded Gwen of Scar from The Lion King.

“The Pit of Blood? This would be the infamous arena where you sisters solve your grievances?” Gwen noted that, at long last, Sanari’s foremost prediction was finally coming true. Whatever the designs of the Svartálfar, they would be pushing Gwen to exhibit her abilities in the Blood Pits. The design wasn’t malicious, at least from the perspective of Svartálfar culture. In Human societies, men and women flaunted wealth and connections. In Svartálfar society, an individual's singular capacity to bring death and suffering upon their foes was their foremost social capital.

“Indeed, Regent. You need to simply challenge Qila’s champions and put on such a display that our Sister cannot refuse your suit. As the Vessel to the Dreamer and ally to our Mother’s contemporaries, if you declare yourself possessor of the Vessel of He who Heeds, Qila cannot, by the very purpose of the Clor de' Blos, ignore or refuse you.”

From the flushed pink working its way into the Svartálfar’s exposed skin, Gwen guessed that they had finally arrived at the reason for Vestra’s unbidden generosity.

“I see, that’s very informative.” Gwen noted with some relief that, at the very least, there was a path forward that wasn’t convoluted. “May I make another inquiry regarding Amazonia?"

The Svartálfar nodded, her silver pupils refracting the violet ambience of the city outside the chamber’s curved, floor-to-ceiling windows.

“I am after the Sinneslukare,” Gwen reported the truth without hiding her intent. “They escaped from Deepholm to here, to the Chilean Coast. I assume Elvia’s men were here for the same reason. Seeing that your kindred took them, I wish to know how these two incidents are interlinked.”

“It would seem that our… goals are truly aligned.” To Gwen’s surprise, the Svartálfar Spire Witch replied with what sounded like laughter and clicks. “Recall that I had mentioned that foremost to the purpose of Clor de' Blos is balance, a balance of power between us Sisters.”

“Indeed.” Gwen sat a little straighter now that they were in business.

“Qila… is seeking to escape that balance. She has fostered many forces under her care, trafficked with heretics, to become first among equals… and more.”

“The Followers of Juche?” Gwen guessed.

“I do not comprehend that phrase,” the Dark Elf refuted. “But the Mind Borrowers are her work. Qila found their surviving tribe in a fragment of the Murk, in what remained of their shattered world. She gifted them their first bodies, and now, they have become a plague that seeks to tip the balance of Che’ell-Cressen.”

“I mean the Undead. The forbidden, the risen, the blasphemed," Gwen tried the idea in several thought patterns. “Is that a threat?”

“That and more,” Vetra confessed, but did not volunteer details. “You can see why the Sisterhood feels vexed.”

“And you can’t challenge Qila yourself?” Gwen asked suspiciously, flattening the folds of her elaborate dress. “You and the other sisters.”

“We are trying,” Vestra’s smirk made Gwen’s brows struggle to remain unfurrowed. “We all play the game, after all. The others have their allies, implements and creatures, and I’ve found myself a Daughter of the Dreamer.”

Gwen chuckled at the circular logic. “I see.”

She allowed herself a moment to mentally compose her thoughts. It was good that Qila had something both she and Vetra wanted. As a member of The Accord, transactional relationships were the most sincere.

“I am not adverse to being used as a bludgeon," she told the Dark Elf. “But my services don’t come cheap. I want Elvia. I want her surviving Ordo Knights, and I want access to the part of Amazonia that exists outside the Wall of the Woods so that I can Purge the… Borrowers from the Prime Material once and for all.”

“All that you desire can be made manifest.” Vestra’s smile was as unnerving as it was uncanny. “As Mistress of the Silent Spire, I can issue a challenge to the Dark Spire. You, or your guards, shall be my champion. If the Regent can best whomever Qila sets in the Blood Pit, then we shall arrive at an agreeable outcome.”

Gwen regarded the Svartálfar in silence for a few moments, studying the svelte silhouette of the enemy of her enemy that was her proposed friend.

“What if I want to open a trade route to Che’ell-Cressen?” She asked, allowing her smile to slowly grow until she was sure the Svartálfar was feeling unnerved. “Will you arrange that too?”

“Our Mother would prefer that the Regent refrain from exercising her nature,” Vestra’s voice took on a hint of stiffness. “Che’ell-Cressen is a world unto itself.”

“So you say.” Gwen did not refute her new best friend. She implicitly understood that while Che’ell-Cressen was a very complicated city with a very complex situation, it was also a simple place, as befitting an immortal race stubbornly welded to certain traditions. “Very well, if we are to join hands, then let us be sincere.”

Unnerved, the Dark Elf waited for her to finish.

“... Let us begin by touring this arena of yours. And most importantly, I need to ascertain the present condition of my dear… Sister… of Ordo Bath, the Vessel of the Yinglong.”

Che’ell-Cressen.

The Blood Pit.

Percy Song, a Favoured Fang of Phyr Quar-Tath, was looking forward to his bi-weekly performance review.

“Make today’s contest a DEMONSTRATION, dearest, and you shall find satisfaction beyond your wildest dreams.”

That was the promise delivered to Percy from his Master and Mistress, the Void Witch Elizabeth Sobel, arch-nemesis of his sister, the Regent of Shalkar and her continental allies, the Mageocracy.

Thankfully, Percy was confident he would emerge both the showman and the victor, for he had been a tireless trainee.

Here in the liminal space of the Axis Mundi, night and day lost all meaning—and though Percy had kept a diary through the newspapers Sobel brought, his best guess was that three years had passed since his exile.

THREE YEARS!

Three years of training, fighting, healing and killing

.

Though the same could be said of his fellow gladiators and FavouredFangs, the mere memory of his own survival was an astronomical feat by the standards of his prior employment as the rising star of the People’s Liberation Army’s.

The sheer number of creatures that he had drained…

The most memorable of his victims had to be the routhe, low-born Dark Elf warriors not attached to a particular Spire Mistress, who used the Blood Pit as a means to attach themselves to the service of blessed beings. These common Elves, the equivalent of the mortal Träälvor Elves commonly abused by Humanity, were some of Percy’s favourite chattel. This was because, no matter their social status, the routhe were long-lived, magically attuned demi-Humans that provided him with tangible improvements to his own biometrics.

Other than the locals, Percy was proud to evaluate that no other Human on earth understood as well as he did the physiology and vulnerabilities of the creatures inhabiting arboreal Amazonia.

Whether through single matches, team-ups, great scrums or mock battles, he had slain everything from Goblins, Giant lizards, Worgs, Mephits, Merfolk, Chokers, Jellies, Hobgoblins, Stone Dwarves, Gibberlings, Mimics, Hook-Hand Horrors, Nagas, Ettins, Spider Ettins, Ettin Maguses, Snake-kin, entire villages of Trolls, a Hill Giant, a Shadow Drake, a Behemoth Toad, some kind of Purple-scaled Draconid, with his latest victim being a Da-Peng that wielded bone-crafted magical implements who lucidly begged not to be soul drained.

For his accomplishments, Phyr Quar-Tath had lost enough “bets” with Sobel to apportion to Percy the Blessing of Quar-Tath. The rite itself, an honour reserved for the “Fangs”, should have been impossible for a mortal, and Phyr herself had agreed only because she had loudly proclaimed that Percy would erupt like a pustule of diseased blood.

To the horror of the Svartálfar and the bell-like laughter of his alabaster-skinned Mistress, the imparted Essence from Quar-Tath, most ancient of the Black Dragons, took to Percy’s Astral Body with the ease of a blowtorch to acetone.

For a period of time that Percy could not discern and Sobel would not provide, he found himself writhing in place, screaming until his throat was hoarse, only to continue the soundless scream until he foamed and convulsed.

The spectacle had drawn quite the crowd at the Black Temple, consistenting of jovial Dark Elves who had come to have a merry old gander at his expiration, only to stare in gobsmacked wonder as Quar-Tath’s Essence settled into his bones.

Later, his lascivious Mistress told him that his elevation had been another bet between herself and their host, only this time, Percy was the beneficiary.

From that moment, Phyr Quar-Tath’s attitude toward him changed.

Like his sister’s Almudj, the final blessing of the dead Kirin had gifted him with a Soul Well capable of imbibing the Essence of those subsumed by his Soul Drain.

And now… Sobel’s rescued curio was capable of absorbing the Essence of Fangs he defeated, becoming a special existence that could grow indefinitely, so long as his victims contained the Essence of his Patron, an ageless creature as grand as the Red Dragon on Carrauntoohil. Against the advice of her own Witches, Phyr declared Percy her Favoured Fang, meaning he could freely challenge the Fangs of opposing Spires whenever an opportunity arose.

In the months since his ascension, his newfound constitution had taken to Sobel’s instruction like a lamprey swarm to a whale fall, absorbing her every reward after each harrowing victory. While he had no means to discern his sister’s Spellcraft, he was confident, supremely confident, that he was no longer the lesser should they square off—

Except his sister still housed the Essence of a Demi-god Ancient and a World Tree. In comparison, he had a long way to go before he could even touch the hems of the veil-dresses worn by the Vessels of Quar-Tath’s Spire City.

All because some blonde bitch of a Cleric had halted his Kirin’s Ascension.

All because his sister had chosen that same blonde hussy over her true-blooded brother.

As the dais rose, Percy soaked in the roaring ambience of Elven voices shouting his Elven title, “Khalii-zii”, the Salty One. When he had first proclaimed it, the moniker made Sobel burst out in breathless laughter, a scene so alluring and beautiful that Percy’s knees had nearly buckled. As his Mistress wiped away her tears of rare joy, he was struck by a sudden, violent longing. A less experienced young man might have mistaken the yearning for lust… but strangely, all Percy desired was for the most beautiful woman he had ever beheld to hold him close to her bosom, to stroke his hair, and to say that he had met all of her expectations and more.

That she was proud of him.

“Salt Skin.”

“Greater Enhancement.”

“Cursed Ward.”

“Displace Self.”

“Contingency.”

Spell after spell, Abjuration, Evocation, Transmutation and more, stacked layer after layer, slotted into place, taking advantage of his obscene mana pool.

Bathed in the concentrated glow of floating Lumen Crystals from hovering Glyph-drones, he inhaled the earthy air. Percy also stretched out his body, showing off the intricately designed Svartálfar battle-plate his Mistress had commissioned for him.

Slowly, another dais began to rise from an indent in the ground, transmuting the space as it revealed his opponent.

From the earthen floor, Percy was surprised to see a head of sandy-blonde hair, a human face, and then what looked like a Knight from the picture books at Prince’s. Upon closer inspection, his keen eyes caught the ornate design of the man’s cuirass, upon which hung a white and gold tabard brought to life by the blood-red etching of a Knight with a flaming sword. Together with the man’s chiselled, clean-shaven face, he looked as though he had stepped from a Renaissance masterpiece.

A Knight of St Michael! Percy felt his heart shudder. Once upon a simpler time, he had a dream to one day wield a Spellsword and right wrongs around the world.

To think that the Mistress of the Dark Spire would acquire an asset as rare as an Ordo Knight! By the looks of the white-gold Relic hanging around the man’s neck, he must be at least a Knight Major, if not higher.

The Master of the Pits, a Dark Elf with an impressive bearing, ponderously made his way between them to announce the Mistresses they championed, and what resources, riches, slaves or curios the rulers of the Spire had put up for barter by combat.

Suddenly, recognition struck Percy’s frontal lobe.

He knew this man.

He knew this Knight.

He had seen him, standing beside…

Focusing his Essence through his ocular conduits, he looked upward toward the highest dais, where the owner of the Knight would be watching the match.

There, beside the elegant, richly adorned silhouette of Qila Quar-Tath, he saw her.

Elvia fucking Lindholm! His heart sang and sang again. His mistress had not lied! This was his reward! His unexpected, incredible, heartfelt reward! Somehow, the very bitch who had stifled his ascension was no longer sheltered in the Green Zone of Mageocracy, but brought low to his personal purgatory!

His hands shook.

His fingers trembled at the memory of them wrapped around the petite snitch’s neck.

At the thought of challenging Elvia, Percy’s love for his mistress bloomed like a Message Glyph, filling every conduit with anticipatory mana.

He would murder this young knight slowly.

He would drain every drop of delicious vitality from the fanatic, and hold the bastard’s dessicated corpse for the blondie to see! HA! He would—

Percy paused.

He realised after a second that Elvia Lindholm was not staring down at him in uncontained rage, but at something else, her mouth hanging open like that of a lobotomised Drone.

Quickly, he turned, knowing that the Pit Master would take his time, and after that, there was still the Benediction of Quar-Tath to seal the deal. The Blood Pit, after all, was an extension of the Black Dragon’s will, for it was she who made its rules inviolable and sacred to all who lived in her lair.

On the third Spire’s risen structure, he saw his Mistress’ unmistakable pale self standing by the elegant rails, her immodest dress billowing from the currents of summoned air. Like Elvia, her mistress’s blue eyes were not focused on Percy, but something else. He couldn’t see her face in detail, but he could tell that his instructor was thoroughly flatfooted by what she’d just seen.

With a sinking feeling of horrid premonition, Percy scanned the hovering Spire structures until he arrived at the smallest of the principal platforms, belonging to the least competitive of the sisters, the quiet one they called Vestra, Mistress of the Silenced.

The Dark Elf was there, though she may as well be a camouflaged spider.

What made Percy’s world split asunder was instead the pale girl in flowing black, her dark hair and exquisite face known across Asia and Europe as the poster child of entrepreneurship.

Presently, that face looked like it was about to bite through the darksteel rails, leap from the Spire, and swallow him whole like a Rainbow Serpent throating a Black Sun.

“Percy Song. My name is Mathias Rothwell, Knight to her Lady, Elvia Lindholm of Ordo Bath. In her name, I judge you for heresy, and condemn you to death and damnation.”

A random voice, belonging to someone irrelevant, was speaking not far from Percy, but all he could hear was the silent condemnation formed by his sister's psychic thoughts from up on high.

“You intrepid little shit…” Her phantom voice seemed to pierce through every Ward the arena offered. “When I get down there… I am going to skin you like a stray dog at a Yulin wet market.”