《Feast or Famine》


 Welcome to Wonderland I

    FEAST OR FAMINE


    ACT ONE: Wonderland


    PART ONE: ¡°Welcome to Wonderland¡± OR ¡°Cost-Benefit Analysis as Calculated by a Madwoman¡±


    <blockquote>


    ¡°Who are you?¡± said the Caterpillar.


    This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, ¡°I¨CI hardly know, sir, just at present¨Cat least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean by that?¡± said the Caterpillar sternly. ¡°Explain yourself!¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t explain myself, I¡¯m afraid, sir,¡± said Alice, ¡°because I¡¯m not myself, you see.¡±


    Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll


    </blockquote>


    When I was a little girl, I loved to read. I read every book I could get my hands on, from quaint little tales to sprawling epics meant for adult eyes only. I didn¡¯t distinguish; a book was a book, and any page with words on it was worth reading.


    As I grew older my sense of taste sharpened and my eye became more discerning, but I have never let go of the wonder that fills me when I open a new book and breathe in a new world. When I read a story I immerse myself in it; I walk through a world of ink and paper as the chosen protagonist of the tale, and I feel as they feel, think as they think. It allows me, if only for those few precious moments, to imagine that I am in another world.


    I¡¯ve always dreamed of falling down the rabbit hole like bold little Alice¨CI even entertained the idea of going by Alice when I renamed myself, but settled on Morgan because it was nice and neutral¨Cor being whisked away by summoning spell or errant Japanese delivery truck to the world of an isekai light novel. I would give anything to live a life of magic and mystery and adventure. I would give my whole world to be taken to another.


    The reality isn¡¯t quite what I was expecting.


    My eyes open from dreamless sleep and I find myself standing in a classroom with three solid walls and an infinite chasm of darkness in the place of the fourth. My gaze darts about as I take in new information and attempt to process it. This isn¡¯t my bedroom. Am I dreaming? This doesn¡¯t feel like a dream. Focus, gather data, analyze.


    For a moment I set aside the plunging emptiness from which no light escapes and examine the classroom that doesn¡¯t really look like a classroom. There are desks and chairs in neat little rows, and on the far wall behind the teacher¡¯s desk there is a chalkboard with ¡°WELCOME¡± written in a rainbow of colors. No chalk, I note, and nothing on any of the desks, even the teacher¡¯s desk. The three walls still standing are barren of any posters or projects or those tacky little mottoes that teachers so love to hang up. There¡¯s a door to my right, another concession to normalcy, but there are no signs of habitation or use in the whole room, and though I can see as clear as day there are no lights amid the ceiling tiles above.


    And then there is, of course, the matter of the yawning abyss.


    I step up to the edge and peer into the darkness, watching the barely perceptible roil of shadow. Something is moving in the depths, or there is the illusion of motion, but like an optical trick I can¡¯t quite make out what. It¡¯s not like outer space¨Cno pinpricks of starlight shimmer in the dark¨Cbut there¡¯s texture to it, a sense of dimension that I can¡¯t quite wrap my brain around. It isn¡¯t normal. It fascinates me.


    I stick a hand past the dividing line and feel the darkness against my skin. It isn¡¯t cold like the dark of space or the dark of night; this dark is warm and soft, almost comforting, but alive too. Like putting your hand against someone¡¯s forehead when they¡¯re sick; feverish. I wave my hand through the fever-warm dark and meet no resistance. It¡¯s just air and darkness and dull heat.


    I pull back into the cold, empty classroom, or what might be the facsimile of a classroom. A simulacrum of the real. An impossibility. Elation bubbles in my lungs and courses through my veins but I force it down, not yet, not yet. One more experiment. One more test before we can be certain.


    I grab the nearest desk, check that it¡¯s empty¨Cit is¨Cand shove it toward the edge. My scrawny bookworm arms strain more than they really should for an object that honestly isn¡¯t that heavy, but I¡¯ve never been the athletic type and my atrophied muscles protest even the slightest exertion. I push the desk until it teeters on the brink of the abyss, then give it one good kick and let gravity handle the rest.


    Gravity does not oblige. The desk neither flies off the edge nor tumbles into the depths; it just dips and keeps dipping until all of it has slipped into the endless blackness, and then it gently drifts out into the void, rotating slowly with the last of the momentum I gave it. No friction drags against it, so it floats off at a steady rate, getting smaller and dimmer, until the shadows swallow it whole.


    I can¡¯t help it: I start laughing. I laugh and laugh until my lungs ache and I have to steady myself against the nearest wall just to remain standing. It bubbles out of me in bursts and waves, an inconstant cascade lacking in rhythm or reason. Tears stain my cheeks with wet, salty joy. Magic. That¡¯s magic. I¡¯ve found magic. I¡¯ve finally found magic. I sweep a hand at the abyss. Nothing like that can exist, right? A void without gravity, warm, connected to a room affected by gravity, cold. No membrane between them, no separation. That breaks at least two laws of physics, right? Has to be magic.


    As my laughter dies for lack of breath, the first question I asked returns to the forefront: Am I dreaming?


    Immediately I grimace at the question. Of course we¡¯re not dreaming. What about this feels like dreaming. Why even question if we¡¯re dreaming?


    The impossible room with its impossible void, I counter dryly.


    I feel too lucid to be dreaming. I can think, feel, move. I can contemplate my own existence and act with free will. I can read writing and perceive color. I rake my nails across my cheek and feel the sensation of pressure transmitted to my brain as a light, pleasant pain. I feel the nerves tingle even after my fingers are drawn away. I am not dreaming. I know I¡¯m not dreaming.


    So where are we?


    The answer is obvious: Another world. I¡¯m in another world. I¡¯m in another world and it has magic! I¡¯m not dreaming, but this is all I¡¯ve ever dreamed. I¡¯m in the kind of story I¡¯ve read about and fantasized about a hundred thousand times!


    I squeal loudly and hug myself, grinning and wiggling as I lean against the wall, and it¡¯s only then that I notice what I¡¯m wearing: a navy-blue blazer over a white blouse, a pleated gray skirt that stops just above white knee socks, and black dress shoes that look fresh out of the box. My joy is slapped with indignation and I scowl.


    ¡°Really? A schoolgirl uniform? I can drink! I¡¯m in college! If this is some fetish thing I am going to be very cross. Do you hear that, whatever or whoever brought me here? Cross!¡±


    It doesn¡¯t even have pockets. And it should have pockets! The blazer has what looks like a pocket, but it¡¯s been stitched over so you can¡¯t actually put anything in it. Unbelievable. What a miserable excuse for an article of clothing.


    I fidget with the traitorous stitching as I push off the wall, that spike of anger bringing my focus back to practical matters. I am in another world, or at least someplace so unlike the familiar that it might as well be another world. This world has magic, which is incredible, but I¡¯m also in a weird not-quite-classroom with only the clothes on my back and my wits, and the clothes are pretty sub-par. I need more resources and fast before whatever dangers exist in this world get a whiff of easy prey.


    We probably should have thought of that before laughing loud enough to disturb the underworld. If there¡¯s anything nasty waiting in the wings, it definitely knows we¡¯re here.


    Yeah. Shit. I need a weapon.


    Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    I quickly move to each desk and peer inside for useful loot. The desks are all spotlessly clean, not even a layer of dust, and all but one are completely empty. In the exception I find a stoppered glass bottle, unmarked, filled with green liquid I don¡¯t recognize. Potion? Bottles of weird liquid are usually potions in fantasy settings.


    That¡¯s assuming this is a fantasy story, which isn¡¯t a sure bet. Sure, the abyss is pretty unscientific, but unnatural abandoned schools are pretty common in supernatural horror.


    I take the mystery bottle and am forced to hold it one hand as I do not have any pockets to store it in. I take off my pocketless blazer and use it to wrap the maybe-potion so it won¡¯t break if I accidentally drop it, which is depressingly likely to happen.


    Step one: find a weapon. Step two: find some fucking pockets.


    I turn the door handle and step out into a plain, sterile hallway. Plain wooden floor, plain ceiling tiles once again devoid of lights¨CI can still see perfectly well, though the lighting is a little colder than sunlight¨Cand more doors interspersed regularly. No writing on or above the doors, no grime or signs of decay. To my right, the hall turns a corner and continues out of sight. To my left, there¡¯s a ghost.


    She¡¯s got skin paler than mine¨Cwhich I assure you is an achievement, as I detest being under the harsh light of the daystar¨Cand stringy black hair that completely obscures her face. She¡¯s wearing a gauzy white dress that seems to flutter in an unfelt breeze, and her bare feet are covered in dirt. She stands there with her arms at her sides, so still you could mistake her for a statue or a photo image if not for the fluttering dress. She is, to put it cleanly, the very image of a Japanese horror ghost girl.


    We don¡¯t know she¡¯s a ghost. She might just have bad haircare and avoid sunlight, like you.


    Hey! I take excellent care of my hair.


    I turn to face the almost-certainly-a-ghost and wave. ¡°Hey there! Quick question: are you a ghost? Because that would really help me pin down the genre of this setting. My gut says isekai fantasy, but my gut is a dumb series of meat tubes and the abandoned school suggests something more urban or supernatural, and if you¡¯re a ghost that¡¯s a strong tick for the horror column. It¡¯s important to know your genre when waking up in another world.¡±


    The pale woman doesn¡¯t respond, but she does take a step forward. Her body twists at an odd angle, her movement twitchy and unnatural in the exact way J-horror ghosts tend to move.


    ¡°I guess that¡¯s kind of an answer but I would really prefer something more concrete and definite, please and thank you,¡± I say as I carefully step back. ¡°Anything? Just going to continue being silent? You¡¯re not much of a conversationalist, are you?¡±


    It¡¯s weird that I¡¯m not afraid right now. I¡¯m usually terrified of ghosts in movies, or of anything that reminds me of death. Why isn¡¯t this scaring me?


    The very-definitely-a-ghost ignores me, rudely, and continues stuttering forward step-by-step. I keep pace, trying not to make any moves that are too sudden or aggressive. She¡¯s stick-thin and frail-looking, but so am I, and unlike me ghosts are rarely burdened by the curse of flesh.


    ¡°No offense, but you seem like trouble. I¡¯m just going to go head in the other direction, okay? We cool? Cool.¡±


    I wave goodbye to the ghost lady and keep my eyes trained on her as I walk backwards toward the corner turn. She doesn¡¯t increase her pace as I increase mine, which I take as a good sign. When my back hits the wall my gaze automatically flits toward the new hall on my right, and when I snap back to the girl in pale she¡¯s right in front of me raising a kitchen knife over her head.


    She stabs the knife down at my delicate, vulnerable body, and my piss-poor reflexes are way too slow to save me. The impulse to dodge has only just reached my muscles when the knife sinks into my left shoulder. Pain lances through that arm and makes my fingers convulse involuntarily. I scream at the sudden, blinding agony and my other hand clenches around the blazer-wrapped bottle. Before I can think to do something, anything, the pale lady rips the knife back out and looms over me.


    It hurts, it hurts, why does it hurt so much? I stumble away from my assailant into the hall around the corner and grit my teeth against the pain as a whimper escapes my lips. My injured arm is shaking and blood soaks into my blouse. I can still move my arm but every motion brings a fresh spike of pain and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts. I glance back at the pale woman but she¡¯s just standing there, still as a statue, watching me.


    There¡¯s a noise echoing off the walls, echoing out of her, a staccato pattern somewhere between gurgling and clicking, and there¡¯s a note of amusement to it. Entertainment. She¡¯s laughing at me. My shoulder is bleeding, my nerve endings are shrieking, and she is laughing at me. Mocking me.


    Fury joins the pain.


    She takes a step forward and I take a step back, but I know she¡¯s just toying with me. She could be on me again in a single blink but she¡¯s drawing this out so she can play with her food. Maybe she wants me to be afraid, wants to taste my terror and feed on it, but I feel no fear. There is only the red haze of anger and pain mixing together in my veins and pouring over my body from the wound in my shoulder. I can¡¯t outrun her. I can¡¯t reason with her. The only way out is through.


    No weapons. No chance of disarming her. The only tool at my disposal is the bottle. Another exchange of steps. Another shock of blistering pain. If it¡¯s a healing potion, drinking it will only delay the inevitable. If it¡¯s harmful, drinking it is a bad idea anyway. Easy choice.


    Another step, flinch, pause, and I pull the blazer off the bottle. I clutch the jacket with my weaker hand while my uninjured hand grips the bottle tight. I only get one chance at this.


    My opponents tilts her head as if curious, and this time when her hair shifts it stops covering her face. The upper half of her face would almost be normal if it weren¡¯t for the blood pooling in empty eye sockets, but the lower half of her face is a mass of needle-teeth from ear-to-ear, rows and rows of sharpened enamel like the mouth of a shark but somehow wider and deeper.


    The monster comes closer and I don¡¯t move away. Pause, step, pause, step. She¡¯s an arm¡¯s length away now, and when she takes her next step I move at the same time. I swing the bottle at her face as she lunges at me with the knife and she¡¯s still faster, damn her, but she doesn¡¯t even try to dodge my attack.


    Her knife stabs into my outer thigh, another shock of agony but nothing lethal, and when the glass bottle shatters against her needle-toothed face and the green liquid within begins to seep into her hair and skin and teeth, everything the liquid touches starts to melt.


    The monster lets go of her knife and claws at her face, a surprisingly human scream emitting from her throat before it is silenced by the acid eating into her flesh. I stare with wide eyes as the acid corrodes her clutching hands and I spare a moment to be relieved that I never tried to drink that horrid elixir. Then I let the anger back in.


    I pull the knife out of my leg, a terrible decision for my health but an excellent decision for my having a knife. The lady in white falls to her knees, still grasping at her melting face, and I drive the knife into her shoulder. I sink it deep and twist, enjoying the feeling as the knife meets resistance and pushes through. I withdraw the knife and stab her thigh, repaying her for both wounds, but her throat is melting and she can¡¯t scream like I did so it isn¡¯t enough, it hasn¡¯t been made fair. I stab her again, again, again, again, not caring where the blows land so long as they draw blood. Her insides are human, I discover, despite how inhuman her face looked, and she bleeds the same red as coats my clothing. The body stills and I keep hacking, slashing, stabbing, chopping, until the last of my fury spills out and the exhaustion hits me all at once.


    I slump against the wall next to the corpse. I breathe: in, out, in, out. Heavy gulps of precious oxygen. Adrenaline fading. Crash. The last of the awful energy that filled me as I butchered the not-quite-human monster escapes from my chest in uncontrollable laughter. I laugh and shudder and collapse, spent, on the wooden floor now covered in our blood.


    I want to lie there for an eternity. I want to lie there and hug myself and ignore the world around me, but the pain forces me to keep moving. My shoulder and my leg both ache and burn, demanding my attention. I¡¯m losing blood, but not quickly; given that monster¡¯s sadism, I suspect luck isn¡¯t to blame for my survival. I¡¯m familiar enough with the sight of my own blood to know that neither wound will kill me if I stop the bleeding, but I still need to stop the fucking bleeding.


    I cut my blazer up with my new knife, roughly sawing through the cloth with a blade not meant for the task. It suffices, and I tie a makeshift bandage around each injury. My shoulder is harder to bandage than my leg thanks to some awkward angles involved, but I¡¯m well-practiced at the art of wound care.


    After tending my fresh wounds I force myself to my feet and stare down at the mess I¡¯ve made; my blouse is more red than white, and even after wiping my hands on my skirt they¡¯re still stained with my own blood and that of the monster. The thing that tried to kill me is in a much worse state, of course. It failed, and it died. I killed it.


    But only barely, comes the thought unbidden. Only because it was playing with you. Only because the liquid in the bottle was acid. You stumbled about while it laughed at you, and then you got lucky. The roll of a metaphysical d20 was all that kept you from being dead on the ground in that thing¡¯s place.


    I squeeze my knife. We won. We won, and that¡¯s all that matters. There¡¯s no point in obsessing over might-have-beens. We won, and we will keep winning. I¡¯m not dying here. This is my story, and I¡¯m going to win.


    How? How are you going to win? You traded acid for a knife that you don¡¯t know how to use.


    It¡¯s a knife. It¡¯s not hard. Just stick them with the pointy end. I stick the corpse again to illustrate my point, and my upper lip curls.


    There¡¯s a pretty big difference between stabbing a dead woman and battling a living being. Face it: you¡¯re weak, you¡¯re clumsy, and you¡¯re slow. You¡¯re more likely to hurt yourself with that thing than you are to actually take someone in a fight.


    ¡°Shut up!¡± I hiss, hands starting to shake. ¡°Shut up, shut up, just shut the fuck up and leave me alone. I don¡¯t need this right now, I really, really don¡¯t need this, so just shut up!¡±


    You¡¯re the one making noise. Attracting more monsters. It¡¯ll be your fault when they come, and then they¡¯ll laugh at your little knife and tear you to pieces. They¡¯ll kill you. But maybe that¡¯s what¨C


    I slap myself, hard. My head jerks to the side and my injured arm screams but I let both stay at that odd angle, staring into nothing. There is silence. There is stillness.


    I straighten up and force a smile to my face. ¡°I am calm. I am in control. This is my story, and I am going to win.¡±


    I grip the knife tightly and start walking.

 Welcome to Wonderland II

    I limp my way through another hallway full of doors. Each door I open shows the same scene: another empty classroom with another endless void in the place of the far wall. I poke my head into each and give a visual scan for anything of value or interest, but every one is identical to my starting room, save for a lack of writing on the chalkboard. I make a quick search of a few just in case there¡¯s another bottle of acid secreted away, but no dice. No loot, no writing, so I keep moving.


    I don¡¯t think ghosts are usually that solid, I muse as I investigate another empty classroom. I don¡¯t remember ghosts ever being weak to acid, either, in all the stories I¡¯ve read, and those teeth were weird. It almost felt a bit sci-fi, like some horrible lab experiment loosed in a test environment. The void feels strongly fantasy, though. I guess there could be some genre cross-pollination at work. Either way, my analysis of this story is skewing closer to ¡°horror¡± than ¡°power fantasy.¡± I grimace. Which means I¡¯m going to need to work a lot harder to get my hands on magic. When I meet whatever put me here I¡¯m going to stab it.


    Two bends in the hall later, I find my next clue: a classroom different from all others by virtue of the child-sized doll sitting atop one of the desks.


    The doll has a porcelain face with painted eyes, a puffy eggshell dress covered in lace and ribbon, and perfect posture as it sits with its hands folded in its lap. The doll is mostly shades of off-white with two glaring exceptions: the scarlet butterfly crystal hairpin threaded through its lifelike hair, and the glittery pink backpack looped through its arms.


    I practically salivate at the sight of a backpack, an honest-to-gods backpack. Sure, it¡¯s pink and sparkly and deeply offends my darkly gothic sensibilities, but it has pockets!


    I take a cautious step inside and give a quick glance around. Messy writing is scratched into the three standing walls: the words ¡°I AM A PIECE OF A PIECE OF ME¡± repeating over and over in spiraling fractal patterns. The words get mixed up in places and blend together, but the message always surfaces again. Some of the scratch-marks are stained with what looks like dried blood, as if someone carved these words into the walls with their fingernails until their hands were raw and bleeding.


    The walls present a fascinating puzzle, but I elect to ignore that puzzle to focus on the pretty doll and the loot it¡¯s wearing. I heft the knife and glance between it and the doll.


    You should stab the doll. There¡¯s a one hundred percent chance that thing is going to come to life and attack you.


    A reasonable decision. Counterpoint: what if it comes to life and it¡¯s nice? And then I¡¯ve stabbed the poor thing and it will look at me with those fake doll eyes and cry a single tear as it dies alone and betrayed, spurned by a monster it only wanted to befriend. All it wanted was a friend, Morgan, someone to hug and cherish, and you killed it. And every time I look at the backpack I stole off its dead doll body I¡¯ll have to remember that look of pain and loss. Do you want me to have a crisis of conscience every time I have to take something out of my stolen backpack?


    I circle the doll as I debate with myself, never letting it out of my sight. I wince with every other step, my leg still whining at me about the open stab wound.


    So you might kill a friendly abomination, so what? Better than getting killed by a bloodthirsty abomination! It¡¯s finite loss versus infinite loss, and equal gain.


    Okay, first of all, please avoid saying anything that even remotely reminds me of Pascal¡¯s stupid wager. Second of all, what if killing the doll curses me? That¡¯s some classic moral fable shit: the protagonist gets offered a choice to be kind or to be cruel and when they choose cruelty they are punished for it. Severely. This could be a test. What if we¡¯re the Beast and this is our Enchantress?


    Does this really seem like the kind of story that has fairytale tests of character? The first living thing we encountered in this world tried to murder us, and we haven¡¯t seen another sign of life since. Not even bugs! Have you noticed that there are no bugs around? Of course you have, you¡¯re me. So far all the evidence points to everything in this world hating us and wanting us dead.


    I have to admit, I make a good point. Okay, look, I just don¡¯t want to start my adventuring career off with a mistake that I¡¯ll regret for the whole rest of the story and moan about when I¡¯m contemplating moral choices. Let¡¯s try diplomacy first, and if that doesn¡¯t work, stabby stabby time.


    I step back in front of the doll and clear my throat. ¡°Hi there, my name¡¯s Morgan and¨C¡±


    Hmm. Should we take this opportunity to pick a more interesting name? I mean, we¡¯re in a fantastical otherworld with weird horrors, don¡¯t you think ¡°Morgan¡± is a little boring? Like, it worked when we wanted a name that was very normal and easy for people to learn, but I feel like we should inject some spice to our name in this new world.


    We could go by ¡°Alice¡± instead? Strange girl in a strange land?


    I said spice! Throw some flavor on there, make it cool and badass. How about ¡°Malice¡± as a name?


    Horrifically edgy. The very personification of chuunibyou delusion. I love it.


    I cough to ineffectively hide my tangent. The doll has yet to move or respond. ¡°Disregard that, please and thank you. Hi there, my name is Malice, and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. If you have an acquaintance to make. Are you alive?¡± The doll does not respond. ¡°I¡¯m kind of hoping you aren¡¯t alive, because I really want that hairpin and that backpack and I¡¯d hate to steal from someone who is nice and alive.¡±


    I pause and process what I just said. ¡°Sorry, that sounds rude. I don¡¯t mean that I wish you were dead, just that it would be very convenient if you were amenable to letting me have your stuff, and I really don¡¯t want you to murder me. I¡¯d love to be friends with you, if you are both alive and not evil. Even if you are evil, so long as you¡¯re friendly!¡±


    The doll continues to do nothing, its painted eyes staring past me. I nod. ¡°Cool, cool, that¡¯s great. So, it seems like you aren¡¯t alive. If you are alive, I would really, really appreciate you doing something to show that, because otherwise I¡¯m going to take your silence as tacit approval to slit your throat and steal your stuff.¡±


    Another pause, another lack of response. ¡°It¡¯s not that I want to hurt you, I really don¡¯t, it¡¯s just that if you¡¯re not friendly I can¡¯t take the chance of you springing to life and murdering me. You understand that, right?¡± Silence fills the air and the doll remains still.


    I let the moment stretch out, waiting for any kind of reaction from the doll, but nothing changes. Carefully, knife at the ready in case it moves, I lay my other hand¨Cow, ow, my shoulder¨Con the doll¡¯s throat and try to feel for a pulse, for warmth, for anything. The doll is cold and lifeless, just like a doll should be. No motion beneath the skin, no sign of anything strange. It¡¯s just an ordinary doll.


    I sigh to myself, apologize to the doll, and stab it in the throat. The blade sinks in easily and without noise. The doll doesn¡¯t make any noise either, still doesn¡¯t move or react, but when I pull the knife free the blade is coated in pale, milky blood. The hole in the doll¡¯s throat bleeds pink liquid that drips onto the pretty dress and ruins it.


    What the fuck? That¡¯s the only cogent response I can muster. No, really, what the fucking fuck? What?


    I¡¯m committed now so I stab the doll¡¯s chest for good measure, aiming for where its heart would be if it were human. The blade sinks in just as easily and more milky blood pours out when I withdraw the knife. I¡¯m making a mess and some of that pink is getting on my hands and clothes, adding new shades to the bloodstains already present. And still, even bleeding from two stab wounds, the damned doll doesn¡¯t make any sign that it¡¯s alive, that I¡¯m killing a living thing.


    What is this? Why is this? Did someone fill a doll with fake pink blood? What is the point of this thing, and those walls, and this whole fucking room? Why is a high-class doll wearing a middle schooler¡¯s backpack, and why does it bleed blood like milk, and why are those words scratched into those walls? None of this feels organic, none of it feels real. It¡¯s like it was all hand-placed for me to find.


    When the blood stops flowing I finally accept that the doll probably isn¡¯t going to move. I still keep the knife clutched in one hand as I nick the doll¡¯s ruby hairpin and attach the scarlet butterfly to my hair. Maneuvering the backpack off is a little trickier since I have to move the straps around the doll¡¯s arms and one of my arms is still in quite a bit of pain, but the doll is light and easily adjusted. When both articles of loot have been retrieved, I pick the doll up and throw it into the abyss.


    Sorry, but I can¡¯t afford to take any chances. I empty the backpack onto the nearest desk and school supplies spill out: pens in black and red, a pack of colored pencils, highlighters in three shades, scissors, two spiral notebooks, and two composition notebooks. No calculator, I note with annoyance. Calculators are always great to have in fantasy settings when you want to show off to the locals. Granted, the modern school doesn¡¯t exactly scream ¡°pseudo-medieval fantasy world,¡± but nothing here seems like it belongs. None of the items that pour out of the backpack have brands on them, not even maker¡¯s marks.


    Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    These were placed here, just like the doll and the bottle and the needle-toothed monster. Whatever brought me here set these in my path. I search the desk interiors but come up empty. I¡¯m itching to investigate this room further to try and understand it, to understand the writing on the walls, but I can¡¯t let myself get distracted; there are bigger mysteries at play here than anything I¡¯ve uncovered, and I highly doubt Needles the Not-A-Ghost was the only threat in this weird fake school.


    I load the backpack up with all its sundry school supplies and loop the pink horror through my arms, which causes another blistering bout of pain from the injury on my shoulder¨CI¡¯m lucky the straps are long, because I¡¯m really far too tall to be wearing a child¡¯s backpack. I really hope this setting has healing magic, because otherwise this is going to be a bitch and a half to deal with.


    No fake ghost accosts me when I leave the room this time, which is nice. I pass a few more empty classrooms and round a fourth bend that should bring me back to the hallway I started in, but instead the hall around the corner abruptly ends at a flight of stairs leading up.


    Strike another law of physics from the roster, and add alien geometries to the genre discussion. Still firmly in the horror camp, but now we¡¯re starting to lean cosmic.


    The stairway only goes up, so up I climb.


    Climbing a flight of stairs, I discover, is hellish when you have an open leg wound. Every step sends another stab of pain up my leg, and I have to stifle every gasp and shriek into a grunt or hiss. By the third flight I¡¯m already winded, and the stairs keep going up; where there should be an opening to another part of the school there¡¯s just a blank wall and more stairs, and looking up I don¡¯t seen an ending to the stairwell. It¡¯s one of those stairwells that goes stairs-flat-stairs-flat, so I take a break on the next flat and sit down.


    I lay against the wall with my new backpack cushioning me, knife still clutched tightly in one hand, and for a few moments I just breathe.


    We are in terrible shape. Just truly, genuinely terrible.


    What did you expect? We spent a good two-thirds of our life cooped up indoors reading books and dreaming of magic. And I was always frail, even as a little girl.


    You were frail because you didn¡¯t exercise, which is a problem we need to fix and fast now that we¡¯re in serious life-threatening danger.


    I agree! I really do. Our pathetic nerd body is not going to cut it in this horrible nightmare world. But I can¡¯t exactly do a few push-ups and get buff. If we really want to get stronger we need to cheat. A spell of strengthening, an experimental gene treatment, a stat boost, whatever form of physical power progression exists in this setting. But hard work will take too long for too little gain.


    I feel like that attitude is why we¡¯re so weak in the first place.


    I shrug, which does positively miserable things to my wounded shoulder and forces me to bite back another yelp of pain. I wince and let out a strained breath. This is bad. This is really bad. I can¡¯t win another fight like this.


    I glare up at the seemingly endless stairwell and say aloud, ¡°Doesn¡¯t this seem a little unfair to you, whoever you are? Isn¡¯t this all a bit much? You send me to another world, dress me in a stupid uniform, throw me against a monster with a knife, and you don¡¯t even give me magic? No spells, no stat boosts, not even a one-of-a-kind magic item? Don¡¯t I deserve at least one cheat ability? Don¡¯t I deserve something to help me survive?¡±


    I rant against whatever entity dropped me here, not expecting a response, but then my backpack gets heavier.


    I blink. No voice from above accompanies the sudden weight but as I shift my seating I can just feel something new inside my stolen backpack. I eagerly take it off¨Cow, ow, ow¨Cand shuffle it around into my lap. I set the knife beside me and dig through the pockets, searching frantically. It doesn¡¯t take long to find the new arrival: a crystal flask about the size of a water bottle, filled to the stopper with luminescent red liquid. There¡¯s a tag that says ¡°Drink Me¡± tied around the neck of the bottle.


    I pop the stopper and raise the flask to my lips but stop myself a second before drinking. This could be more acid. It would be a very dick move for this to be acid, but it could be acid. I hesitate, consider, then carefully spill a drop onto my shirt. Nothing burns, so I stop hesitating and down a big gulp, and then a second gulp because I suddenly realize how thirsty I am.


    As I recap the flask and the liquid flows down my throat I feel a warmth start to spread through my whole body. Wherever the warmth touches I feel renewed and revitalized, all my aches and pains fading away.


    I carefully set the flask down and unwrap the bandages on my shoulder and thigh. After scraping off some dried blood with my fingernails I find smooth, pale, unbroken skin. I poke the skin around the area a few times just to be sure, but everything is completely normal. I stretch my muscles and sigh contentedly, luxuriating in my freshly-restored range of motion. The warmth lingers and soothes my strained body, slowly fading away as I stay in this perfect moment.


    As the last of the restorative warmth leaves me, an ugly thought springs to mind and I glare at the bottle suspiciously.


    ¡°You know,¡± I confide to the empty air, ¡°this seems a lot like a healing potion. And hey, that¡¯s neat. Healing potions are neat, and I definitely needed some healing. But it occurs to me that a healing potion is not what I asked for. A healing potion is not a spell, or a stat boost, or even a one-of-a-kind magic item. They practically give these things away in RPGs.¡±


    ¡°Of course, maybe it wasn¡¯t a healing potion at all! Maybe this special little elixir gave me regeneration that¡¯ll last the whole rest of the story and save my ass time and time again. And that would be great! That¡¯s a pretty handy cheat ability. The difference between a consumable healing item and a permanent healing factor is, and you don¡¯t need me to tell you this, absolutely vast. And it would really go a long way toward improving my opinion of you, mysterious-entity-that-has-just-confirmed-its-existence, if this turned out to be more than just a dinky little healing potion. So let¡¯s run a quick test.¡±


    I glance at the kitchen knife, but it won¡¯t work for this. Kitchen knives are great for chopping and solid at stabbing, not so great at making precise incisions. Plus, that thing¡¯s filthy with the dried blood of three different people¨Cfor a certain definition of the word¨Cand there is a one hundred percent chance that I¡¯d get an infection if I cut myself with it.


    I fish through my backpack and find the scissors inside. They wouldn¡¯t be my first choice in most circumstances but I know how to make them do what I want. I lay one scissor blade across the skin of my forearm, breathe, and make the cut.


    It doesn¡¯t hurt, but I wasn¡¯t expecting it to. I watch the thin line of red bloom to life and start counting in my head. I reach one hundred without any noticeable changes so I take a bit of blouse not already soaked red and wipe off the blood. The incision is still there. I glare skyward for a second time and accuse, ¡°Cheapskate. What kind of supernatural reality warper can¡¯t spring for a basic regeneration package?¡±


    I sigh. Guess I have to get my hands on superpowers the hard way. I stow the half-drank potion and slowly get off the ground, picking up my knife as I do. I consider keeping the bloody remains of my blazer but decide that an ignominious grave is karmic retribution for its crimes against pockets.


    Inventory: kitchen knife, backpack full of school supplies, and a half-empty healing potion. Truly I have come prepared for adventure.


    My climb goes quicker now that I¡¯m not limping and holding back screams, and after five more flights of stairs I experience a sudden change of scenery; one second I¡¯m walking up another flight, the endless stairwell above me, and the next instant I¡¯m standing at the abrupt end of the stairwell halfway through a set of stairs, like the top half of the structure was laser-cut to be flush with the ground.


    And there is ground: an expanse of dirt and moss bare of underbrush and broken only by the twisting roots of gnarled, crooked trees. A heavy canopy of leaves blocks any light that might come from the sky, but once again my vision is unobscured by the seeming lack of light sources. I breathe in the fresh air and allow myself a smile. I can smell wet earth and pine, and it reminds me of wandering through the woodlands back home, dreaming up stories or play-acting little scenes. I cock my head to the side and let sound filter in, but the only thing I hear is the gentle rustle of leaves.


    So an abandoned school in the shadow dimension teleports me to an eerie, empty forest. No birds chirping, no bugs chittering.


    I walk a few steps from the school entrance and stoop down to inspect the forest floor. The moss looks real, it looks alive and healthy, but I don¡¯t see any bugs. Nothing burrowing through the earth or trekking across the dirt, nothing nesting in the moss or crawling over a root. I stand back up and look around. Everything is so still. Even the canopy above is frozen in place, like someone took a photo of a real forest and plastered it onto a skybox. The sound of shifting leaves is completely disconnected from the reality of that stagnant image. I extend my arms out to feel the wind, but the air is dead. If the air is so still, what¡¯s sending these scents my way? How can it smell so fresh? There is sound and smell but not the accompanying sensation or sight.


    No wind, no stars in the sky¡­ yeah, this is a navigational nightmare waiting to happen. How do I get out of here when every direction looks identical?


    ¡°Mind handing me a compass?¡± I ask the empty air. ¡°You know, since you can¡¯t give me superpowers but you can make magic items from nothing.¡±


    The air declines to humor my request, so I flip it off. I guess we just pick a direction and start walking. The forest is fairly open, owing to the lack of underbrush and the wide berth between trees, so I can see all around. It all looks the same to my eyes, though I¡¯m sure anyone who knows anything about wilderness survival could spot something I¡¯m missing. The clearing I¡¯m in isn¡¯t even really a clearing, just another natural gap between trees. If I didn¡¯t know it was here I might not even notice the hole in the ground.


    A new scent reaches my nose and I frown. Why do I smell smoke? If there was a fire in the forest I would see it, and there¡¯s no wind to blow it toward so where¨C


    I glance back at the stairwell and catch a few wisps of smoke rising up. And within, barely visible but getting brighter and brighter, a strange green light.


    Fuck.


    The ground starts to rumble.


    Fuck!


    I bolt for the nearest tree as fast as my stupid weak legs can carry me. I throw myself behind the gnarled trunk, bunch up to make my body as small as possible, and hold my breath.


    Then the world explodes.

 Welcome to Wonderland III

    Green-gold flame devours the world.


    A wave of heat and force blows past my hiding spot and scorches away the lichen coating the forest floor. I feel the shockwave in my bones and see the canopy shudder and catch fire. The tree behind me creaks and strains, but it holds. I hear an awful splintering as another tree is not so lucky, and I try to make myself even smaller against my shelter.


    The shockwave passes, but the strange green fire clings to blackened dirt and patches of moss. The canopy above, still blazing, rains embers and ash on the forest floor. The fire is spreading, and soon my shelter will catch.


    I stumble away from the tree that saved me and spare a glance back toward the stairwell, or what remains of it. There¡¯s a wrecked pit where the stairwell once was, and around that pit the soil is scorched and the fire burns bright emerald. No going back.


    I stare at the ruins as I back away, and then fury replaces self-preservation and I scream my frustrations to the canopy of leaves. ¡°A FUCKING EXPLOSION!? WAS THAT REALLY FUCKING NECESSARY!? I nearly die to a bastard with a knife, I have to limp around that horrid little school with an injured leg, my very polite request gets mocked, and then you blow it all up!? When I find you, you little shit, I¡¯m going to¨C¡±


    My petulant whining dies in my throat when I see the first monster.


    Imagine that someone took a dog and stretched it like taffy until it was in the rough shape of a giant spider, legs and all. A fluffy fur coat covers the bulbous back half of its body and the flattened front, and the fur continues onto eight segmented legs that twist up before coming back down and ending in horrible little stumps.


    The face is the worst part: a cramped cluster of eight watery dog eyes, a squashed nose, shrunken ears, and jutting mandible-fangs that obscure its mouth. It is, in a word, hideous. And there are more of them crawling into view from deeper within the forest, moving toward the source of the shockwave¡­and circling around the inferno to come straight for the idiot girl who was making so much noise.


    I think I might be incapable of learning from my mistakes, I muse.


    Less self-deprecating, more running! We are not getting eaten by tarantula-mutts!


    I sprint away from the flames and the horrible spider-dogs, and as I run I hear a chorus of very tarantula-like hissing rise up from behind me. I keep my gaze firmly focused on the path in front of me, watching for every bit of root and moss that might slow me down or trip me. I dodge and weave and I don¡¯t dare look back.


    And yet, despite the sense of urgency, I¡¯m still not afraid. I understand rationally that I need to run because getting caught and dying would be bad, but all I feel is adrenaline and focus. Normally just errant consideration of my own mortality is enough to send me into a near-panic attack, but now I¡¯m in mortal danger and I am not afraid.


    Something is wrong, and I think I know who¨Cor what¨Cto blame.


    I can hear the hissing getting closer as I make my winding path through the trees. Adrenaline gives me momentum but my legs are already burning and I curse my frail body for what feels like the dozenth time today.


    Dirt, root, moss, dirt, just run, just keep running. If I stop moving, I die. Behind me, one of the hissing noises gets sharper and then falters. I find an even path in front of me and chance a quick look behind. The tarantula-dogs are still skittering toward me at top speed, but one of them is pulling itself off the ground, spidery legs all mixed up and being slowly untangled.


    Flashbulb: they have legs like spiders, so they move like spiders, which means they¡¯re clumsy like spiders!


    I fix my gaze forward and start charting a new path, aiming for every bit of uneven terrain I can hit. It¡¯s risky, but I have to bet that the spider-mutts will be clumsier than I am.


    I clamber awkwardly over a giant root, crest a bump in the dirt, and nearly slip on a damp patch of moss, but the monstrous chorus behind me stops getting closer. Dodge that branch, jump that root, steady footing on the lichen. Run, run, keep running.


    My breath is coming harder now, each gasping inhalation setting fire to my lungs, but after the way my day started this is only mildly torturous. I fight to keep one foot in front of the other no matter how loudly my body complains about mistreatment. Pillows and blankets for a whole day, I promise it. Every soft object I can find all piled in a nest, and pajamas if we can wrangle them. Just gotta keep moving a little further.


    More sounds of spidery frustration reach my ears, and the noises are getting further back now. They¡¯re losing ground, falling behind. I can do this. I can survive this.


    My luck runs out.


    I¡¯m too slow cresting a root and my foot catches on it, sending me tumbling to the ground. I have just enough presence of mind to keep the knife angled away from my own body¨Cit would be utterly humiliating to die by my own weapon¨Cbut I still hit the dirt hard and lose what breath I had left in my lungs. The shock of it keeps me pinned to the soil for precious seconds I can¡¯t afford to burn, desperately trying to suck in air, and when I finally draw a good clean breath I scramble to push off the ground before the monster can catch up, but I¡¯m too late.


    The tarantula-dog skitters over the root I tripped on and swoops down at me with those giant fangs. I don¡¯t have time to think; I duck low and lunge at the monster¡¯s soft underbelly with my knife, aiming at what passes for a neck on its hideous misshapen body. One of its fangs gouges my arm and I scream at the fresh shock of agony, but my blade finds purchase in its flesh.


    The monster rears back and hisses angrily at me before I can rip my knife out. Shouldn¡¯t you be in excruciating pain!? Fucking die! I desperately want my weapon back but I can¡¯t waste this opportunity, so I bolt before it can come crashing back down.


    I run through the woods, clutching my injured arm and blinking away the tears that are welling up in my eyes. Pain pulses with every step, every motion, and my exhaustion is mounting. The adrenaline keeps me going but it won¡¯t last forever, and I am so tired. I can¡¯t do this much longer. I can¡¯t do this. I can¡¯t do this.


    I take another step and the ground that was there a second ago vanishes, and then I¡¯m falling.


    I hit a slope and roll, keep rolling, all the way into water. I slip below the surface for an instant but the water is shallow and my hands find a bed of pebbles to push off of. I rise out of the water on hands and knees and stumble to my feet.


    I look around wildly and find my surroundings have changed abruptly once more; where there was an endless forest before, now I¡¯m standing in a rocky creek that stretches to the horizon both upstream and downstream. The water is crystal-clear, or was before my blood got mixed in. The slopes to either side of the river are steep but not so steep as to be impassable, and beyond those slopes I can see trees that sway with the breeze. The leaves are lighter in color than those of the canopy before, universally so, and the bark is lighter and smoother.


    Above, I can finally see the sky: it¡¯s clear and blue and utterly cloudless, and there¡¯s not a trace of any sun. There seems to be light, at least; I could see just fine in the school and the forest but there was a coldness to the lighting, and now everything is cast in warm, pleasant tones. But there¡¯s no sun.


    This place just keeps getting weirder. The tarantula-dogs come skittering and tumbling over the ridge of the slope, which really only heightens my indignation at whatever bastard god built this hell-world.


    I clench my fists and grit my teeth through the pain. I can¡¯t outrun them. I can¡¯t fight them. But I will be damned if I die before giving this crappy world and its shitty maker a piece of my mind. Maybe a tiny measure of my burning hatred will stick in my tormentor like a splinter, or a thorn, or a shard of broken glass.


    ¡°Come at me!¡± I scream. ¡°Rip and tear! Kill me, eat me, send me to whatever sick god put me here so I can spit in her face!¡±


    This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    The first monster dips a leg into the water and a flaming arrow¨Cgreen flame, not orange or red¨Csends it flying back with a furious hiss. I blink, stunned, and stare as arrows strike the second, third, fourth fifth sixth¨Call of them take perfect shots and are slammed against the dirt slope by the force of the projectiles.


    The tarantula-dogs still twitch and struggle despite the arrows embedded in their vital parts. These things just won¡¯t die. I hear the snap of fingers, and an instant later the entire slope erupts in that familiar green-gold flame.


    They don¡¯t die quickly, even with all the flame pouring in. They struggle and scream and writhe, and the flame writhes too; green fire pours past mandibles into mouths and builds, the glow of flame visible through stretched-out skin, until it explodes from the inside. The spider-dogs are torn apart from within, and the last horrible hiss fades as a dozen charred corpses lie in pieces on scorched earth. There is a second finger-snap, and the flames vanish.


    What just happened? Magic? Definitely magic. Fire magic. Green fire magic. Just like the flames in the forest.


    I hear footsteps from behind and whirl to see a pointy-eared redheaded hunter in a scarlet-trim fur cloak swaggering down the far slope. He¡¯s got a quiver on his back, and an unstrung bow painted red-and-gold rests in the quiver. His features are too sharp, almost predatory, and the obnoxious smirk plastered on his face makes him look like a genuine grade-A asshole.


    His glowing orange eyes entirely ignore me as he marches over the creek. The bastard¡¯s gold-embroidered hunting boots don¡¯t even get damp as he walks on water to reach the other side of the stream, and here I am with my everything soaked through. Little flames dance across the surface of the water as he passes, all of them green.


    Fucker¡¯s got a theme, that¡¯s for sure. Elf or faerie. Is there a difference in this setting?


    The elfy type strolls into the middle of the slope of charred corpses and holds his hand out, waves it in an arc, then brings it to his mouth and swallows. I don¡¯t see anything enter his mouth, but his eyes glow a little brighter in response to some invisible stimulus.


    He sniffs disdainfully at the messy assortment of dead spider-dogs. ¡°A pitiful meal.¡± His voice is deep and throaty, but the tone is pure arrogance.


    ¡°Hey!¡± I shout in his direction as I stomp through the creek in my soggy shoes and soggy socks and soggy everything. ¡°You piece of shit, you used me as bait!¡±


    The maybe-fae turns at my exclamation and his eyes burn orange-gold as he shoots me a withering glare. ¡°Watch your tone, little girl. Prey animals should know their place and be grateful for the charity of their betters. I did not have to save you from an excruciating death.¡±


    I get right up in his face and poke his chest with my finger, finding his richly-detailed tunic oddly soft. Is this bastard actually wearing silk armor? Fucking what? ¡°You used me as bait! I¡¯m not an idiot, I recognize that fire. It¡¯s the same fucking color as the fire that blew up the school. You know, the school I was right outside? You lured the monsters right to me with that flare, which makes all of this,¡± I gesture to my bloody arm wound and drenched clothing, ¡°your fucking fault!¡±


    He sneers down at me¨Che¡¯s actually tall enough to do that, which is an unusual occurrence given that I¡¯m 6¡¯2¡±¨Cbut he doesn¡¯t draw a weapon or burn my head off. ¡°As if I would notice a gnat like you. I cannot be blamed if you happen to get in the way of my hunt. Accept that you were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, and be grateful I deigned to save your worthless life.¡±


    I curl my lip and sneer right back. ¡°If I¡¯m beneath your notice then you weren¡¯t really saving me, now were you? I just happened to get caught in the way of your hunt. So are you lying about saving me, or are you lying about not using me as bait? Either way you¡¯re twisting the truth.¡±


    This is such a gamble. He could kill me just for being impudent, but if he¡¯s a fae and fae have rules here then I might be able to weasel some kind of debt out of this.


    His eyes narrow but he doesn¡¯t counter my retort, so I push my luck and insist, ¡°Grievances are owed, for reckless endangerment if nothing more. Do you not respect your debts? Or are you a creature without honor?¡±


    In a flash there¡¯s a sword at my throat, and I idly note the unique design: it looks like a hunting sword, short and straight and single-edged, but the blade shines in all the hues of sunset and the golden cross-guard is shaped into a breathtaking facsimile of leaves and branches. A truly beautiful weapon.


    The hunter is less pleasing to look at, his eyes smoldering with barely-contained rage. A vein pulses on his forehead. ¡°You would dare impugn my honor? You mock a Rider of the Wild Hunt, a Huntsman hand-picked by the Wolf-Queen herself. Recant, or I will stain this river with your blood.¡±


    I meet his gaze and let the frustration I feel drip from my every word. ¡°In the past few hours I have been stabbed, bitten, soaked, and nearly blown up. I know which of us is in the wrong. If you want to make me recant, then fucking make me.¡±


    Those glowing eyes blaze bright and I¡¯m already composing the tirade I¡¯ll throw at this world¡¯s god when I meet her, but he still doesn¡¯t kill me. The fire goes out, leaving an altogether more curious light in his eyes, and for the first time he really looks at me. His gaze lingers on my hair longer than the rest of me¨Cthe hairpin, maybe¨Cbefore snapping back. ¡°You know I am more than capable of killing you. Are you truly not afraid to die at my hand?¡±


    ¡°Do I seem afraid?¡± And I¡¯m not. I should be, I really should be, but I¡¯m not. Why am I not scared? I have diagnosed thanatophobia and I¡¯m mouthing off with a blade at my throat. I should be a gibbering wreck incapable of stringing words together beyond pleading for my life, but instead I¡¯m talking shit to a fucking fae.


    ¡°...No, I don¡¯t taste even an ounce of fear from you. What a strange little creature you are.¡± He snorts and sheathes his sword in a fancy scabbard I¡¯m only now noticing. The Huntsman shakes his head and scolds, ¡°There is little pleasure in hunting a beast that does not know the fear of death. Killing you would be a waste of a curiosity. I will entertain your accusations, mortal. For petty slights, a petty concession will be afforded.¡±


    I rub my throat and consider the offer. What I need is more than petty. For all his fire and fury earlier, he actually seems more intrigued by my boldness than offended by it. Let¡¯s see how far we can push that. ¡°Alright. Dry me off.¡±


    The Huntsman raises a solitary eyebrow.


    ¡°I¡¯m sodden. My socks are soggy, my stupid uniform is soaked, and I¡¯ve got notebooks in this bag that are undoubtedly suffering severe water damage right now. You¡¯re a big strong faerie with badass fire magic, can¡¯t you dry me off without burning me?¡±


    Annoyance creeps back into the Rider¡¯s voice as he says, ¡°Is that really what you would ask of one who rides with the Wild Hunt? My patience has limits, even for curiosities.¡±


    ¡°You offered a petty concession, so I made a petty request.¡± I give him my best worst look of innocence and flutter my eyelashes.


    The corners of his mouth twitch. ¡°My Queen would like you, curiosity.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± I preen. ¡°I¡¯m very likable.¡±


    ¡°That wasn¡¯t a compliment.¡±


    Oh. ¡°I¡¯m choosing to interpret it as one regardless. Consider it death of the author.¡±


    The Huntsman sighs. ¡°Oh yes, she would like you very much. [Controlled Flame].¡± He snaps his fingers and a wave of heat washes over me.


    Okay, um, the fuck was that? Did I hear that right? Are we in litRPG territory now?


    I shake out my clothing and find it all perfectly dry. A quick glance inside the glittery pink abomination shows that the contents are unharmed, even the notebooks! I zip it back up and grin, though a spike of pain from my arm makes me wince. Okay, we should deal with that soon, but we have a healing potion so it¡¯s not a big deal.


    ¡°Thank you, Huntsman. You can consider my grievance addressed.¡±


    ¡°But I suspect,¡± the Rider leads, ¡°that you are not done taking up my time.¡± He crosses his arms and looks down at me through half-lidded eyes. ¡°Speak your piece, mortal.¡±


    Deep breath. Okay. ¡°I want to make a deal.¡± Faeries like deals, that just has to be true.


    Golden eyes sharpen. ¡°Do you, now?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know where I¡¯m going, and I need to. I need a compass, or something like a compass, that can lead me to where I need to be. Something that can find what I tell it to find, even if I don¡¯t know what I¡¯m looking for.¡±


    I had contemplated asking for a taste of fire magic or maybe some kind of travel magic, but the former won¡¯t help me leave this weird place and I don¡¯t know any destinations for the latter. A magic compass won¡¯t help me fight, but the potential resource gains vastly outweigh anything else I could bargain for. I have to think long-term here.


    The Huntsman laughs at me, a full-bellied chuckle that reverberates through the air. When the laughter stops, he asks me, ¡°And who are you, child, to risk your life for sodden socks and make such brazen demands of a Rider of the Wild Hunt?¡±


    I straighten up and smile with teeth. Okay, okay. Just like we¡¯ve rehearsed a hundred times in the mirror. This is our moment. ¡°I am the girl who will do whatever it takes to seize her ambitions. It is my nature to push at limits until they or I break. I will have all the world, Huntsman, or I will have nothing at all. My hunger is boundless and unceasing.¡±


    The Rider smirks. ¡°What prideful words. But can you back them up? What could you offer me, famished little girl? What do you have to bargain with that I could not take by force?¡±


    I roll my shoulders, match his smirk with my toothy grin, and reply, ¡°My name. I¡¯ll sell you my name.¡±

 Welcome to Wonderland IV

    Silence. Stillness. Pain in my arm. The Huntsman watches me, expression inscrutable. My blood drips onto the dirt.


    Come on, bite. Fae like names, don¡¯t they? That one¡¯s a classic.


    When he speaks again, his voice is deathly soft. ¡°You would offer your name, and all that entails?¡±


    ¡°I would.¡±


    The Huntsman smiles. ¡°You surprise me yet again, curiosity. Let us discuss terms.¡±


    Yes! Yes! Yes! Inwardly I¡¯m dancing, but outwardly I try to keep up my cold, confident mask. I can¡¯t let him know how much I¡¯m winging this. ¡°Can you grant me the boon I desire? I need something that can guide me to places I don¡¯t even know the existence of, on vague headings like ¡®the nearest safe space¡¯ or ¡®a potential ally.¡¯ Is that possible?¡±


    ¡°I possess such a spell, and the authority to bestow it. Pathfinding is a specialty of my kind.¡± His posture is amused and relaxed now, seeming to relish in the details.


    ¡°Excellent. It needs to interpret my requests benevolently and intelligently, that¡¯s very important. I want it to act on my intent, not screw me on the letter. Oh! Can I cast it infinitely or does it have to be limited-use?¡± I¡¯m getting excited now, fantasizing about my soon-to-be magic spell! I shouldn¡¯t be letting my enthusiasm through but I can¡¯t stop the smile that¡¯s spreading.


    ¡°Do you think your name worth a thousand discoveries?¡± the Huntsman chides me. ¡°Your compass shall be called upon thrice, and not a single use more.¡±


    I don¡¯t like hearing that, but now that we¡¯re in the thick of the deal I have to be careful not to overstep. ¡°Fine, not infinite, but only three? That¡¯s so few. At least five.¡±


    ¡°Three has greater symbolic weight. If you wish for longevity, would you sacrifice benevolent intent?¡± The tone of his voice makes it clear he knows my answer.


    Bad idea, very bad idea. ¡°Three it is! I¡¯m good with three, that¡¯s a nice round number.¡±


    ¡°Then we have an accord. Thrice-seeking for a name.¡± He looks at my hairpin again, then back to me, and asks, ¡°Have you invoked before? Or will this be your first contract?¡±


    I don¡¯t know what invoking is, though I can guess from context, so, ¡°No, never.¡±


    Amusement flickers across his face and passes. ¡°How interesting. Well, simply follow my lead and do what feels right. The Dreamweaver will guide you, if you listen to her.¡±


    Dreamweaver? Damn, I really want to ask about that but I get the feeling he¡¯ll charge me for the information.


    The Huntsman holds out a hand palm-up and summons green-gold flame. He calls out, ¡°Azathoth, O Dreamweaver!¡± Eh? Azathoth? That Azathoth!? ¡°I claim the right of channeling you granted my kind at the Fall of An Talamh. Bear witness to this contract and give it meaning. Hear our words and make them binding.¡±


    The pressure in the air rises. A weight descends upon me, smothering and all-encompassing: the weight of a god¡¯s attention. The world beyond fades into nothingness¨Cnot invisible, not gone, just not important compared to what¡¯s happening right here. That pressure, that attention, it slides over my body like a thousand hands caressing me, studying me, cherishing me, dissecting me. I am a bug under a microscope, a treasured possession being held, detritus in a petri dish, a child in her mother¡¯s arms. I want to vomit. I want to stay like this forever.


    In that instant I feel more vulnerable than I did when the Huntsman¡¯s blade was at my throat, and I don¡¯t know¨CI can¡¯t know¨Cif that¡¯s a good thing or a bad thing.


    The Huntsman shivers and closes his eyes, perhaps lost in the same internal conflict, but then he opens them again and those glowing orbs burn like golden fire. ¡°The Dreamweaver watches. Let us not disappoint her.¡±


    My mouth is dry, and I mutter dumbly, ¡°Yeah.¡±


    The Huntsman speaks, clear and bold, ¡°The contract is thus: a bestowal for a name. I offer my library of spells to pull from, and my mana to serve as a vessel for the Dreamweaver¡¯s grace.¡± The flame in his hand flickers. ¡°Speak your dream, invoker.¡±


    That oppressive, joyous, terrible weight settles on my shoulders and whispers to me in a language I can¡¯t even begin to fathom, but some part of my brain knows exactly what is being said and obeys. My mouth moves without my will. ¡°I want a compass that will lead me to destinations I don¡¯t yet know exist. I want a pathfinder to all my desires.¡±


    The flickering flame becomes a disk of fire, and then that crude circle becomes a wheel with three spokes. ¡°I believe the spell [Find the Path] meets those criteria.¡± The Huntsman lowers his hand and the burning wheel stays fixed in place, floating in the air between us. He smirks again. ¡°It would seem Azathoth agrees. But all magic comes at a price. I have offered a spell to be bestowed, the mana to bring it to life, and the grace of the Dreamweaver to bind it to your soul. What price shall you pay for this great gift, invoker?¡±


    Deep breath. Goodbye, Morgan Mallory. I speak my old name and it vanishes from my mind. For a moment there is only emptiness, a hollowness in my chest, but then the void fills up as I take my new name and make it mine, make it the only name that rings true. Malice. I am Malice. I am whole again, as much as I can ever be.


    My hand is lifted by the will of a god and the burning wheel sears itself into my palm. I grip my hand tight, an act of my will, not hers, and fight through the pain. The flames flicker out, but when I open my hand I see the wheel¡¯s brand burned black against my pasty white skin. I feel a pulse of magic within my palm just waiting to be called forth.


    The Rider¡¯s gaze follows the motion of my hand with keen interest, an unreadable expression crossing his face. He continues, ¡°The bargain is made, the contract etched. You have my seeking spell, and I have your name. It is complete.¡±


    All at once the pressure falls away and the world comes back into focus. The Huntsman and I, the dirt and the creek, the trees and the sky. The world, free for a moment of that thing. I stumble and have to catch myself, shaken by what I just experienced. I take in deep gulps of air and will my body to relax from some of the gathered tension.


    But not too relaxed. The Huntsman still watches me, so I can¡¯t afford to let my guard down.


    ¡°Are you satisfied?¡±


    I nod. ¡°Yes, thank you. I will remember this.¡±


    ¡°See that you do.¡± The Huntsman draws his cloak about him and takes a step up the slope, but then he pauses and looks back at me. ¡°Oh, mortal, before I go¡­ I wish to know what new name you took, when you sacrificed the old to my care. What did you try to seal it with?¡± He smiles, and it is a cat¡¯s smile, wicked and full of cunning.


    Shit. Shit shit shit. He figured it out. I¡¯m too shocked to respond, so I just stare at him mutely. I can¡¯t deny it, I¡¯ve already shown too much of a reaction.


    The Huntsman smirks at my sudden freeze-up. ¡°You are clever, girl, but you are not as clever as you think you are. You gave your name so freely because you believed you could replace it with something new. You thought you could escape the consequences of your deal while slipping away with the prize. Did you think you were the first to try and cheat the fae? You are not. The only thing special about you is that you didn¡¯t even need to be convinced. So many have taken the deal when I offered it, confident in their little trick, and let me assure you, it does not work.¡±


    He says a word, my word, my name, but it slips out of my grasp before I can understand any syllable of it. My whole body stills, paralyzed, trapped inside my skin. I try to move but my body won¡¯t listen, I try to speak but my throat is closed and my lungs are burning and I can¡¯t breathe, why can¡¯t I breathe, I¨C


    He says that name again and I gasp, greedily gulping in fresh air. ¡°A trick for a trick, and so the old rules are observed. A name once given has hold for all eternity. You are mine for all eternity.¡± He laughs and the fury blooms inside me, but it¡¯s tempered by the pain in my arm and the memory of being breathless. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I won¡¯t take you now; I wish for you to go out into the world and use that little spell to become exceptional. Grow, change, evolve, and become worthy of joining my collection.¡±


    This is bad. This is really bad. I fucked up. I already regret this deal, but what choice did I have? ¡°Collection? What do you mean ¡®collection?¡¯¡±


    The Rider just laughs again. ¡°Poor, deluded creature. Now: your name.¡±


    I still hesitate. ¡°You can¡¯t have both. I¡¯m not letting you own me twice over.¡±


    Even more smugness creeps into his stupid bastard face. ¡°Oh, child, what bedtime stories have you been listening to? There is a whole world of difference between offering your name in dreambound contract and introducing yourself by it. You have my word as a Huntsman that telling me your new name will not give me further power over you.¡±


    The air shivers at his proclamation, yet still I hesitate. I¡¯ve already made one fatal mistake today. The Huntsman narrows his eyes and adds, ¡°I could just make you say it, but I¡¯m being nice as a reward for your entertaining behavior.¡±


    I grimace. I square my shoulders and try to put some fire back into my voice. ¡°Fine. But I want to hear your name too, fae. That¡¯s only fair, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    Amusement returns to his expression. ¡°An exchange of information, then, as our third and final transaction.¡± He makes a sweeping bow and introduces himself, ¡°You may know me as Eirdryd Llewellyn of the Wild Hunt, your master-to-be.¡±


    I curl my lip. ¡°Eirdryd. You can call me Malice. Malice of Nowhere.¡±


    A pause. A long pause, and I can see mirth glittering his eyes and a thousand barbs waiting on his tongue. He starts laughing, practically cackling, and when he finally gets a hold of himself it is to say, ¡°Malice? Really? That¡¯s what you went with? You could pick any name at all, and you chose Malice?¡±


    I cross my arms defensively and pout. ¡°What? It¡¯s a cool name! It¡¯s like ¡®Alice¡¯ for wonder and adventure, but then you add an ¡®M¡¯ in front to make it dark and spooky. Malice, the incarnation of ill will. It¡¯s cool!¡± He stifles a snort and I die inside. ¡°It¡¯s¡­it¡¯s supposed to be intimidating. To make people take me seriously.¡±


    ¡°Good luck with that, Malice. And I do mean that sincerely; become worthy of serving me, lest I regret this investment. You would not like to disappoint me.¡±


    Eirdryd Llewellyn turns away from me with another laugh and starts walking toward the tree line. I curse him out under my breath as he leaves. Bastard asshole fae thinking he gets to decide what is or isn¡¯t a cool name.


    In fairness, Malice is an extremely edgy name, and we knew that when we picked it. At least we didn¡¯t go with ¡°Shadow¡± or ¡°Lady Ravendark¡± or any of your other old characters.


    So I¡¯m an edgelord, so what? Edgy is cool!


    Sure it is, sweetie.


    I glower at my treasonous inner monologue. I know I¡¯m just trying to distract myself from the awful fact that my stupid trick failed and I¡¯m now bound to a faerie until the end of fucking time. Stupid idiot girl trying to outwit a monster out of myth.


    You are not as clever as you think you are.


    By now the Huntsman is thoroughly out of sight so I can finally drop character entirely and clutch at my arm, teeth gritted through the pain. Pretending to be a badass is hard. There were so many moments I thought for sure he¡¯d call my bluffed confidence and murder me on the spot, but now I realize the bluff never mattered; my life was never in danger because it was my autonomy he wished to take, and I just handed it to him.


    I¡¯m more and more weirded out that I wasn¡¯t afraid at any point in that conversation; I really, really should have been. Was that lack of fear what made Eirdryd interested in claiming me? Was it something about the hairpin he kept glancing at? Could he tell I¡¯m from another world?


    Another spike of pain forces me to consider my arm. The wound hurts but it isn¡¯t deep, and if there¡¯s any poison I haven¡¯t felt the effects yet¨Cand with all the running I did, the poison should definitely be in my system by now. So it¡¯s probably not going to kill me, but it still slows me down and I really need both arms. Do I drink the potion now and risk not having it later, or save the potion for later and risk losing because I wasn¡¯t in top form? Not that my top form is very impressive.


    Maybe we should run another experiment. I have a sneaking suspicion that I drank more than I needed to that first time in the stairwell. This time, when I pull the potion out of my backpack and remove the stopper, I try to drink only a sparing amount. When I lower the potion there¡¯s still nearly half of it left, but I feel that warmth coursing through me just as before. The wound on my arm closes up like it was never there, and the warmth slowly passes.


    Welp. I definitely drank too much last time. I stow the potion and contemplate what I¡¯ve learned from my encounter with the Huntsman.


    Eirdryd gave me a lot of data to work with, and I think I had my first proper encounter with the god that put me here: the Dreamweaver, Azathoth, who happens to share a name with the blind idiot god of the Cthulhu Mythos. In the Mythos, Azathoth is a mindless force of chaos who dreams the universe into being by accident, but the presence I felt in that moment seemed anything but mindless. Whatever she is, the Azathoth of this reality is neither blind nor an idiot.


    I still need more data, ideally from someone willing to give me baseline exposition about this setting without having to bargain for it and play word games. I can¡¯t make any real conclusions about Azathoth¨Cabout anything¨Cuntil I have a basic understanding of this world and its rules.


    I can start by getting a taste of the magic system. It¡¯s a fascinatingly strange experience to hear square brackets around a word. I hold out my hand and focus on the spell within the brand. ¡°[Find the Path].¡± The three-spoked wheel of flame comes forth once more, gently spinning above my hand, but as I summon it I see a diagram in my mind¡¯s eye, a dazzlingly complex array of interconnected shapes and symbols.


    I have no idea what any of those mean. I imagine one of the shapes moving and it starts to shift in an arc. I focus on a symbol and see other symbols surrounding it, and I find that I can connect them together, split them apart, or select one to be the focus of a particular part of the diagram. The diagram seems extremely malleable, but I have no idea what any of it means.


    When I focus on a symbol below all of the others, disconnected from the rest of the diagram, it expands into what is very obviously a text box: it is a wide black box with a white border, and there is a white underscore blinking in and out just above the bottom left corner.


    Okay! We are definitely in litRPG territory! Bracket-named spells that bring up arcane code and a text box? Now this is starting to feel like a more conventional isekai. More of the video game mechanics and less of the horrible monsters and asshole fae, please and thank you.


    I dismiss the spell by willing it to dissipate; I want to try it out, but I need to finish my business here first.


    I start digging through burnt husks. The tarantula-dogs are mostly ash and char now, but on one of them I find my faithful companion still embedded in spidery flesh. I rip the knife out of the dead monster. Knaifu, I missed you! But, oh my, what¡¯s this? Just an ordinary kitchen knife, but that¡¯s no ordinary kitchen knife!


    I had expected the Huntsman¡¯s flames to warp the knife past the point of usability, but instead the blade is longer and thinner, its shape closer to that of a dagger. There¡¯s a dull heat to the knife, and no matter how much ash I wipe off on my skirt there¡¯s still more clinging to the knife. When I dip the knife in the creek a few bubbles rise up, but the blade doesn¡¯t emerge any cleaner.


    Magic item? Please tell me it¡¯s a magic item now. I swing the knife around experimentally and find more weight behind my swings, yet paradoxically I seem to be moving a little bit faster, or maybe my motions are just more precise. I still feel limited by my paltry arm strength and lack of training, but it¡¯s like the dagger is helping me along, nudging me to be more efficient. Definitely magic. Fuck yes! First magic item!


    I grin wide at the dagger and hold it out parallel to the ground. ¡°You and I are going to do wonderful things together, my beloved blade. And like all magic weapons, you need a name. I think I shall name you¡­the [Ashthorn]!¡±


    The blade catches fire. Like an idiot I tighten my grip instead of releasing it, but when the green flames wash over my hand they don¡¯t hurt me. I¡¯m holding a flaming dagger and my on-fire hand is not burning.


    ¡°YES!¡± I scream. ¡°Fucking yes! Yes, yes, yes!¡± I twirl around giddily and sing, ¡°I¡¯ve got a flaming dagger, I¡¯ve got a flaming dagger!¡± I whoop and swing the dagger around wildly, enraptured by the trail of fire.


    It¡¯s the same shade as Eirdryd¡¯s fire, or close, and I can¡¯t help but draw a visual comparison to Greek fire. Curious, I dip the dagger into the stream and am delighted to see the flames continue to burn unaffected by the flowing water. When I retrieve the dagger a few flickers of flame cling to the water, though it doesn¡¯t take them long to die out.


    Very cool that it can¡¯t be extinguished by water, but that does pose a question: how do I extinguish it? The dagger lit up when I named it, so maybe saying the name again will deactivate the effect. I wonder¡­ I didn¡¯t hear Eirdryd speak the spells that killed the spider-dogs or the spell that let him walk on water¨Cif those were spells¨Cso maybe just thinking and focusing will do the trick? I focus on the blade and will it to extinguish. [Ashthorn].


    The fire goes out. Hells yes! That is awesome. Okay, magic item acquired, now let¡¯s put that spell to work.


    With the dagger in my left hand I turn my attention back to the brand on my right hand. ¡°Alright, compass, let¡¯s give you a spin.¡± [Find the Path]. I summon the burning wheel, but something feels¡­off. I can¡¯t remember exactly how the diagram looked before, but there are definitely shapes and symbols missing from it now. What the fuck?


    I dismiss the spell. ¡°[Find the Path].¡± The wheel flickers to life and the diagram is back in its full glory. Are you fucking kidding me? The spell behaves differently if I think it or if I say it aloud? Do all spells work like that? Argh, I hate that but I can¡¯t do anything about it yet. Okay, focusing.


    I focus on the text box with its blinking underscore. ¡°For my first wish I want you to lead me to the person, place, or thing that my future self would most recommend I ask you to lead me to.¡±


    Nothing happens. Or to be more accurate, I see my words appear in the text box and then the whole box turns red and the text vanishes. Yeah, I kind of figured time fuckery was off the table, but I had to check.


    ¡°Okay, how about this: lead me to that which would give me the greatest gain at the lowest cost, accounting for the tools at my disposal and my ability to travel.¡±


    Again, the text goes red and vanishes. Damn, that¡¯s still too vague? Am I giving it too many variables, or just the wrong variables? Okay, let¡¯s try again.


    ¡°I want to find someone who is amenable to becoming my ally, can teach me about this world, and will help me get stronger.¡± This has to be specific enough.


    Sure enough, the text goes blue this time. The whole diagram shifts, shapes clicking into place and symbols appearing, disappearing, and drawing lines to each other. Too much of the diagram changes for me to make any sense of it, but it is a fascinating insight. The shift in diagram only takes a few seconds, and when it¡¯s done moving a symbol in the very center of the diagram¨Cwhich had stayed still through the whole process¨Cstarts blinking.


    I focus on that symbol and it flashes blue, and then the diagram vanishes. The burning wheel spins and the three spokes shift from being radial lines to being the three sides of an arrowhead. After a few seconds of spinning the wheel stops in place with the arrow pointing downstream. I move my hand around and the arrow adjusts each time to keep its direction stable. Alright, there¡¯s my heading.


    I stay by the water¡¯s edge and take a leisurely pace, feeling more confident now that I have a spell and a magic dagger. I hum a song to myself as I stroll. I can finally get to the adventure part of this fantastical adventure. Of course, I¡¯m sure there will be more nightmarish horrors blocking my way, but what¡¯s the worst that can happen?


    Don¡¯t answer that, Azathoth. I know you¡¯re listening.


    I have no way to gauge time so I don¡¯t know how long I¡¯ve been walking, but I¡¯ve gone through a full album of anime openings by the time my surroundings finally change. As twice before, the transition is sudden: one second I¡¯m walking along with no end in sight, the next second I¡¯m at the end of the stream and standing on the edge of a cliff that falls away into a vast nothingness.


    The slope is gone, the dirt I¡¯m standing on level and stretching off to either side of the river with no sign of trees. The gentle creek is now a tumultuous waterfall, water cascading off the side of the cliff and falling down, down, down into an infinite open space. The pale blue sky darkens as it falls below what would be the horizon, becoming utter blackness directly beneath me.


    In front of me, a ways past the waterfall, I see the sheer cliff face of a floating island. Another floating island, I correct, because that¡¯s almost certainly what I¡¯m standing on. Past these two islands, in the infinite expanse, I see dozens more chunks of land drifting in an empty sea. Lush jungle, icy mountains, rolling plains, and even one chunk with what look like sand dunes.


    The islands aren¡¯t all at the same elevation, but they are arrayed in a loose ring formation around a central point. The scattering of islands curves away in either direction and meets together far in the distance.


    In the center of the ring, at the heart of it all, floats a tower of jagged black glass.


    Well then. Guess we found the final dungeon.

 Feast or Famine on KU

    UPDATE: Book 2 has now moved to KU, and Book 3 will begin updating on RR. Book 2 available for order here: https://www.royalroad.com/amazon/B0C9R3XLBF</a>


    <blockquote>


    Hello! If you''re reading this, you may have noticed that the story abruptly stops at chapter 4 and then picks up again in book 2. That''s because Feast or Famine has been picked up by a publisher and moved to Kindle Unlimited, and as part of KU''s exclusivity I can only have a handful of chapters from book 1 here, though book 2 will continue to update.


    So! Where can you find the rest of book 1? Here: https://www.royalroad.com/amazon/B0BPW5W2Y4</a>


    That link will take you to the page where you can preorder Kindle, paperback, or audiobook, all available on January 17th. (If you''re reading this after January 17th, you can just regular order it)


    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    Book 2 of Feast or Famine, which starts with the Mad Tea Party (Redux) arc, will continue to update on Royal Road and Patreon, and then book 3 after that. Eventually, some number of months after book 2 is completed on RR, that''ll also move to KU, and then the same with book 3 once it''s been done for a few months. The current plan is for book 2 to wrap up in March, and I''m fairly confident in that estimate. There''ll be a few months from that point where it stays up on RR before being taken down to move to KU.


    Currently if you click next chapter from this post it''ll take you to the start of book 2, which should continue uninterrupted (if you''re reading this now and not like six months from now). Chapters will still always update here and on Patreon as the book is being written, only taken off once the book has been available in its entirety for several months.


    I do apologize that book 1 is no longer available, as I would have liked for it to stay up, but KU is where money and reach is, I''ve been told, and my rising food and rent demands must unfortunately come first. Hopefully, in some distant future where I am successful as a writer, decisions like these will no longer be necessary and I can keep all my stories free for everyone forever.


    </blockquote>

 Mad Tea Party (Redux) I

    FEAST OR FAMINE


    ACT ONE


    PART FOUR: ¡°Mad Tea Party (Redux)¡± OR ¡°New Friends, New Faces, and the Neighborhood Potluck¡±


    <blockquote>


    ¡°Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly presented the thimble, saying ¡®We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble¡¯; and, when it had finished with this short speech, they all cheered.


    Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she could.¡±


    </blockquote>


    Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll


    Twice upon a time, I find myself haunted by glass in a strange and dangerous wonderland.


    Once, I ruined the life of a girl who thought she could trust me; now, I dream my past self¡¯s machinations through that ruined girl¡¯s eyes. Once, I plucked a needle of glass and wove it into a blood-red blade; now, that blade returns to my hands dormant but awakening. Once and now again, I feel the shadow of a glass tower and a crawling chaos. I have felt the touch of a dark and terrible Demiurge, and I wonder how far back her influence stretches.


    I drift to wakefulness in a sea of confusion and curiosity, mind whirling with fragments of memory. I am Reska Ines Zelic, sick with jealousy and longing. I am Homura Annatar Bloodfallen, twisting the truth to get my way.


    I am Maven Alice, lying in bed with a cat curled in my arms.


    I groan, head still spinning, and find myself wishing that just once I¡¯d be able to wake up in this fantasy otherworld without having to process entirely new revelations about the nature of my presence here. I mean, I get that mystically-important dreams are a staple of the fantasy genre, but every night? Hells, I even had one of these vision-dreams while knocked out from a fae sleep spell.


    I feel Cheshire stir in my arms, the changeling seeming to wake at my noise of discontent. I open my eyes and see the white-furred cat stretch her limbs and yawn, which of course gets me yawning too. The cat steps out of my arms and hops to the floor below, and I keenly feel the absence of her warmth, though I still have too much pride to ask her to return.


    I roll from my side onto my back and stare up at the plain beige ceiling. ¡°We don¡¯t have to get up,¡± I grumble-mumble, unwilling to part with my bed quite so soon. It¡¯s not the comfiest bed I¡¯ve ever slept in, sure, and there are still bloodstains from the two times that I¡¯ve slept in it while covered in my own blood¨Cthat is to say, the two times that I¡¯ve slept in it¨Cbut¡­ eh, a bed¡¯s a bed, and I¡¯m used to sleeping on the floor.


    I hear Cheshire¡¯s rich laughter, and then her pale face is looming over mine, once more in her human form¨Cor rather, human-adjacent, as those cat ears remind me. Her mismatched blue-and-yellow eyes gleam with mirth, and when she smiles I see hints of her cute little fangs.


    ¡°You know,¡± she says, ¡°we are on a timetable, but far be it from me to say no to more cat-cuddles.¡±


    I grimace, but of course she¡¯s right, so I reluctantly kick the covers off and rise from the bed, Cheshire taking a step back to give me space. Then I stop and blink a few times at Cheshire, because her appearance has changed. ¡°You look different.¡±


    Cheshire gives a little twirl and shows off her new outfit. ¡°You like?¡± She¡¯s traded her skimpy JRPG outfit for something relatively more modest: a baggy sweater with thumb hole sleeves, faded jeans, and scuffed sneakers. ¡°New dynamic, new threads. This is what I¡¯m more used to wearing anyway.¡±


    Were those other outfits just another vector of manipulation, then? Did you pick those to throw me off, knowing I would be made uncomfortable by how they accentuated your attractiveness? Did you¨C


    I blink hard and try to banish my paranoid ideation. We agreed to give her a chance. Trust is a risk, but risk is the creed we¡¯ve sworn to live by.


    I force a smile and tell her honestly, ¡°You look great. It suits you a lot better.¡±


    Cheshire preens and gives a little wiggle, smiling, but then she pauses and claps her hands together. ¡°Oh! One more detail: I can¡¯t make my ears disappear, because they¡¯re part of my changeling tell, but I can hide them under a hat. That¡¯s what I used to do when I was mortal, and it might be useful if we want to keep anyone else from figuring me out like Bashe did.¡±


    She lifts her hands and materializes a knit beanie cap with two raised parts made to look like cat ears. She slides it over her own cat ears, fitting perfectly, and once it¡¯s snugly in place she looks like an ordinary human girl, albeit one with heterochromia and white hair. ¡°Ta-dah!¡± she grins.


    ¡°Cute.¡± Then I frown, the implication registering that at some point as a mortal she felt the need to hide her ears. A reminder that, if her story is to be believed¨Cand again, that¡¯s the choice I¡¯ve made¨Cthen Cheshire has spent a great deal of her life as an outsider for her changeling nature. And that, inevitably, draws me to my dreams.


    I remember Reska: aberrant, monster, demon. I remember her shame and fear, cursed with magic that made her a pariah in her own home. And I remember Homura, lovely lying Homura, with her words sweet like poison. From one outcast to another, it¡¯s so easy to pull the heartstrings. But which of us is really in control?


    Perhaps neither of us. A wave of revulsion passes over me and I shiver at the memory of Nyarlathotep¡¯s violating touch. Whether I¡¯m taking advantage of Cheshire or she¡¯s taking advantage of me, we¡¯re both just puppets on the Soul-Sculptor¡¯s strings.


    Cheshire sees my shiver and tilts her head, expression curious. ¡°What¡¯s up?¡±


    I grimace. ¡°Just¡­ processing implications.¡± I wave a hand dismissively. ¡°We can talk about it later. Breakfast?¡±


    ¡°Sure! You¡¯ll have to make me physical again, though.¡±


    I don¡¯t remember unsummoning her, but I can see the charm bracelet lying on the bed where Cheshire had previously curled. ¡°Ah.¡± So she can unsummon herself. That¡­ probably shouldn¡¯t surprise me, it only makes sense.


    I grab the bracelet and hold it out, beginning to concentrate on the summoning ritual. I take in Cheshire¡¯s new form and try to burn it into my mind like the way my dreams have been seared into memory. I say the words, calling upon my authority as a demon and the inherent properties of the anchor object I¡¯ve chosen for her.


    ¡°Let the stuff of dreams become your body, and may you ever take the form you please. Rise, Cheshire, O geist of mine, and walk with me along this winding path.¡±


    Physicality fills Cheshire¡¯s form, and once again she moves with mass and solidity. She stretches her newly-physical limbs and again I am struck with a keen difference in detail: the first time I gave her a body, she stretched to tease me; this time, there¡¯s no artifice or showmanship to her casual motions. She¡¯s just stretching.


    I wonder¡­ is it just to put me at ease, or has she really accepted taking the long road to a relationship? Is this a fresh start, or just a new mode of attack? I tense, struggling to halt all the suspicious thoughts running through my mind. Paranoia is my default state, but I refuse to let it control me.


    Cheshire looks at me and I see uncertainty in her eyes, in the corners of her lips, in all the little microexpressions of her face. I can taste the faintest whiff of fear, with that strange demonic sense of mine, and I know that she is afraid of what I might think of her. She told me that she was scared, in that dark hollow in the heart of my soul, and I believed her. I still do.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± I say softly. ¡°I¡­ I don¡¯t want you to think I¡¯m ungrateful, whatever else I may feel. I couldn¡¯t have gotten this far without you. And¡­ I don¡¯t just mean power. Thank you for being there for me when I needed comfort, and there to challenge me when I needed perspective. Thank you for¡­ for understanding me. I know I¡¯m not the easiest person to deal with, and I know it wasn¡¯t really your choice, but¡­ I appreciate you. Thank you, Cheshire.¡±


    Her expression softens, and her eyes are wet with held-back tears. ¡°Thank you for letting me in, when it mattered most. I hope that I can continue to earn your trust, Alice. I¡­¡± she hesitates, lets out a ragged breath, and looks away from me. ¡°I think I¡¯ll go get something ready for breakfast.¡±


    ¡°Thanks. I, um, I¡¯ll be out in a minute.¡± I watch her leave the room, closing the door behind her, and when she¡¯s gone I let out a deep breath of my own.


    Okay. Let¡¯s utilize a classic healthy coping strategy and bundle up all our complicated feelings about Cheshire to deal with literally never. Instead, we can play with our shiny new sword!


    I curl my fingers around the swept hilt of my recently-acquired war rapier. I lift the weapon from where I had left it leaning against the bedside, and I am mesmerized by its crimson blade and the memories that it evokes. I remember Homura holding this sword, naming it as her sorcerer Crest: Vorpal, the Bloodstained Blade. And dimly, in less detail and less clarity, I remember the months of effort that went into forging this blade.


    I remember the night horrors we carved through to retrieve the bloodstone ore. I remember teaching myself¨CI remember Reska teaching Homura¨Chow to attune deeper to her affinity, how to shape it and externalize it. I remember the needle of red glass you¨CI, Homura, dammit¨Cproduced as if by miracle.


    Somehow, this artifact was made by me. A younger me, parted by time and space, full of rage and hate with a silver tongue, but still me in ways I can¡¯t ignore. I made this sword, named it my vorpal blade, a weapon fit for an Alice. And now that I have returned to my forgotten wonderland, Vorpal has returned to me. That cannot possibly be coincidence, and I am more convinced than ever that the Homura of my dreams is somehow my past self. It feels right, narratively.


    I take a few swings with the blade, finding it perfectly fitted to my palm and so easy to maneuver. I have so, so many questions, but I think my very first question has to be purely practical: can I store this sword inside my soul, or will I have to carry it with me wherever I go? I take a final test swing, then picture one of the many rooms of my soul¡¯s castle and send Vorpal away.


    At the very start of my very first vision of Reska¡¯s tragic story, the shadowborn princess trapped a sentry artifact inside an extradimensional space: her second shadow, which she identified as a manifestation of her soul¡¯s pleroma. She said, ¡°No artifact would allow itself to be imprisoned for even an hour¡¯s length.¡±


    However, I¡¯ve held several artifacts in my own extradimensional space for far longer than an hour; my bug-summoning artifact [Swarmheart] has spent most of a day¨Cor more¨Cinside my throne world, while my more recent acquisition [Hunter¡¯s Marker] has been there for at least half a day. Neither of them have given any indication of fighting back against that storage, so will Vorpal also go without a fight?


    Alright, let¡¯s keep an eye on that while we grab breakfast, see if there¡¯s any reaction. With the artifact blade secured in my throne world I finally step out of the bedroom and into the apartment proper.


    It¡¯s weird having this whole place basically to myself. It¡¯s not a penthouse or anything, but it¡¯s still a very nice and very modern apartment¡­ in another world full of magic and monsters, where rent as a concept doesn¡¯t exist because this is a city maintained by simulacra of humans with hollow souls being puppeted by a terrifying eldritch horror convinced that she¡¯s made ¡°paradise.¡±


    Okay, so maybe the nice apartment isn¡¯t the weirdest part, but it makes for some very surreal contrast.


    I join Cheshire in the kitchen, where she is snacking on some of those coconut rice cakes that Bashe brought with the rest of his grocery run. I probably wasn¡¯t going to eat those, ever, because I don¡¯t like coconut, so I¡¯m glad to see Cheshire enjoying them. I rifle through the pantry and fridge but Bashe didn¡¯t actually get us any proper breakfast food, and a quick check of my throne world¡¯s kitchen reveals that I also neglected to acquire any item of food more suitable for before noon than after it.


    Ah well, it won¡¯t be the first time I¡¯ve eaten like a scavenging possum. I grab one entire hunk of blue cheese from my throne world and wash a tomato from the apartment fridge, and then I chow down while contemplating the question of my new artifact.


    Vorpal hasn¡¯t sprung out of me yet, and I don¡¯t feel any strain on my soul that might indicate it trying to break free. I have to assume that the artifact that Reska captured was less metaphysically important than a full-blown sorcerer Crest, so why isn¡¯t Vorpal fighting me?


    It could be that artifacts of the ¡°new¡± system¨Cwhich I can now confirm to be new after a comment from Cheshire¨Care more placid and easier to seal away¡­ or perhaps the key distinction is that I¡¯m not ¡°imprisoning¡± them because they¡¯re metaphysically tagged as mine to hoard, or maybe it¡¯s some quality of my throne world that allows for such storage. If affinity magic predates the existence of Thrones and Truths, maybe sorcerers like Reska didn¡¯t have throne worlds at all.


    From my limited time in Pandaemonium, I¡¯ve learned of two parts to the soul: the pleroma, which Bashe called the soul¡¯s ¡°outer body¡± and named essential to casting spells and storing mana; and the core, which contains one¡¯s fundamental qualities¨Cwith the animus at its very center, the animating principle of the self. Perhaps my throne world is more core than pleroma, and that¡¯s what allows it to hold artifacts.


    It certainly seems to be holding. I¡¯ll keep checking in on it, of course, but for now it would appear that Homura¡¯s Crest has no issue staying inside my throne world.


    ¡­Which spares me to think of the other pertinent details from my latest vision: the presence of the Crawling Chaos, the mention of a tower made of glass, and the reveal that my presumed-younger self chose the name ¡°Homura Annatar Bloodfallen.¡±


    I almost laugh, and having polished off both cheese and tomato I quickly grab a peach and a plum to keep my mouth distracted so I don¡¯t give the game away to Cheshire. Homura Annatar Bloodfallen. What an absurd name. The first and last are characters from anime, and that middle name¡­ I know it from somewhere, but where? It seems very fantasy, and I¡¯m pretty sure it¡¯s from a book, but I can¡¯t quite put my finger on which book. That¡¯s going to bug the shit out of me until I figure it out.


    ¡°You know, you really are cute when you¡¯re lost in your own head, Allie. How was the meal?¡±


    I blush as I realize that I¡¯ve been staring off into nowhere while Cheshire¡¯s right there next to me, leaning against a kitchen counter and watching me think. There¡¯s an empty box of rice cakes next to her, and I¡¯ve consumed the remainder of the food I grabbed. ¡°Sorry, lots to think about. Uh, good. Blue cheese is divine ambrosia. We should probably grab actual breakfast food at some point, though.¡±


    The catgirl laughs lightly. ¡°Yeah, probably. But, I¡¯m actually a little more interested in the meal you had last night: the one that came with meat.¡± Her gaze sharpens, and I get the distinct feeling that we¡¯re back in geist-and-demon mode.


    ¡°Right. Yeah. The woman I killed and ate. Probably worth talking about.¡± I dump the fruit pits and pour a glass of lemonade from my throne world. I take a few big gulps, then set the glass down, lean against the fridge, and close my eyes.


    I breathe deep and let my senses rove at random over my body. I felt something when I ate Mahiri, just like I felt something when I ate the hunter in the hall of doors, and when I bit into the werewolf, and into Lena. Each successive act of hunger and consumption brought something new into me: the blood of a husk, the blood of a beast, the blood of a kill, and the blood of a soul.


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    I flex my fingers, and I feel strength in my hands. I breathe, and my breath is clear and easy. I roll my shoulders, and I feel coiled potential in my spine. I run my tongue along my teeth, and I hunger to sink my fangs into someone just to prove I can. I could, too; I could have any meal I wanted, with just a bit of effort and will.


    ¡°I feel¡­ powerful. Confident, mentally and physically. I feel an energy, contained but present, crackling and full of potential. Like reified volition.¡± I open my eyes and stare straight into Cheshire¡¯s. ¡°I feel indomitable. I feel hungry for more.¡±


    Cheshire watches me with those clever eyes, taking it all in. ¡°Do you still feel that way when you think of facing Averrich?¡±


    Like a layer of frost settling over my skin, that feeling of power and strength dampens. Averrich, the man with a soul like old stories and moonlit nights. Averrich, the elven huntsman with a cabal of hunters and beasts arrayed around him. ¡°I think I could take any of his followers at this point: the hunters, the goblins, the imp and the lycan, even the owlbear. But even just from that short interaction, I could feel something of the difference in power between his followers and the fae himself.¡±


    And he¡¯s coming for me, soon. I pull [Hunter¡¯s Marker] from my soul, the artifact dagger that I made in Averrich¡¯s throne room from the residue of half a dozen tracking spells. The dagger is still keyed to Averrich, and a tickling in the back of my mind gives me the sense that he¡¯s far from me, but he¡¯s on the move¡­ and I bet I know why.


    ¡°I think he¡¯s already moving against his rivals,¡± I tell Cheshire. ¡°Maneuvering himself and his forces in position to strike against the other candidates as soon as the Nobles call for their Game of Glass.¡±


    ¡°Which includes us,¡± she says grimly, ¡°if we¡¯re to believe his guess at Eirdryd acting on someone else¡¯s orders.¡±


    Eirdryd Llewellyn, who bought my name for a magic compass, and who may be working for another of this Labyrinth¡¯s Noble rulers. I¡¯m still disturbed by the idea that our chance encounter in the forest may have been premeditated, but that¡¯s a problem for later. ¡°Even if Averrich is wrong about that, it won¡¯t change his actions; he has plenty of reason to hunt us down.¡±


    Cheshire nods. ¡°So what¡¯s the plan?¡±


    I crack my knuckles and grin. ¡°Simple: we murk his ass before he can murk ours. Which means finding whatever [Find the Path] thinks will help us win that fight.¡± I call the wheel of flame to my hand, its burning arrow currently pointing toward the door of my apartment.


    My geist smiles back at me. ¡°Sounds good. Shall we?¡±


    ¡°Absolutely. But first, I should probably change out of these bloody rags and take a shower.¡±


    My clothes keep getting ruined by people stabbing me, which is incredibly rude of them to be honest. It would be nice to find an outfit that regenerates on its own, but barring that, maybe I could grow some extra layers of bone plating for modesty? Since my body has doll anatomy and porcelain skin, I could go around wearing just a cloak, like Ryuko in that one episode of Kill La Kill, but that still might be more fanservice than I''m comfortable with.


    Ooo, what if I could get one of those cool magic cloaks that are like, made of shadows and cosmos and whatever, and they¡¯re always as long as they need to be for any given scene, so I could wrap it around myself and also let it flutter dramatically in the nonexistent wind? Yeah, that sounds rad, kinda wanna find something like that. Or make something like that, since I do have an artificer superpower.


    If the sky¡¯s the limit, maybe I could get a symbiote suit like Gwenom. Actually that one might be feasible, maybe it''s close enough to creepy crawlies that I could leverage my Truths to get a spell? Wait, Truths, could I make an outfit out of my own blood? Or could I clothe myself in my own shadow like Darquesse?


    Man, now that I think about it, there are a lot of fictional characters that have weird relationships with clothing.


    I step out of the shower, dry off, and consider what to wear. I dumped my damaged vampire magician outfit in my throne world, and I¡¯ve got a few choices to replace it with. I could pull out the witch¡¯s ensemble I put together during our trip to the mega-mall, but it¡¯s a bit more femme than I¡¯m feeling right now and it doesn¡¯t quite feel right now that my character build has switched from ¡°blood-draining fragile-as-glass summoner¡± to ¡°rapier-swinging soul-eating juggernaut.¡± I mean, I¡¯m not invincible¨Cyet¨Cbut if I can get my hands on someone I can basically guarantee that they¡¯ll die long before I do, and that leads to a very specific set of battle tactics.


    I could be lazy and just wears jeans and a graphic tee, but the semiotic logic of this world¡¯s magic system would penalize my spellcasting as a consequence. So, okay, let¡¯s try to work through that semiotic meaning. I conjure and dismiss articles of clothing in sequence and examine each one of them, trying to interpret what meaning they would broadcast and how that might tie into my Truths as a demon.


    My three Truths are Blood, Gluttony, and Fear, and the animus I have chosen to live by is Feast or Famine: the principle of ultimate risk or sacrifice in exchange for ultimate reward. My Truth of Blood contains the concepts of risk and sacrifice, but also bonds, both mutual and parasitic. My Truth of Gluttony is a hunger for power and knowledge, and is associated with consuming flame and the ravenous Abyss. My Truth of Fear contains fear of death, rule through fear, and fear of abandonment¨Cthe last of which could be reframed as a desire for attention if we wanted something more active and positive.


    The desire for attention could be read two ways when applied to fashion: something distinctive and flashy, like this gothic lolita dress, or something skimpy and revealing, like this backless red dress. The skimpy reading would actually synergize with risk, since baring skin is inviting the point of a sword, and it would synergize with bonds, if you consider the natural endpoint of that kind of attention to be intimate interaction.


    The flashy gothic lolita outfit might align with other elements of Fear if I added details like bird skulls and other bits of macabre imagery, but I¡¯m not sure about my other Truths. Maybe if I took the witch¡¯s hat and swapped the funeral veil for a pair of glasses, I could channel the ¡°nerdy sorceress¡± aesthetic and splice in Gluttony¡¯s concepts.


    ¡­Hmm. It does occur to me now that there is a very obvious intersection point between ¡°nerdy sorceress¡± and ¡°skimpy outfit.¡± Fuck, have I accidentally logicked myself into dressing like a sexy anime witch?


    No no, we can reason our way out of this one. Whatever aesthetic we settle on, it still has to feel like us, right? So anything sexy is definitely out of the picture.


    Okay, counterpoint: Cheshire would definitely say that¡¯s us being self-loathing and possibly gender dysphoric. She would also, in all likelihood, be correct about that.


    Bleh. Nope, not engaging with that one.


    I pick the skater dress with the black-and-white tentacle pattern, the black-and-white stripey leggings, the lace-up thigh-high boots, and the oversized witch hat. For maximum spell-boosting I should really keep thinking about the optimal aesthetic choice, but for now I just want to get moving and figure it all out later.


    Cheshire beams at me as I emerge back into the living room. ¡°Oh, nice, that dress was my favorite. You know, with round shades and some kind of shawl you could get a real hipster goth vibe.¡±


    I pause, envisioning that, and find the image actually quite appealing. ¡°Okay, remind me to do that when we get a chance. If we get a chance. I have no idea where this spell will lead us.¡±


    I summon the burning compass and we follow it out of the apartment complex and into the city of Sanctuary 7. To my surprise, it¡¯s still nighttime outside, but then it was still bright out when I crashed in bed after making it back to the apartment, so I guess that makes sense.


    The starry sky glitters above, and lampposts line streets devoid of cars. A sprawl of stone and metal greets me, the city of grand architecture and neon signs that is both paradise and prison to its free-willed inhabitants.


    A stone amphitheater dominates the skyline in one direction, a vast structure that I know to be the domain of the Beast of Lamentation and Euphoria. My compass points away from it and toward the other major structure visible from here: the massive techno-pyramid that contains several malls-worth of ¡°shops.¡± Because this is a Sanctuary in the Labyrinth, and money doesn¡¯t exist here, I still maintain that ¡°shops¡± is a misnomer.


    We start walking toward the Pyraplex, the streets relatively clear except for a few early-risers. A quick scan with my soul sight shows none of the people milling about to be actual people, just figments, and [Hunter¡¯s Marker] doesn¡¯t show Averrich getting any closer, so we seem to be in the clear. For now.


    Cheshire actually walks alongside me, hands in her pockets and humming to herself, rather than vanishing into my shadow or turning into an animal. She seems pensive about something.


    ¡°What¡¯s on your mind?¡± I ask.


    The geist bites her lip and looks up at the stars. ¡°Thinking about the Game of Glass. I¡¯m¡­ nervous.¡±


    I raise an eyebrow. ¡°What, don¡¯t like our chances against the competition? We don¡¯t even know who most of them are going to be yet, beyond guesses.¡±


    Cheshire laughs. ¡°No, not that. I¡¯m confident we¡¯ll overcome whoever stands in our way. No, what I¡¯m really worried about is what comes after.¡±


    Ah. ¡°You mean the shard.¡± The corporeal animus of the Beast of Lamentation and Euphoria, which grants its wielder godlike power at the cost of stagnation. The glass shard that the Beast offered me when it plucked me from the Reveler¡¯s maze just in time to escape the hunter on my tail.


    ¡°Yeah. It¡¯s irrational of me; you rejected the shard when it was offered, after all, and that was when the Beast was just going to give it to you. But¡­ I get nervous. What if, after fighting off all the other contenders, you change your mind?¡± She¡¯s still looking away from me, toward the sky, but I can clearly see the lines of worry on her face.


    ¡°I won¡¯t,¡± I say with conviction. ¡°I made the choice to trust you, to shape a new animus, and I¡¯m sticking with it. We are in this together.¡± That doesn¡¯t stop me from having my own doubts and fears, but I have a lot of practice managing paranoia. ¡°And hey, even if I start to feel some sunk cost from whatever goes down in the Game, it won¡¯t outweigh the less fallacious sunk cost of whatever advancements I make in my demonic abilities. I promise you, Cheshire: I have no intention of claiming the Beast¡¯s shard unless I can do so in a way that preserves my demonhood and my connection to you.¡±


    She looks away from the stars to meet my gaze, visibly relieved, and she smiles. ¡°Thanks. I needed to hear that. So¡­ what is the plan?¡±


    I shrug and fold my hands behind my head. ¡°Kill a bunch of powerful assholes before they kill us, eat their souls, then kick the Beast¡¯s ass and turn her shard into a paperweight? Throw it off the side of the island? Backtrack to the abandoned schoolhouse and dump it in the Abyss?¡±


    Cheshire shivers. ¡°Let¡¯s not do that last idea. No one deserves to be trapped in the Abyss for all eternity.¡±


    ¡°Oh, hey, you still need to finish telling me that creation myth at some point. But yeah, fair, we¡¯ll find some other way of dealing with the Beast. Got any suggestions?¡±


    ¡°Maybe. I think we should start, at least, by defining our goals. If our objective in the Game isn¡¯t going to be attaining the shard, we could instead define our objective as preventing our enemies from attaining the shard. Averrich is one of those enemies, obviously, and I think it¡¯s very likely that Vaylin Kirinal will be another.¡±


    I nod. ¡°Yeah, the few things I¡¯ve heard about Vaylin suggest she¡¯s going to be a problem for us sooner or later.¡± Part of me is almost looking forward to matching wits with a rival demon, but the more intelligent parts of me are concerned about fighting a demon with years of experience on me and a whole pack of minions at her beck and call.


    ¡°Conversely,¡± Cheshire continues, ¡°we¡¯ve met with Esha of the Myriad and right now she isn¡¯t our enemy. The Machinist was mentioned as another major power in this city, and one that the Myriad have at least a neutral relationship with.¡±


    I chew my lip and consider that. ¡°I don¡¯t think we have enough data to make any decisions about the Machinist, but Esha¡­ she seemed positively inclined toward me, when we had our little talk. And she is, so far, one of the only people I¡¯ve met in this city who wants to treat figments like people, which is a pretty big point in her favor.¡±


    ¡°So the question: are we okay with Esha being the one to claim the shard, if that¡¯s what it comes down to?¡± Cheshire watches me intently.


    I mull it over, but it¡¯s not really a difficult decision. ¡°I think that there are much worse options, and it would piss off the bastard that set Eirdryd on me, so I¡¯m giving that a tentative ¡®yes.¡¯ If I can find a way to claim the shard without losing my demonhood, I will, but otherwise the plan is to put it in Esha¡¯s hands and stay on her good side.¡±


    The compass spell leads us inside the grand shopping center, which is fully open despite the early hour as yet another sign of this city¡¯s unnatural nature. There are fewer figments here than last time but still a fair number, and the whole interior is awash in the glow of neon circuitry and touchscreen kiosks.


    [Find the Path] leads us to the center of one of the mega-mall¡¯s two distinct food courts, and there it does something I haven¡¯t seen happen before: the lines of the flaming arrow reorient to overlap, both pointing to the top of the circle, and then that single line of flame starts inching slowly to the right, like the minute hand of a clock ticking down.


    ¡°Huh,¡± I say.


    ¡°Huh,¡± Cheshire repeats.


    ¡°Have you seen anything like this before?¡±


    ¡°Nope. Granted, I¡¯ve not seen much of this spell at all, but I definitely didn¡¯t know it could do that. It looks like a clock, right?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I see it too. So, what, it¡¯s counting down to when the target will be in this location?¡± I take a few steps back from where I was standing, but the clock remains. I circle the entire food court and there¡¯s no change in the structure of the burning circle, just the very slow movement of the clock hand. ¡°If it¡¯s telling me my target isn¡¯t here yet, why isn¡¯t it just pointing me to where the target is right now?¡±


    Cheshire leans over my shoulder and peers at the spell, brow furrowed, and then she snaps her fingers and brightens. ¡°Ah, I think I¡¯ve got it! [Find the Path] is supposed to be the ultimate pathfinding spell, one of the aces of the Summer Court, but it can¡¯t show you a path to something that¡¯s genuinely unreachable. You asked for ¡®that beyond the maze which would be most helpful in defeating Averrich,¡¯ and I think that, somehow, the spell identified something that isn¡¯t here yet but is going to be soon. Something beyond the Labyrinth, or beyond the part of the Labyrinth we can access with our means, but which is in transit toward this destination even as we speak.¡±


    I whistle appreciatively. ¡°Damn. That is a powerful spell effect. Almost makes it seem worth the trade for my name, if not for the incredibly limited number of uses.¡±


    ¡°And whatever Eirdryd¡¯s plotting to do with that name,¡± Cheshire adds.


    I sigh. ¡°Yeah, still far from an equal exchange, but it was my only real option. Let¡¯s just hope whatever¡¯s on its way has enough value to justify burning the last charge. But, uh, it seems like we¡¯ve got some time to kill before it arrives, so¡­ breakfast?¡±


    Cheshire¡¯s expression is wry as she says, ¡°Didn¡¯t we just have breakfast?¡±


    ¡°That was first breakfast,¡± I grin. ¡°Now it¡¯s time for second breakfast.¡±


    The Pyraplex has an actual full-service breakfast restaurant on one of its floors, because of course it does. I dig into french toast piled high with butter and syrup, the objectively superior counterpart to waffles and pancakes. Because I am a bottomless pit and I¡¯m not sure my body is actually capable of eating ¡°too much¡± anymore, I also order stuffed hash browns with sour cream and cheese, and an omelet with tomato and spinach.


    I consume all of them, and second helpings of the french toast, and when every scrap has been devoured I find myself still hungry for more¨Cnot hungry in a hollow stomach way where I need more, but hungry in the sense that I could eat more and I know I would enjoy it. I sip my orange juice while I contemplate that.


    Cheshire, seated across from me, ordered a much more modest breakfast of bacon, sausage, and cheesy eggs, with a glass of water for her drink. She also eats at a more reasonable rate, whereas I practically inhaled each portion of my meal.


    ¡°Is it a demon thing,¡± I ask, ¡°that I¡¯m still kind of hungry after eating all of that?¡±


    Cheshire swallows a bite of sausage and nods. ¡°Absolutely. Hunger is an essential part of the Throne of Shadow, for one, but you also have to remember that this stuff isn¡¯t really your food anymore; souls are your food¨Cand to a lesser extent, mana, which in your case mostly means drinking blood.¡±


    I frown. ¡°Okay, but I just ate two big souls less than twelve hours ago. That¡¯s the kind of feast that should leave me feeling sated for a while, isn¡¯t it? Hells, some vampires in fiction can go weeks without feeding after a particularly good meal.¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± she says, pointing a fork with some egg on it at me, ¡°but you¡¯re not just any demon. You, my dear Allie, are a demon with one third of your soul dedicated to the Truth of Gluttony. You¡¯re right that the average demon probably wouldn¡¯t be hungry the day after winning a throne duel and chowing down on a nice, juicy soul, but your Truths make you a special case. I don¡¯t predict you¡¯ll ever remain sated for very long, even after feeding in the ways you¡¯re meant to. And food like this?¡± She makes a sweeping gesture at what remains of her breakfast. ¡°No matter how tasty it is, it¡¯ll be a trickle of sustenance at best.¡±


    It seems obvious, in hindsight. I feed on mana and souls, and feeding like this only provides trace amounts of mana. And, yes, I¡¯ve tied one third of my essence to the very principle of disordered and excessive consumption: the sin of Gluttony. ¡°Strangely enough, I don¡¯t think that actually bothers me. It feels¡­ right.¡±


    Cheshire grins. ¡°Toldja you¡¯d make a great demon.¡±


    She finishes up and we hit the shops, checking [Find the Path] periodically to make sure we don¡¯t miss the big arrival. I grab two new anchors for Cheshire¨Ca ceramic cat figurine and a manticore wargaming model¨Cthough I honestly doubt I¡¯ll be manifesting her that way very often when I could go werewolf or put her on [Feast or Famine] duty instead.


    I find replacements for all the parts of my vampiric regalia that were damaged during the maze run, and I also pick out the round shades and black shawl that Cheshire suggested I add to my current ensemble. I have to admit: with my black hair, slender frame, and dark red lips, I look pretty damn good in this outfit.


    We return to the food court as the minute hand ticks down, watching the line of flame slowly return to its zenith. Then, through the glass ceiling of the food court, I see night become day as clear blue replaces starry swirls. The minute hand strikes twelve and the burning circle vanishes, and I feel the spell at last vanish completely from my awareness.


    In the center of the food court, the air begins to splinter and warp. Tables and chairs turn to glass and then shatter, and the shards fly through the air to that crack in reality. A few seated figments are caught by it too, their bodies twisting and contorting, but they show no sign of pain or fear as their forms are torn apart and reshaped. The figments smile placidly as they are transmuted to sculpted glass, and then that glass shatters and is drawn inexorably to the growing mass in the center of the room.


    The shards whirl around each other, orbiting at different velocities, and then all stop at once before starting again in perfect sync. The shards come together and form a single pane of reflective glass: a mirror, tall and wide, with no frame and no foundation, anchored in the warped air.


    The mirror ripples and a man comes tumbling through, his clothes disheveled and a sheathed sword at his belt. Then, rushing from the mirror as a unit, three monsters leap after him¨Cand as soon as all three are clear of the mirror, it melts to glass slag behind them, its purpose spent.

 Mad Tea Party (Redux) II

    The moment I see the monsters, I¡¯m ready to fight. I¡¯m not afraid, I¡¯m not hesitant, I¡¯m not even fazed. Whatever these things are, they can¡¯t be worse than what I¡¯ve already faced.


    These creatures actually remind me of the very second type of monster I faced on my arrival in the Labyrinth: the spider-like not-dogs that chased me through the woods outside the abandoned schoolhouse. If I were to give these things a name, it would be not-cats: the bodies of big hairless sphynx cats but stretched out unnaturally, eyeless, and with large scorpion tails.


    ¡°Cheshire¨C¡±


    ¡°Already on it!¡± My companion slips behind me, expression focused as she concentrates on priming castings of my signature spell. She¡¯s already anticipated what I need, so the rest is up to me.


    ¡°[Carrion Swarm],¡± I call out, arm extended and fingers outstretched in the direction of the new arrivals. The spell diagram flashes in my mind¡¯s eye, full of arcane symbols I¡¯ve yet to decipher, and then it¡¯s gone as I unleash the spell and send white ravens flying from my hand, their feathery bodies emerging from my porcelain skin.


    The birds soar for the beasts and I run after them. The not-cats are chasing after the man who fell through the portal, the man my seeking spell led me to, as he races away from them through the emptied food court. One of the not-cats is larger than the others, and it sprints ahead of them on elongated limbs.


    My birds reach the two smaller beasts, and as each raven lays a claw or a wing on the flesh of a not-cat the raven is wreathed in noxious black mist that clings like muck.


    A splintering pain wracks my body as [Feast or Famine] takes a bite out of my soul to fuel each casting. My thoughts are scattered like viscera before the claws of a great beast, and every nerve feels electrified with fresh and horrid sensation. I stumble in my stride and have to catch myself, still unused to the intensity of the spell, and then its second half hits.


    The black mist spreads from birds to beasts and consumes the essence of the Labyrinth¡¯s latest horrors. The cat-like monsters wither into husks, skin stretching taut against frames that lose mass until they¡¯re just bone, and as they fall I drink in their life force, their very souls, and the resonance-rich mana tied to such consumption. It is a soothing balm after the torment of the initial casting, and I revel in it, but there¡¯s still something disorienting about rapidly shifting between pain and pleasure like that.


    The few ravens that went for the third beast take longer to reach it, and as they approach they are swatted from the sky by the lightning-quick motion of the not-cat¡¯s scorpion-like tail. The tail¡¯s barb pierces each bird in succession, tearing through them. For an instant the black mist is there, rising from the ravens and clinging to the tail, but the birds scatter to shadow too quickly and the creature¡¯s tail shrivels not quite to uselessness. Again I experience the cycle of soul-rending agony and hungry satisfaction, but it¡¯s muted compared to the other burst of sensation.


    I hiss and call out to my other minions, ¡°Surround the big one!¡±


    The white ravens flap their wings and rise from the dehydrated-looking husks of the lesser not-cats, but as they do they begin to fall apart. Feathers and flesh alike slough from fragile bone, and then it all melts into shadow.


    The last monster takes advantage of the opening to pounce, lunging for the fleeing man as he looks back at my shout and nearly trips. His momentary stumble is enough for the beast, which knocks him to the ground and pins him there.


    He looks up at it with fear in his eyes, and I finally notice the object in his hands: an ornate sheath of blue and gold, with a sword hilt poking out of it. He raises the sheath and manages to wedge it in the creature¡¯s toothy maw, blocking it from biting him, but its claws rake into him freely.


    Shit. I can¡¯t rely on summons for this, I¡¯ll have to do it myself. I close the distance with the beast now that it¡¯s stationary, and as I move in I conjure Vorpal, the hilt appearing in my hand with ease. I lunge for the creature, movements purposeful and fluid, the killing instrument seeming almost eager to guide my strike.


    With my first movement I slash at the beast¡¯s tail, the rapier¡¯s edge cutting through with only the barest of resistance. The top half of the tail falls to the ground, stinger rendered useless to the monster, and clear water bleeds from the point of severance.


    The mutant sphynx cat turns its eyeless face toward me, at last recognizing the real threat in the room, but that ornate sheath is still wedged in its mouth and it can¡¯t move away from the man it¡¯s pinning fast enough to avoid my second strike. The point of my blade pierces its skull and Vorpal runs clean through to the other side.


    Black mist erupts from the blade and consumes the monster, and again I am wracked with pain and joyous voracity. My soul splinters and is forged anew, fractures of essence sealed with an influx of stolen soulstuff. I arch my back and clench my other hand, nails digging into skin hard enough to draw blood, but each puncture seals just as quick as it¡¯s made thanks to the vital force flowing from the beast to me.


    I tear Vorpal from its skull and it dies, and I flick droplets of water from the blood-red blade.


    When the high fades and my breathing steadies, I turn to the man who fell and finally take him in: tousled blonde hair, big brown eyes, sun-tanned skin, and an altogether unremarkable build and face. His white shirt is torn and rapidly staining with blood from the wounds that monster gouged in him. Belatedly, I realize that¡¯s a serious problem and one I don¡¯t have any immediate way to solve.


    I grimace and extend a hand down to help him up. ¡°Hey, guy: get up and we can try to¡­ find a¡­ healer.¡±


    Before my eyes, the bloody gashes in his chest knit together and seal up like the skin was never broken. There¡¯s no mark on his body, no indication he¡¯s still in pain, nothing. The only sign there was ever a wound is the blood still staining his shirt and visible on his chest through the holes in that shirt.


    He regenerated. He regenerated his wounds, which isn¡¯t how this magic system fucking works, because the only kind of magic that can heal a wound that quickly is transfusion magic. I didn¡¯t see him leech that life essence from anywhere, and I certainly didn¡¯t give up any of mine, so where the hells did he get it from?


    I stare at him, speechless, as he takes my hand and rises to his feet. He scratches his head, looking sheepish.


    ¡°Thanks for the assist,¡± he says awkwardly. ¡°I¡¯m Dante. That was, uh, that was really cool with the sword. Sorry I didn¡¯t do much with mine; I got it, like, today, and I really don¡¯t know how to use it.¡±


    I¡¯m barely paying attention to what he¡¯s saying, because I¡¯ve just noticed what he¡¯s wearing: he¡¯s in a navy-blue blazer over a white button-up shirt, with bland gray trousers, a gray necktie, and black dress shoes. It looks like a school uniform.


    Arriving in another world wearing a school uniform and chased by monsters, gifted an item on entry and powers that defy the conventional laws of magic. Just like me. He has to be. He has to be, there¡¯s no way he isn¡¯t.


    No, no, I refuse. This can¡¯t be happening. And that¡¯s my fucking power! That¡¯s the cheat ability I asked for, and the God of Death laughed at me.


    One way to confirm, not that it isn¡¯t blindingly obvious what¡¯s going on.


    I flicker on my soul sight, shifting my vision from the false corporeal to the true meaning lying beneath the skin of the world. The mall around us becomes ink on paper, sketch lines and vague impressions of physicality. When I look at most people with my sight, I see a mask of bone and a form that tells me something about them. The only exception is Cheshire, who, like me, is a witch that can foil sixth senses.


    The only exception until now, I should correct, because when I look at Dante all I see is a blue storm of swirling, random, meaningless nothing. When I peer closer, straining my sight, I can just barely make out a glimmering star beneath, dim yet oddly hopeful, but that¡¯s it.


    His soul looks nothing like Averrich¡¯s, which showed me the infection of madness coursing through him, and it¡¯s nothing like the souls of figments, held up by strings that lead back to the tower of black glass. There¡¯s nothing to prod at here, no meaning I can discern, no clues I can draw. He¡¯s obscured to my senses, just like my soul has been obscured to everyone who¡¯s tried to peer at it.


    He¡¯s a witch, just like me and just like Cheshire; someone specially chosen by Nyarlathotep herself to be granted special powers and privileges outside the bounds of the normal magic system.


    In isekai terms, he has a cheat ability. And it¡¯s not proof that he¡¯s from Earth, just like that outfit isn¡¯t proof and being chased by monsters certainly isn¡¯t proof, but when you put that all together and compare it to my own arrival in this world¡­ the parallels are disturbing, and this does not seem like a universe where coincidences are just coincidences.


    It¡¯s a sick joke, and I bet I know who to blame: Katoptris and Nyarlathotep, my two tormentors.


    I flicker off soul sight and see the kid¨CDante, he said his name was Dante¨Cwaving at me nervously. He says, ¡°Uh, hey there, weird magic woman. You¡¯ve been staring at me kind of intently. Do you, like, have a name?¡±


    ¡°Oh. Right.¡± Okay, gotta look cool, gotta look cool to impress the new kid so I can get him on side in dealing with Averrich because apparently my magic compass thinks he¡¯s the key to that particular showdown. I need a title, cool people have titles, why don¡¯t I have a title? I need a badass moniker to show how badass and awesome and powerful I am. Argh, fuck it, let¡¯s just steal something from anime and hope he¡¯s not a weeb. I straighten up, pose with my rapier, and proudly announce, ¡°My name is Maven Alice of the Crimson Moon, the True Ancestor vampire princess.¡±


    He looks at me with befuddled confusion. ¡°Isn¡¯t that from Tsukihime?¡±


    ¡°Dammit,¡± I swear, clenching my fist in frustration. Well now we know he¡¯s definitely from Earth. Why is he here? Is he meant to be the Hero to my Demon King of Tyranny? ¡°Who the hell knows Tsukihime in 2022?¡± I ask instead, stalling for time while I try to figure out how the fuck I¡¯m supposed to respond to meeting someone else from the Zero Sphere.


    ¡°There was a remake last year, and a new Melty Blood.¡±


    ¡°Oh, yeah. Okay, nevermind that, I need you to tell me everything about how you¨C¡±


    I¡¯m cut off by a flash of prismatic light, and then the air is filled with an ominous hum as shards of fractal glass flicker into existence all around me. Each node expands, contracts, expands, and they all resonate with that awful tone. The fractal shards become fractal panes of stained glass that grow to encircle both myself and Dante.


    My gaze meets Cheshire¡¯s in the instant before the rainbow glass can encase me entirely, and she reaches out. Our hands intertwine for a single moment and then she¡¯s melting into my shadow, charm bracelet around my wrist, as the cocoon completes itself and the prismatic glass swallows me whole.


    When I blink my eyes, I am standing within the swirling rainbow-colored maelstrom I¡¯ve seen twice before: it¡¯s the Corridor of Reflections, the Labyrinth¡¯s world between worlds that contains within it the mirror-paths connecting all reflective surfaces within the Labyrinth.


    The kaleidoscope effect is as dizzying as ever, and instinctively my gaze flits to the tower of black glass that pierces the sky. The storm of prismatic color bleeds from that tower, from each point where jagged glass cuts into the skin of the cosmos.


    The last time I was here, I fell from one mirror into another with barely a glimpse of the Corridor. The first time, I walked across panes of glass from mirror-portal to mirror-portal. This time, I appear to be standing on a circular stone platform suspended in midair.


    Below me and in front of me I see a much larger stone platform, circular like the one I¡¯m standing on but missing a chunk, like a cookie with a bite taken out of it. Six thrones are arrayed in a half-circle on the side of the platform not missing a piece, and six figures sit upon those thrones.


    I take in their visages scattershot, attention flitting rapidly between figures: a man with golden skin and a haughty air reclining on a throne of glittering jewels; a woman dressed like a flapper from the 1920s slumped against a throne of velvet, sipping from a glass of wine; someone dark-skinned and gray-haired, gender uncertain, resting listlessly on a throne of unadorned stone; a jackal-headed woman with an exposed glass heart, her throne black jet but painted with red hearts; a misshapen amalgamation of animal parts in mismatching fashion, hunched upon the ruins of a many-colored throne; and a woman split down the middle, half-corpse and half-beauty, on a throne of grasping hands.


    These, I immediately intuit, must be the Nobles.


    Six more platforms, smaller like mine, are arrayed around the bitten half of the central platform, opposite the thrones. I see Dante on one, two figures I don¡¯t recognize on their own, and the three people I expected to see here: Averrich the Goblin King, Esha of the Myriad, and Vaylin Kirinal. Beyond them, seated in amphitheater rows, I see hundreds of silhouettes, figures cast in total darkness.


    Before I have time to take in any more information, a resounding thunderclap fills the air and my attention is drawn back to the central stage. A seventh figure materializes from glass and takes the shape of a woman made of glass, unclothed and eerie. Her skin, her hair, her eyes, all glass, just slightly discolored from each other to create the illusion of definition. She¡¯s not wearing my face this time, but I know she must be the Beast of Lamentation and Euphoria. Who else could accomplish this feat?


    The Beast clasps her hands together and smiles up at me, then at the rest of the audience. I try to call out to her, to snarl at her, to say anything, but no sound leaves my lips. The Beast¡¯s smile grows wicked, and then she spreads her hands and begins to speak with joyous, manic fervor.


    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    ¡°Welcome, one and all, to a wonderful, horrible spectacle. I¡¯m sure some of you are feeling very confused right now, or at least very surprised, though at least two of you know exactly what is going on.¡± The Beast chuckles, voice echoing across the vast open space. ¡°The festivities will begin shortly, but first, please, allow me a brief preamble. This city, my gift to all of you, has grown from a humble seed, nourished by dreams, into a magnificent garden overflowing with potential. I speak, of course, of Sanctuary 7.¡±


    The glass woman sighs heavily, and when she speaks again her tone is despondent. ¡°But alas, a maze can have but one minotaur, a crown but one head to rest upon. I wish dearly that I could provide paradise for all of you equally, but we have seen time and again that it is human nature to create evils where none reside.¡±


    The Beast laughs and bares glass teeth. ¡°You kill each other like animals. Presented with a banquet, you would rather feast upon the flesh of your brothers and sisters than partake of that which is without cost or caveat. You will lie and cheat and murder over something so worthless as power. You truly have no shame.¡±


    ¡°All of what is to come could have been prevented,¡± she mourns. ¡°There was no need for this violence, no need for this miserable hardship. But the hard road has been chosen, and that choice must be respected. So you shall kill each other until one remains, and then that greatest of murderers shall claim a shard of glass and an empty throne, and she shall call herself a Red Queen.¡±


    The Beast of Lamentation and Euphoria spreads her hands wide, expression serene, caught in something approaching rapture. ¡°Welcome, my beautiful fools, to the seventh Game of Glass.¡±


    I grimace at her several pointed comments. Yes, yes, we¡¯re a garden of sinners and this is somehow all my fault for not taking the obvious bait when you dangled it in front of me. But, ¡°Red Queen,¡± is that an Alice in Wonderland reference? She displayed knowledge of my past, just like Cheshire, so it could easily be that¡­ and maybe it¡¯s a reference to the evolutionary principle and the realpolitik theory of warring states. The endless unmoving race that can only be broken with the emergence of an apex predator or a regional hegemon.


    Me.


    The Beast brings her hands back together and announces, ¡°Now, with that out of the way, let¡¯s introduce our lucky contestants. Our first candidate is a demon who arrived here only a few days ago, but she¡¯s taken to bloodshed like a corpse to a grave. Maven Alice, please step forward.¡±


    The platform beneath me starts to shift, and it lowers down to perfectly fill the hole in the circle where the Beast is waiting. I bare my fangs at the glass woman and flex my fingers, wanting nothing more than to rip that head off her shoulders¡­ but I know better than to think that would work.


    The Beast reaches out and grabs my left hand, lifts it up, and then traces a swooping design on the back of my hand that lights up and glows for a moment before vanishing. ¡°Your key fragment has been implanted,¡± she tells me with a smile.


    I sprout claws from the ends of my fingers, and with my other hand I reach over and scrape those claws across the glass skin of her forearm. The sound it makes is ear-bleedingly awful, but her smile doesn¡¯t falter and neither does my snarl.


    The Beast gently extricates her arm, and then she turns her back to me and gestures to one of the seated figures. ¡°Maven¡¯s sponsor is the Noble of Grandeur and Shame, Lord Invernus. As the newest Noble of the six, he¡¯s got a lot to prove with this nomination.¡±


    I follow her gesture and see the man with golden skin, reclining with a posture of arrogant contempt on his throne of precious metals and glittering gemstones. He¡¯s completely hairless, not even eyebrows, and his eyes shimmer with rainbow color. He wears a rainbow-colored trench coat and no shirt, which reveals his literally-chiseled chest, and his only other articles of clothing are a pair of pristine white trousers and white dress shoes.


    Invernus. So you¡¯re the bastard who set me up. I¡¯ll enjoy wiping that smug look from your face.


    My platform lifts away from the center as the Beast announces, ¡°Our next candidate is an elf old enough to have seen the fall of his world, making him a real powerhouse in this competition. He truly embodies the spirit of euphoric celebration, and his revelry would make the Wolf Queen proud. Averrich, you splendid rogue, get over here.¡±


    Averrich¡¯s platform drifts down and he receives his key fragment with an exaggerated bow, the flamboyant fae seemingly entirely unperturbed and unsurprised by everything transpiring. He¡¯s still bedazzled in sapphires and emeralds, with a crown nesting in his glam rock mop of hair, and I idly fantasize about ripping those gems out and tossing them into a gutter somewhere.


    ¡°Averrich¡¯s sponsor is the Noble of Relief and Regret, Lord Kasumi. Her love of entertainment is legendary, so perhaps she¡¯s hoping Averrich will prove an excellent thrower of parties as the seventh Noble.¡±


    Again the Beast turns and gestures, and I see the woman sipping wine with a bored expression on her face. Kasumi has dead eyes like polished stones, bright red lips, and completely unkempt black hair. She¡¯s dressed in a black-and-gold flapper dress, the kind with sequins and beads and feathers, and she lets it hang lazily off one shoulder. Her throne is black stone carved with carnal images and upholstered with plush velvet, and upon one throne arm sit three bottles of wine, two of them empty.


    Kasumi, who gave Averrich advance warning of the Game¡¯s approach. She and Invernus both interfered to set up their candidates, so I wonder if any of the others did the same. And those titles they have, it matches the construction of the Beast¡¯s title. Will whoever wins this game become the Noble of Lamentation and Euphoria?


    Vaylin is next to be brought before the Beast. The azure-skinned demon looks mostly the same as the projection that Esha showed me¨Ctwo pairs of upward-curving horns, all-black eyes with white-dot pupils, and a black-lipped smile¨Cbut she¡¯s discarded the tank top and leather pants for a strawberry-patterned pink dress, though she¡¯s still adorned in golden jewelry and red body-stitching.


    ¡°This demon is the biggest reason this city has devolved into so much infighting and urban warfare,¡± the Beast crows, ¡°and if she gets her way I¡¯m sure every soul in the Sanctuary will be turned into a puppet on her strings. It¡¯s a pleasure to have you in the running, Vaylin Kirinal.¡±


    Vaylin receives her key fragment and examines her hand with clear interest, waving it around and poking at the skin where the glowing design briefly appeared.


    The Beast continues, ¡°Vaylin has been sponsored by the Noble of Enthrallment and Apathy, Lord Krendagrel. I¡¯m sure it would watch her performance with great interest if it hadn¡¯t already found a new fixation to occupy itself with.¡±


    Krendagrel is a creature with elongated limbs covered in a messy mix of feathers, fur, and scales. One of its hands ends in three digits, while the other ends in nine, and it has one leg ending in a cloven hoof and one leg ending in a bird-like talon. It has a wide mouth full of shark¡¯s teeth; big, round, entirely-white eyes; no nose or hair upon the head; and a set of tall, pointed ears that curl at the tips and sprout chitinous growths.


    The amalgamation of parts has an equally eclectic taste in clothing: it wears a red-and-yellow scarf over a green-and-blue shawl over a brown cloak, it wears a purple sash over bare chest, and it wears a checkerboard skirt, but nothing else. Its scattered patches of uncovered skin are muddy teal in color and possess an odd, warped texture. It crouches on the ruins of a throne that looks to have been sliced apart in two places, and the fragments are splashed with paint of all colors.


    The Noble of Enthrallment and Apathy, true to its name and the words of the Beast, is completely ignoring the proceedings to instead pick at a puzzle. Its long digits toy with one of those mechanical puzzles that require you to disassemble interlocking pieces, though the puzzle in its hands is more complex than any I¡¯ve seen in stores.


    Vaylin¡¯s platform drifts back, and one of the figures I don¡¯t recognize drifts in to take her place.


    ¡°Introducing our next candidate, Valentina Vasquez! She¡¯s a wizard who has, until now, attempted to stay out of the fighting between factions. Sucks to be you, Vasquez, but welcome to the brawl!¡±


    The woman brought before the Beast looks to be in the peak of physical fitness, and her expression remains serene and unbothered despite the Beast¡¯s comments. Vasquez has a healthy glow to her skin, short-trimmed brown hair, and wears blue-and-red sleeveless robes patterned with designs of flying fish and fire flowers. She receives her key fragment without ceremony.


    ¡°This candidate¡¯s sponsor is Lord Juno, the Noble of Love and Hate. I think she might have a desire for Ms. Valentina, or perhaps she wants to see her murdered horribly by a demon.¡±


    Juno is the jackal-headed woman, with clawed hands and an exposed heart of unbeating red glass. She wears red suspenders, a white button-up shirt, and black trousers, and she snacks on candied meats from a dripping pile atop one of the arms of her throne of black jet and carved red hearts. Juno doesn¡¯t look up when the Beast calls out her name, as she¡¯s too busy baring her teeth at the split-body woman, a hungry look in her eyes.


    The wizard is dismissed and the other unfamiliar figure takes her place. This guy looks exactly like the archetypal necromancer, which in this setting means he probably is one and playing into that appearance to enhance his spellcasting. He¡¯s got the sickly pallor, dark hair and eyes, hooded robes, and even a skull pendant around his neck. He also has a permanent scowl etched into his face, which might be more of a personality issue than anything magic-related.


    ¡°Introducing Hubert Ulchen, a necromancer who would have preferred to remain hidden in order to continue his silly little experiments. Too bad! Hubert has been sponsored by Lord Urna, the Noble of Desire and Disgust, who before her ascension to the ranks of Nobility was once a necromancer like him."


    Urna is the woman of two very different halves, the corpse and the beauty. One half is that of a shapely bombshell with very pale skin, an ice-blue eye, full lips, and very long platinum blonde hair styled in a side cut. The other half is that of a skeletal corpse, exposed bone and dripping gore, bloody teeth, and cold blue light in the depths of a skeletal eye socket. She wears a fluffy fur mantle over her shoulders, and a dress made of sheer black-and-white fabric that leaves nothing to the imagination, conforming tightly to her buxom living half and hanging loose against the skeletal frame of her corpse half. She sits with regal airs upon a throne of grasping hands carved in marble.


    Like most of the Nobles she seems to barely notice the Beast, though in Urna''s case that seems to be because of her fixation on Juno. As Juno bares her teeth at Urna, Urna curls her lip with a look of revulsion, but when Juno looks away to eat another candied meat that look becomes lustful and vulgar.


    "Perhaps she feels a sense of kinship, or perhaps she finds his experiments as revolting as any sane person would and wants to put a target on his back. Either way, I don¡¯t think he¡¯ll last long now that he¡¯s been exposed to the other candidates.¡±


    The Beast chuckles and sends the necromancer back to float with the rest of us. I find his situation curious, and that of the wizard. The way the Beast talked about both of them framed them as almost less important than Averrich, Vaylin, or I, and that makes me think of how Cheshire talked about figments: as extras in a stageplay. The Beast has established Vasquez and Ulchen as obstacles to be overcome rather than true contenders for the grand prize. They¡¯re not the main characters of this story.


    Esha is next to drift down, and there¡¯s only one Noble remaining to be her backer. The priestess is dressed in those same plain white robes I saw her in last, carrying her shepherd¡¯s crook staff and wearing a blindfold over her eyes.


    ¡°Our sixth candidate is the priestess bonded to my city¡¯s precious eidolon. Esha leads the Myriad and strives to be a voice of reason and compassion amid the chaos and conflict that rises around her. It is a shame that she has failed, and will fail, against the tide of human nature.¡±


    I can¡¯t see Esha¡¯s face from this angle, but I see her hand tighten around her staff. How must it feel to be told by a godlike existence that your purpose in life is doomed to failure?


    ¡°Ah, but I digress. Esha¡¯s sponsor is an individual of few words most days, but their reasoning for the choice of Esha is obvious: Lord Naryatska is the Noble of Isolation and Gregariousness, and Esha is one of the few people in this city that might be bearable to talk to after being granted the incredible power of my shard.¡±


    The last of the Nobles, Naryatska, is dark-skinned and gray-haired with silver eyes and a withdrawn, listless aura. Their clothing is plain compared to some of their contemporaries, just a full-body gray jumpsuit complete with black gloves and black jacket. Their throne is unadorned gray stone, and as they are addressed by the Beast they ignore her words to continue staring down at an open locket cupped in both hands.


    Esha is sent away, and the Beast¡¯s smile grows wider, glass cracking at the edges of her mouth. ¡°Historically,¡± the Beast says, ¡°my kind have taken a rather neutral role in the moderation of these contests. However, we do reserve the right to select a candidate of our own to vie for the grand prize of the glass shard. I have chosen to exercise this right, in this very special Game of Glass. Come forth, my champion: Dante Reyes.¡±


    Dante, looking surprised and confused, is brought down to the central platform and given a key fragment. I watch, seething internally, my suspicions confirmed beyond a shadow of a doubt; Dante was brought here by the Beast to be my foil, my opponent in this Game of Glass to force my hand¡­ and presumably, Nyarlathotep found that funny enough to grant him the witch power I wanted.


    The Beast doesn¡¯t dwell on it, though, once Dante¡¯s been given his piece of the key. She sends him back, and then she cracks her knuckles and spreads her arms wide once more.


    ¡°You¡¯ve received your key fragments, but not all of you understand what that means. Allow me to explain the rules of our little game. The terms are simple: each of you possesses one-seventh of a key that can, once fully formed, open the door to my colosseum in the heart of the city. A key fragment can be given willingly to another, or it can be extracted from the corpse of the holder. While these fragments start in the hands of these specific seven, anyone who is capable of defeating a holder may take the fragment from their corpse, and any holder may give away their fragment to any person.


    ¡°Once the door is opened, a challenger may approach me within my lair, and there I shall judge whether or not they are worthy of taking up my shard. If I judge them unworthy, they may still attempt to take the shard by force, if they think they have what it takes.


    ¡°The shard, for those unaware, is the animus of my being and the incarnation of all my powers as a fragment of Katoptris, she who is the origin of this throne world. Possession of the shard means mastery over that throne world, or at least one region of it. You will be immortal and omnipotent within the bounds of your Sanctuary, and still very powerful beyond. You will be able to reshape this city to your will, expand it, destroy it, whatever is your whim. Each figment will answer to you, and you will have the capacity to create new figments, and to change the laws that govern those figments beholden to you. You will be like unto a god or an archdemon, an existence approaching Royalty.¡±


    But never reaching it, like a mathematical function approaching infinity in smaller and smaller increments the closer it gets. Forever tantalizingly out of reach. Glass does not grow. That was the downside that the Beast revealed to me, when she tempted me with the shard. I could have security, comfort, and a playground to rule over, but I would never escape the Labyrinth and I would never usurp the Divine Architect of Pandaemonium.


    An unacceptable compromise.


    ¡°Now, before I let you loose to decide amongst yourselves who gets my shard¡­ there is one other detail that will be different about this Game of Glass. You see, I¡¯m afraid that two of you are dirty rotten cheaters.¡± I tense, knowing exactly what she¡¯s talking about. ¡°Invernus and Kasumi both acted to interfere with the conditions of this competition. They primed their candidates and nudged them into position to have actionable advantages over their rivals.¡±


    The others are looking at me, I can feel their gazes on my flesh, those judging, curious eyes. Vaylin, Esha, Valentina, Hubert, and Dante, all learning for the first time that my place in this Game of Glass is not normal, not unalloyed.


    ¡°And so,¡± the Beast continues, ¡°I have chosen to implement a measure to even the playing field once again. With the approval of those Nobles who did not attempt to cheat, I have decided to call for a one-day grace period in which no hostile action may be enacted by any keyholder, subordinate, or ally against any other person or property of those categories.¡±


    Invernus smirks, maintaining his haughty air of superiority, but I see his hand clench the bejeweled arm of his throne so tightly that it warps the metal and leaves an impression. Kasumi, for her part, simply rolls her eyes, downs the rest of her glass, and refills it, spilling wine in the process. The rest of the Nobles seem untroubled by this declaration, which makes sense if they were in on it from the start.


    Outmaneuvered by the Beast herself. I must admit I¡¯m pleased by that, even if I was one of the two benefiting from advanced warning. This¡¯ll hurt Averrich more than it hurts me, that¡¯s for sure.


    ¡°Take this time to prepare yourselves, my beloved candidates. Strike alliances, plot betrayals, and scope out the territory you¡¯ll be fighting in. But, if you attempt to break my peace¡­ I¡¯ll put you down myself. Have fun!¡±


    In an instant, the world of color and stone vanishes, and both Dante and I are back in the mall.


    This changes things. With a day of peace, we could do exactly as she suggested: strikes alliances and survey the terrain. If I could find where my enemies are located, that would be a huge boon. And if I could get Esha on side, I¡¯d have all the resources of the Myriad at my disposal.


    Ah, but first¡­ the kid.


    Dante is looking worried and overwhelmed, so I clap a hand on his shoulder and give him a big grin.


    ¡°Hey, kid: ever wanted to win a death game?¡±

 A Very Famished Christmas

    Twas the morning of Christmas when all through the town


    Not a creature was stirring, not even a clown


    Except for, of course, the queen clown of them all


    Maven Alice, the demon, still hooked on the mall


    She was enraptured by clothes and by books that were free


    Tearing through shops with such fervor and glee


    She ate such fine foods, drank fruit juice with ice


    And raided the game store for fresh maps and dice


    Yet as she paraded past shop after shop


    Her ears took attention of the strangest backdrop


    There was music, she heard, not noticed before


    That was set to a truly most terrible score


    Mariah Carey, on blast, singing praise of the season


    All pumped up with cheer for nary a reason


    It seared Allie¡¯s soul, it boiled her blood


    And hate filled her heart like a great bursting flood


    Alice gnashed and she seethed, ¡°What a terrible sound!


    ¡°There must be a way to see that noise drowned!¡±


    Cheshire popped into a view with a hand on her chin


    ¡°When,¡± mused the cat, ¡°did that singing begin?¡±


    Alice hated the holidays, Christ¡¯s Mass most of all


    She¡¯d hated it since she was ever so small


    Was it trauma, one wonders, or contrarian edge?


    Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    Perhaps it was both, but her past we won¡¯t dredge


    Anymore, say at least, than was already planned


    In last book and the next in Act One: Wonderland


    She raged and she ranted about what she had heard


    But then a thought came to mind and to speech she was spurred


    ¡°Wait,¡± she called out, ¡°now why are we rhyming?


    ¡°And just as important, who¡¯s dictating this timing?¡±


    Alice looked ¡®round and beheld awful sights


    Ornaments, wreaths, and blinking Christmas lights


    The whole mall was ablaze with holiday cheer


    But Alice the Scrooge looked on with a sneer


    "This situation is fucked, and I know who¡¯s to blame


    "It¡¯s Nyara, that ass, with yet another sick game!"


    ¡°She¡¯s done it this time, she¡¯s gone too far I say!


    ¡°All the stockings and singing and bells of a sleigh!


    ¡°I hate it, I hate it, I hate Christmas the most!


    ¡°I¡¯d scream it aloud to every Christmas movie ghost!¡±


    Then came a new sound that rose from below


    From the mall¡¯s first floor came a hearty ¡°Ho ho ho!¡±


    Alice rushed to the railing and gripped it knuckles white


    And saw yet another horrid holiday fright


    It was Santa, oh yes, a fake mall Santa Claus


    And at last Alice realized this broke setting laws


    ¡°It¡¯s not real, it can¡¯t be,¡± she said to the cat


    ¡°It¡¯s too silly and stupid to take just at that!


    ¡°God¡¯s cruel and a troll, always pulling our yokes


    ¡°But would she ruin her setting for a bunch of cheap jokes?¡±


    "If it''s non-canon, let''s fuck!" the catgirl insisted


    For her Christmas wish was to be firmly fisted


    "No, sex is cringe," said the cringe demon doll


    "Now get in my shadow, we''re leaving the mall."


    So they rushed from the mall and out to the street


    Where snow fell from the sky and laid a soft white sheet


    Maven¡¯s heart, cold and black, nearly warmed at the sight


    But she clung to her hatred and her petty, grumpish spite


    The whole city was festive, overflowing with merry


    But that just made Alice ever more wary


    She raced to the temple, to the Myriad¡¯s tree


    And found something worse: a decorating spree


    Christmas had claimed it, from bottom to top


    And the horrors of Christmas would simply not stop


    Inside were gathered a most unlikely array


    Artificers and imps and even the fae


    They were smiling and feasting like they¡¯d always been friends


    Like they hadn¡¯t tried to bring each other dark, grisly ends


    They offered gifts and warm tidings, a place at the table


    A roast beast to cut, like out of a fable


    And at last with a sigh the demoness relented


    To attending this banquet she found most demented


    "I will devour God and sit on her throne


    ¡°Now silence the music and pass me that scone."

 Garden of Memories I

    FEAST OR FAMINE


    ACT ONE


    PART SIX: ¡°Garden of Memories¡± OR ¡°Alice & Alice & Alice & Alice¡±


    <blockquote>


    ¡°They were learning to draw,¡± the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; ¡°and they drew all manner of things¡ªeverything that begins with an M¡ª¡±


    ¡°Why with an M?¡± said Alice.


    ¡°Why not?¡± said the March Hare.


    Alice was silent.


    </blockquote>


    Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll


    <hr>


    When I was a little girl, yearning but yet unbroken, all I wanted was to be loved.


    I wanted my father to love me more than he loved his years-dead wife, and I wanted to believe that my mother had loved me even though she¡¯d left me. I wanted to be praised, admired, and valued. I wanted to feel like I mattered to someone, anyone, everyone. I wanted to be loved, for what could matter more in this world or any other?


    I still wanted love, even as I learned better, even through all the pain. Is it any surprise? A selfish beast can learn, but it can never truly change. So I craved love, and crave love, though I have never deserved it and never will, though all love brings is hurt to me and mine and more. I grasp for it with trembling fingers like a toddler that can¡¯t bring herself to understand that the top of the stove burns.


    Though my father looks at me as if I am the sickness that took his wife, still I crave his love. Though friends scorn me and deceive me and inevitably all leave me, still I crave their love. Love is a kind of hurting, but you crave pain when you are numb. In the depths of isolation, even false connection is desirable.


    Love is a terrible, ruinous thing when you are a beast unworthy of it. It is moth-light, burning and pale. Even when I knew better, even when I told myself that it couldn¡¯t happen, even when I told her that it shouldn¡¯t be¡­ I really couldn¡¯t help myself. I¡¯ll always take that chance. I¡¯ll never deny a charming face that speaks such pretty words.


    So really, in the end, it was all my fault when she hurt me.


    ¡­no, no that¡¯s not right. That¡¯s not how it happened. It wasn¡¯t like that, or I wasn¡¯t like that, or¡­ wait, no, these aren¡¯t¡­


    When I was a little girl, arrogant in brilliance yet so naive, I was afraid of monsters.


    I was afraid of so many monsters that you could say my very essence was a trembling, shuddering core of fear. I was afraid of the shadows on the walls and noises in the night, of things that skittered and buzzed and crept over soil. The human mind is a hotbed of primeval fears, terror evolved from instinct from a time when every night carried danger of death by hunters in the savannah.


    But monsters don¡¯t lurk in dark hallways or hide beneath your bed. Monsters hold office and pronounce laws, or stalk the streets enforcing those laws. Monsters claim the land beneath your feet and charge you for the right to breathe above it. Sometimes, monsters really do live inside your home, but they sleep in a bed like anyone else, and they lie and say they love you.


    Our world doesn¡¯t let a child stay innocent for long. You grow a little, you start to notice things, and pretty quick you learn the biggest lesson of all: there is no justice on this dying husk of a planet, only power. People don¡¯t get what they deserve, they get what they pay for.


    Millions lose their homes because thousands get greedy. A country goes to war because a politician tells a lie. Forests burn and icecaps melt because doing anything to stop it would cut into that beloved bottom line. Children are shot in the street by the institution sworn to protect them. Workers collapse on warehouse floors, denied a sip to drink. Monsters wear the faces of men, and they are senators and executives, landlords and policemen.


    And so I ask myself: what is the value of a human life? Can a life have any value at all if it is put to the subjugation and brutalization of those lives that it deems lesser? Is it wrong to wish for the death of those whose actions ruin millions?


    On the news and in callous conversation I hear it told that protest must be civilized and violence is never earned. They say that hatred is a horrid thing, but their complacency feeds greater evils. I won¡¯t apologize for hatred. Never. I hate the monsters that infest this rotting world, and I¡¯d put a bullet in each of their heads if only I had the means.


    Evil is a hydra, sprouting a new supremacist and a new magnate with every head severed, but even a hydra can die if you set the stumps alight. Love won¡¯t fuel that kind of fire. Kindness and compassion, empathy and tolerance, those can build a better world, but they won¡¯t slay the hydra standing in its way.


    Sometimes, hatred can be righteous.


    ¡­my memories, these aren¡¯t my memories. That¡¯s not my voice, I didn¡¯t say those things, but I did, but it wasn¡¯t me, not really, it¡¯s not the same me, it¡¯s¡­


    When I was a little girl, I dreamed of worlds whose wondrous sights would never grace my putrid eyes, and I seethed at the injustice of the denial of my desires.


    I read and dreamed and wished and wrote, cloaking myself in pure imagination. I escaped into every page, drawn into fantasies of distant realms and strange powers, of hidden Wonderlands waiting just beyond the rabbit hole. Oh, how I yearned for it. Oh, how it ruined me.


    If love is a lie, which I believe with all my heart and know deep within my aching bones, then love of reading, too, must be deception. What is there to love in a world which cannot be grasped by yearning fingers or seized with the strain of a wanting mind? What love can be found in the prison of a page, in mocking ink and frail pulp-sheet, which taunts and goads with flights of foolish fancy? A book is a siren, that cruel seductress, singing sweet melodies that will lure you to the shallows so you might crash against the rocks and drown beneath cold waves.


    With age comes regret, and hatred, and a terrible bitterness that infects one¡¯s every waking thought. Every year, time passing with such dreadful haste, the dream of true magic dims, crushed beneath the boot-heel of desolate, uncaring reality. No Wonderland awaits, no secret heritage or spark of power. We are, all of us, nothing. We are nothing, and our lives are pointless and they will be empty and miserable until the day our feeble brains shudder and seize as our rancid lips breathe their last. We will die, and our names will be forgotten.


    What torture, what sick joke, that we are forced to smile and laugh for all the days between birth and death lest our all too understandable melancholy offends the sensibilities of the idiots and the cowards still lying to themselves about the truth of our existence. We are labeled ill¡ªunwell, not of sound mind, deranged, mad¡ªfor voicing pain that is the only rational response¡ªhealthy, natural, obvious¡ªto the intolerable conditions of this prison of skin and synapse. We are kept trapped here, bound in chains by fellow prisoners.


    Why must our agony be prolonged? Why is it so wrong to seek relief¡ªtrue relief, permanent relief, not the damnable pills or the meaningless talks with dull-minded wardens¡ªfor one¡¯s chronic, terminal, inconsolable pain? When the last embers of our hope fade away, why must we condemn ourselves to decades of slow despair and waxing rot? Where is the mercy?


    I ask them, time and again, ¡°Why won¡¯t you let me die?¡± Their answers never satisfy.


    When I was small and not yet deadened to the very thought, I sometimes prayed. My father was religious, though more for my late mother¡¯s sake than for his own well-being or mine. I outgrew childish things quickly, dismissing Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny long before my peers, but it would be a lie to say my atheism grew from empiricism alone. How cliche, the atheist and the dead mother.


    Sometimes, in spite and desperation, I called to names beyond my father¡¯s God. Devils or demons, faerie princes or unspeakable horrors, I called to anything that I dared dream might be out there. If they would only answer, then I would listen. If they would only extend a hand, then I would grasp it. If they would only bargain, then I would sell my soul. If they would only give me the magic I needed and tear me away from this cruel little world, then I would do anything to repay that debt.


    In my moments of weakness, in bouts of frayed delusion, I whispered at nothing, hoping and dreaming that some entity out there would listen and care. With shaking hands I clutched a pillow to my chest, my teary eyes clenched shut, and with trembling lips I pleaded, ¡°Free me of this wretched flesh and I will be your slave.¡±


    I prayed a voice would whisper back and grant my desperate wish.


    ¡­another me, or, no, another piece of me. A piece of a piece of me. I am a piece of a piece of me. Pieces of pieces of pieces of her. Which one is her? Which one am I? Where¡­


    When I was a little girl, I never felt like a human being, and with age that feeling worsened and mutated.


    Or maybe it¡¯s more accurate to say that I never wanted to feel like a human being. Or maybe I desperately wanted to feel human, and resented its distance. Or maybe I felt too human, and resented its presence. I think all of those might be true, actually. I¡¯m not exactly a very consistent girl, now am I?


    ¡­am I? Where am I? Why can¡¯t I see¡­


    See, there¡¯s something really interesting about being a freaky little weirdo. There¡¯s something alienating about it, yeah, but also something really exciting and special, and I always wanted to be special. There¡¯s stuff that comes natural, for sure, little quirks and mannerisms that came from nowhere but my own crossed wires, but then there¡¯s plenty that gets played up, plenty that could have been tamped down but wasn¡¯t because it was more interesting if I embraced that role.


    Here, I¡¯ll give you an example: when I was small, I tasted chocolate and I didn¡¯t really like it. I didn¡¯t hate it, not really, and it was perfectly serviceable if you mixed it with a bit of peanut butter, but I didn¡¯t love chocolate, and that was weird. It stuck out; I stuck out. And I liked that. So the next time I told someone, I didn¡¯t say that I kinda disliked chocolate or that it wasn¡¯t really my thing, I told them I hated chocolate, hated hated hated. A lie, but only a little one, barely a lie at all. And it worked.


    Attention is a very human need. It¡¯s paradoxical, too. Sometimes you do things for the attention, and sometimes you do the very same thing and hope nobody notices, you hope nobody calls you on it. Or at least, I do. But hey, I¡¯ll say anything.


    ¡­anything, why can¡¯t I feel anything? It¡¯s all just noise and noise and noise and¡­


    I was always an odd duck, and sometimes that hurt me, but I was the obstinate type. If someone told me I shouldn¡¯t do something, couldn¡¯t do something, I¡¯d do it anyway to prove them wrong. To defy them. I¡¯m all about defiance, really, whether it be authority figures or social norms or common sense. Or myself.


    I¡¯m kind of my own worst enemy, when you get down to it. Me, myself, and I, we don¡¯t get along. Oh, sometimes we get along swimmingly, but most of the time we¡¯re trying to drown each other. It¡¯s nothing personal, it¡¯s just that I hate your guts and think you should do us all a favor by slitting those ugly wrists and pouring bleach down the disgusting hole you call a throat, but you¡¯re far too much a coward to ever even try, aren¡¯t you?


    Ha, only kidding. Only kidding. Just another little lie.


    ¡­lies, all of these memories are lies. They¡¯re lies because I¡¯m¡­


    I feel like I¡¯m talking in another language, or like there¡¯s a wall between me and everyone else that won¡¯t come down no matter how hard I try to dig under it or climb over it or hack at it with a sledgehammer. I can pretend the wall isn¡¯t there, I can smile and laugh and play the mask, but we¡¯ll never really communicate. Maybe that¡¯s the point. Maybe I¡¯m not really trying, when I claw at that wall with all my fury. Maybe those are just excuses so I can stay nice and comfy far away from all the humans. Like I¡¯m not one. What a freak.


    Maybe, if you stripped me down and flensed my skin¡ªand there¡¯s an idea, you should get on that, grab the paring knife and start hacking¡ªyou¡¯d find a mask. Just a mask. I mean, think about it: if all someone sees of you is a mask, then isn¡¯t that mask your face? If every interaction is a mask, if even the rawest and bloodiest performance is still a performance, then what difference is there between the mask and you? It¡¯s not a real difference.


    ¡­not real. I was never real. When I was a little girl I wasn¡¯t, never was, never have been, never never never¡­


    They never listen, you know. I warn them. I always warn them that I¡¯m a mess, that I don¡¯t play well with others, that it never ends well. They never listen. They think they can help, they can fix me, they can endure me. They can¡¯t. We¡¯re not the same species.


    ¡­never lived those memories, never met those people, never had those thoughts. This isn¡¯t me, because I¡¯m none of them. I¡¯m¡­


    Hey, are you even listening? You should really be paying attention. This is for your benefit, you know. I¡¯m trying to help you. I¡¯m trying to guide you. I¡¯m¡ª


    ¡ªAlice. I¡¯m Alice. I¡¯m Maven Alice, and none of these are my real memories. None of these people are me. They¡¯re copies, splinters, pieces of her. Her memories. So many memories I nearly drowned in them.


    But I don¡¯t know if I¡¯ve stopped drowning or if I¡¯m just holding my breath.


    Phantom memories barrage my mind, suffocating my senses, but I scatter them with force of will and set order to my thoughts. I am Alice, and the only memories that matter are the ones I¡¯ve made since I woke up in this terrible Labyrinth. I¡¯m, what, barely a week old? That¡¯s unpleasant, but it provides focus. Everything before that can be discarded, at least until I have space to process.


    Space might be all I have, right now. Touch and smell and sight and hearing all come back to me, freed by the banishing of the memory deluge, but I don¡¯t like what they tell me: I¡¯m underwater. I¡¯m drifting in dark water, cold water, somewhere lightless and deep. The water stings my eyes and tastes of salt and leaves me weightless.


    If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    I¡¯ve always been terrified of the ocean. It¡¯s not the water, because I can swim in any pool so long as I stifle the dysphoria and avoid the other swimmers, and it¡¯s not the ocean as a whole because I¡¯ve been to the beach without any issues. It starts in the deep ocean, in that paradoxically isolating openness, and it gets worse the further you sink. When the light of above gets caught and filtered away by detritus and depth, that¡¯s when shivers turn to real terror.


    You never know what could be lurking in those waters, just waiting to lunge from the dark and wrap around you. Horrors with needle-teeth and angler-lights, mucus-ridden flesh and overlapping scales. The awful weight of it, the pressure of all that water above you.


    So I should be panicking, right now, in these lightless, crushing depths, but all I feel is numb and confused. It¡¯s like my brain is a computer stuck in its boot cycle, sorting through hard drives for some missing component that¡¯s vital to operations. Reading files and validating them, over and over, trying to separate the chaff from the essentials.


    Electrical impulses reach my limbs and I move an arm, wave a hand in front of my face, though I can¡¯t see my hand and the motion is slowed by water resistance. I try to breathe, an instinct wildly inappropriate for the bottom of the ocean, but I don¡¯t start drowning as my lungs fill with water. My chest isn¡¯t tight, no demand for fresh air.


    Oh, right. I don¡¯t need to breathe. I haven¡¯t for some time. How much of my life have I lived without that basic human requirement? Most of it, I realize. All of it? I guess I don¡¯t know how human I really was before taking Cheshire¡¯s hand. Were any of the biological needs I felt real, or were they just simulation to deceive me?


    I keep trying to breathe, just circulating water, as digits twitch and I drift in cold darkness. Where am I? Why is this happening? This doesn¡¯t make sense.


    My head is full of memories that aren¡¯t mine, but I remember what happened before I woke up in this lightless place. I remember another dream, a vision of Reska and Homura, one full of revelations and questions about Prevara and Contrition and more, but I don¡¯t care about any of that right now.


    The Demiurge made me an offer, and I accepted. I took her deal, answered her plea, agreed to her terms. Is this the fulfillment? Is this barrage of memories and this strange watery void how I become her Intercessor?


    My quiet contemplation is interrupted by the sudden sensation of something soft and clammy wrapping around my ankle. My mind flashes to horrors of the deep, a slithering appendage of some horrible oceanic abomination, but the reality is more unsettling: it¡¯s a hand.


    I kick at it without thinking, trying to maneuver my other leg into position, but a second hand grabs that ankle and pins it in place with a grip like iron. A spike of fear runs through my brain, but with fear comes clarity; I¡¯m not a normal girl lost at sea, I¡¯m a monster all my own. I focus on the point of contact and shout the spell in my mind: [Feast or Famine]!


    Nothing happens. Not even a spark of recognition, just like the last time I tried to use it, when Nyarlathotep was pouring into my brain. I shiver at my powerlessness, alone and trapped in a lightless sea, but now I think I know whose hands are tight around my ankles. The fear is still there, but a shock of anger splices in with it.


    ¡°Demiurge,¡± I say, though no sound escapes my lips. ¡°That¡¯s you, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± her voice purrs from behind me, so close I can imagine her lips almost brushing against my ear. A second set of hands latch on, gripping my calves, and then more follow up my legs. I tense, grit my teeth, but there¡¯s nothing I can do, is there? If this is the game she wants to play, I have no choice but to put up with it. She gave me my magic, and she chooses whether it works on her or not. Without that¡­ I have nothing but my words.


    ¡°What are you doing?¡± I ask, trying my damnedest to pretend I¡¯m not unnerved by this display. Pointless, really, since she¡¯s just reading my thoughts. ¡°What is this? You promised me power, not¡­¡±


    ¡°And power I¡¯ll grant, my little glass doll, but not without a touch of ceremony.¡± Then more of her hands are grabbing at my arms and dragging my wrists together, pinning them in place in front of me. I fight back with futile effort, pushing demonic strength through my limbs to try and keep my wrists apart, but she overpowers me like I¡¯m made of paper.


    ¡°Well you can skip it!¡± I snap at her, unable to hide my trembling anxiety. ¡°I agreed to your deal! You said you needed my help. You said you didn¡¯t care about making me a priestess.¡±


    She only laughs, and then arms are wrapping around my waist and it dawns on me that all her many limbs are against my naked skin, her flesh against mine, my clothes nowhere to be found. Her doing, no doubt. She pulls me close to her, to whatever body she¡¯s using right now, something soft and warm. All her clammy limbs heat up, every bit of her growing so hot as to almost burn as she presses against me, her warmth driving away the cold of the dark ocean.


    Of all the girls to pin me down and hold me close, why this confusing goddess? I know the answer, of course, since it¡¯s the same answer that nearly broke me some minutes or hours prior: I¡¯m a copy of her, or some part of her. That doesn¡¯t really make things easier.


    I hate the power she has over me. I love the attention. I get angry when she plays games with me. I¡¯m terrified of what she¡¯d do if I tried to stop her. I don¡¯t understand her. I¡¯m not sure I want to understand, but maybe I need to.


    Her grip tightens and I¡¯m shaken into speech once more. ¡°This is¡ªyou¡¯re acting like you were before, but that was just an act, wasn¡¯t it? I saw the exhaustion on your face, you sounded broken and desperate. Was that a lie? It can¡¯t have been.¡±


    ¡°A lie is beautiful and precious,¡± the Demiurge purrs, ¡°but what you saw was real. I¡¯ve simply set that face aside for the moment; she was useful in winning your cooperation, but now I find myself bored of that personality. I¡¯ve got a new mask in my sights, or a very old one.¡±


    What does that mean? What madness goes on inside that mind?


    Her multitudinous hands crawl up my shoulders and gently squeeze my neck, then rise further to caress my cheeks and run through my hair. A finger traces down my spine. When she speaks again, her voice is right in front of me, close enough to taste. ¡°I¡¯m going to give you everything you¡¯ve ever wanted, but first we need to peel away all that dead skin clinging to your soul. You don¡¯t need it anymore.¡±


    Before I can even try to comprehend what she¡¯s talking about, hundreds of fingertips turn sharp like knives and sink into my flesh. Her nails peel my skin in strips and scraps and I scream my agony as I am torn apart.


    How can she do this if she wants me to serve her will? What point is she proving? I¡¯d thought I was finally starting to understand the Lucid Demiurge, but how can I? She humiliates me and tortures me before begging for my help, then goes right back to torment once I accept her terms. Does she even see me as a person?


    That question echoes around my head, somehow clearer and sharper than all the pain wracking my body. What am I, really, to this entity so vast and beyond me? I have to know. I have to see, even if it burns me, because I am so terribly afraid.


    She¡¯s cutting me open to make me stronger, peeling away weakness to forge a core of strength, but I¡¯m afraid. Afraid of pain, afraid of loss, afraid of the dark. Afraid of what I might become if I don¡¯t resist her sculpting.


    I tried to look on her true nature once before, in the temple garden with Cheshire, and it cost me dearly. I saw spiraling infinity and impossible colors and unthinkable images. It had felt like my eyes were being scoured, melted, boiled, burst. My demonic second sight ceased functioning as a direct consequence, scarred by the afterimage of what I had seen.


    But I wonder something: was that really the Demiurge, or just a piece of misdirection? If I¡¯m a piece of a piece of her, then is she really so far beyond my comprehension? Or was the assault on my senses just a trick to keep me from realizing her true nature before she was ready to reveal it?


    I have to know. Damn the consequences, damn the pain, I have to know.


    My extra sense was burned by the Demiurge but it¡¯s still there, waiting for me like a light switch in a dark room. I fumble a little, scrabbling in the dark, but its presence is familiar even after a stretch of disuse. I find the metaphysical switch and flip it on.


    Immediately all the pain that had been kept at a distance comes roaring to the forefront of my consciousness, a wall of agony putting itself between me and the knowledge I seek, but I won¡¯t be cowed so easily. Though it hurts like nails being driven through my eye sockets, though hideous noises and awful colors invade my senses, still I persist.


    Her eyes burn into me, gold against black like stars in a sea of darkness, but those aren¡¯t the eyes she showed me when the walls came down. I disbelieve this infinity, and just like that it shatters. Rainbow glass crashes around me, too loud and too bright, but all my attention is on what I see through the gap left behind.


    In a place outside the universe there is a room with a locked door and sterile tile flooring. Flickering light strips illuminate metal tables¡ªdozens of them, maybe hundreds¡ªthat are exactly like the autopsy tables which fill a morgue, though this room is not a place of death.


    A woman stands before an autopsy table. Her eyes are sharp and bright, her mouth is wet with blood, and her teeth gnaw on the corner of her lower lip. A dirty lab coat is open in the front, the only article of clothing she wears, but any risk of obscenity is spared by a distinct lack of flesh from neck to groin. Ribs and spine and pelvis are stained with long-dried blood, scraped of all meat except where they border limbs and head still flush with lively material.


    Her hands are busy with a project, her nimble fingers draped around two scalpels of differing sizes. She picks apart a scrap of meat, a chunk of flesh, perhaps a severed piece of some vital organ. The grisly sight is repeated across the laboratory, a bit of human detritus lying on every dissection table filling the room. Scraps of skin, mutilated muscle, quartered heart and diced lungs, some tables just stained with blood. All of them, with the exception of the live project and two more lying on the tables nearest it, are blackened as if burnt.


    The sight would discomfort a weak stomach and alarm the naive mind, but this room is not a place of death; no murder has taken place here, no evidence disposed of, no victim¡¯s body torn from its resting place by the woman with sharp eyes and sharper knives. These organs are her organs, this skin is her skin, and that blood is her blood. She is the only student of a very singular subject, and she has been drafting her thesis for a very long time.


    The woman sets down her blades and picks up the gobbet of flesh, dangling it in front of her. She smiles at it with full lips and bared teeth, though the expression never reaches her eyes. ¡°I¡¯m almost done, I know I am,¡± she speaks as much to herself as to the meat twitching in her grasp. ¡°I¡¯ve gotten it right this time, I must have. Just a little further, and I¡¯ll have the answer I¡¯ve been looking for.¡±


    The meat screams in the language of meat, shuddering and bleeding, but that¡¯s only natural; it has been ripped from its body and cut open, and so it aches as all flesh aches when trauma is applied. Flesh is so weak and fallible, is it not? There¡¯s something fascinating about the signals our mortal meat sends to try and communicate with us. We feel pain when certain stimuli are introduced, but not all pain is equal. We must learn what each kind of pain means, what it is meant to communicate, and whether it should be ignored as an overreaction by a body that does not understand the world it reacts to. With age and experience, we find that sometimes pain can even be desirable, almost rapturous. There is catharsis in pain, and that too is worthy of study.


    The meat understands little of pleasure and catharsis, of course. It only knows to send a given output when it receives the matching input, and the rest is for the brain to interpret. So it screams, yes, aching with pain, uncomprehending that it is the same flesh as that which wields the blade that carves it. The meat is as disgusting and stupid as it is beautiful and intelligent, and it is hers. It is her meat, to mutilate as she wishes, for she knows that the reward will be well worth the pain. This room is not a place of death, but of lively discovery.


    The woman drops the gobbet of flesh to splash against the cold metal table, the shock of impact triggering a new wave of reactive signals. ¡°I do hope I¡¯ve gotten it right,¡± she sighs to herself. ¡°It would be such a bother to start cutting up one of my limbs, and I¡¯ve run out of material in between.¡± She looks back at the rows and rows of tables with their burnt offerings, frowning at the blackened meat and dried blood. ¡°Perhaps I could do a bit of recycling if I scraped off the charcoal, but that¡¯s such a slippery slope. No, no, we must press on.¡±


    She picks up her scalpels and returns to her work, and as steel touches flesh the lights above flicker out and the laboratory is plunged into darkness.


    In darkness, warm hands claw at my skin and peel me apart. My blood mixes with the cold water of a deep, dark ocean. This too is not a physical space but merely a representation of some process my brain can¡¯t begin to truly understand. The meat cries out in pain as it is dissected by its owner.


    How far will she go? She doesn¡¯t see a person when she looks at me, she just sees another piece of her body. I¡¯m another scrap of her humanity to be dissected on an operating table that is a scale diorama of the universe. Reska was Love and Homura was Justice, so what does that make me? Identity?


    If she completes whatever it is she¡¯s doing to me, how much of me¡ªthis me, this self, this conscious mind¡ªwill be left? Pick the meat apart, douse it in chemicals, transmute it to another form and it is still the meat of your body. Meat has no concept of ego death. But I do.


    I can¡¯t let that happen.


    Her hands plunge inside my chest, burning hot, and through the pain and the fear I scream out, ¡°I changed my mind! The deal is off!¡±


    The Demiurge laughs. ¡°It¡¯s a little late for that, isn¡¯t it? You already made your choice. It would be quite rude of me not to fulfill my end of the bargain.¡±


    Something bright and painful is in her hands, pushing its way inside me. White heat burns my flayed body. Still I resist. ¡°It¡¯s not my choice anymore! I¡ªI didn¡¯t know the terms! It wasn¡¯t an informed choice, so you have to stop. Those were the rules, weren¡¯t they?¡±


    For a moment, for a single shuddering moment, she stops. Her questing hands freeze in place, the burning doesn¡¯t get any worse. She told me before that it has to be a choice. That Azathoth, the Dreaming Sea, and the will of thousands would reject our pact if it was forced.


    And yet a moment later she laughs once more and shoves her hands deeper inside my flesh. ¡°Informed enough.¡±


    No, no, no, no! I scream as I am unraveled, and she only laughs. Her voice, so close to me, taunting me from what must be mere inches away. Close enough to touch. Close enough to taste. Close enough¡ª


    In a fit of desperation, I jerk forward with all my strength, still caught in her ironclad embrace but able to move just enough to reach my target. My mouth finds hers and I bite as hard as I can, hard enough to draw blood. She¡¯s surprised, or maybe just uncaring, and she doesn¡¯t move away as I bite into her lip and taste her spilling blood, swallowing it down with the seawater.


    I can¡¯t use my spells against her, can¡¯t bring my magic to bear, but what does that matter? Drinking her blood is a symbolic act, and this universe runs on symbols.


    So I drink and I drink and I drink, blood and seawater mixing inside me, as her hands flay my skin and push a star inside my chest. I taste her essence, heady and overwhelming, the enormity of it threatening to drown me, but I only need a little more. Her soul invades my meat and burns out memory after memory, but those were never my memories; I discard them, sacrificed for my escape.


    I bite off a single speck of her infinity, a trillionth of a trillionth, but even the smallest infinity is still infinity. I seize that spark and flood my body with its power, limbs surging with sudden strength.


    I push away with all my might and tear myself from her grasp with shocking ease, her fingers slipping away as I am thrust deeper into the lightless ocean, surrounded by stinging seawater and blood from two bodies. For dreadful seconds I drift in that space, not trusting the nightmare to be over, no idea how to get any further away from the god-thing that has imprisoned me. I will myself deeper down into the dark, but I am terrified that her grasping hands will find me again and this time not let go. I bleed and burn, her process interrupted but the damage still lingering.


    And then, in the blink of an unseeing eye, water and blood vanish and I slam against hard ground.


    The breath is knocked from my lungs¡ªthough no seawater bubbles out of me¡ªand I spend an uncomfortable length of time just wheezing and aching, thoughts scattered by the unexpected impact. My body complains, but it doesn¡¯t scream like when the Demiurge had her hands on me.


    Shaky hands dance across my limbs, my face, beneath my shirt¡ªand I¡¯m wearing one of those again, and more, fully clothed¡ªbut find no bleeding wounds, no signs of flensing. I¡¯m not burning, either, though my chest feels oddly warm to the touch.


    I keep taking in ragged breaths, trying to steady myself. I¡¯m shaking, my whole body shuddering from fear and tension. What have I done? What will the consequences be? And where am I now?


    Wherever I am, it¡¯s still cold and dark, but I¡¯m not underwater anymore. The floor feels like stone, level and smooth. I think I¡¯m safe, for the moment, if that means anything. It probably doesn¡¯t, actually.


    All my messy emotions finally convert themselves to nervous, coughing laughter. I need to sift through all the information I¡¯ve learned, all the revelations that have piled on top of each other and threatened to bury me, but where do I even start? What do I do now? I have no idea.


    I feel like throwing up. I feel like a walking corpse. I feel like I¡¯ve got electrified wires digging into my muscles. I feel¡­ I don¡¯t know how to feel. What have I done?


    ¡°Why?¡± I whisper into the darkness. ¡°I don¡¯t understand. Why, why, why?¡±


    I¡¯ve started crying again. I clutch at my head, pulling on my hair hard enough to hurt, and I screw up my eyes to try and stop the tears. I hate this. I hate all of this so much. I don¡¯t want to do this anymore. I don¡¯t want to be in Wonderland.


    I feel so lost and lonely, but what does that even mean? I have no home to go back to, no loved ones that might miss me. I¡¯m not a real person, I¡¯m just a copy. Just a fragment. I¡¯m just a gobbet of meat being cut up in a lab.


    In the depths of my despair, as I sob on the cold stone floor, red light pierces the darkness. I shield my eyes, blinking away the disorientation, but then my brain catches up and my head snaps to look at the source: a girl with red eyes and dark hair, standing in the doorway of this stone chamber, an orb of glowing crimson levitating over one outstretched hand.


    Homura Annatar Bloodfallen smirks down at me and says, ¡°Hey there, new girl. I think you and me should have a nice, long chat. What do you say?¡±

 Garden of Memories II

    I stare at my phantom doppelganger and a question tumbles from my lips, slipping out without thought at the shock of her visage. I ask her, ¡°Are you real?¡±


    The words come out smothered and lifeless, the dead whisper of a broken, exhausted husk. Stupid question. Why even ask? I laugh, though it¡¯s more of a bark. The hideous noises that pass between my rotting lips echo off stone walls and return to my sensitive ears. I run a finger over one ear and am briefly reassured by the faintly pointed tip, but then even that sours as I wonder to what dissected piece of her I owe that senseless craving.


    The figure of Homura¡ªa specter, perhaps, or a vision bleeding into the real, or Demiurge or Emissary or whoever else wearing her face¡ªdoes not seem offended by my thoughtless question, nor does she dismiss it with a quick and pithy, ¡°Of course I¡¯m real, you mad little freak.¡±


    Instead she licks her lips, bites the corner of her mouth, and takes the question with a strange depth of contemplation. She watches me with those burning, inquisitive eyes that dart across my form before sweeping over her own. She splays both hands, the red orb sticking midair unaided, and positions her thumbs and forefingers as if to frame me for a photo.


    ¡°Are you?¡±


    The question sounds innocent, guileless, open, yet how could it be? You always were an excellent liar. She must be mocking me, laughing to herself at a punchline only she can hear. Why am I even entertaining the idea of having a conversation with this traitorous monster? After what she did to us?


    ¡°Why should we listen to a word you say? You cannot be trusted,¡± I hiss at the lying whore. My skin is itching, prickling, a tension building and burning the longer I stay here beneath her gaze, vulnerable. I push against the cold stone floor with a sudden motion, trying to rocket to my feet where I can at least die standing, but the second I put any weight on my limbs they buckle and snap like cheap twigs and I am meat and bone and blood, vivisected and screaming, just a gobbet of flesh crying out for the awful pain to finally stop.


    I shudder and heave, bile dripping from my lips, but is that real? I lift an arm, unbroken and whole, and drag trembling fingers across my mouth. No bile, no blood, just cracked skin. I am alive, and I am more than meat, I am more, I must be more, I must¡ª


    Homura¡¯s voice, low and confident and smooth, intrudes upon my fraying thoughts. ¡°You should always listen, especially if you don¡¯t trust who¡¯s speaking. I never trust; I verify. Even good liars sometimes let slip a few precious truths.¡± Her fingers are laced behind her head now, and she¡¯s grinning.


    I laugh and cough and crumple, beaten. What can I really do, anyways? Could I beat Homura at the fullness of my power? Is there any point left to resisting? Go on then, kill me. ¡°Go on then. Let¡¯s chat.¡±


    How absurd. Homura wants to chat. Homura Annatar Bloodfallen, my doppelganger, my dreaming lover, my savior and murderer, wants to chat. I am lost and alone and crumbling at the seams and here she comes wishing to chat, wishing to speak her pretty words and deceive me, but I have been warned. I was warned, in my dreams, and I haven¡¯t forgotten the warning: don¡¯t believe her lies.


    But I¡¯m still curious; how could I not be, when faced with a figure that has haunted my every resting moment since my arrival¡ªmy cruel, confusing birth¡ªin this cage of colored glass? Intercessor or Adversary, angel or devil, lover or betrayer, I need to hear her story and place her in this puzzle. I need answers. That need burns in me like the white star burned in my chest when those awful hands picked me apart and tried to put me back together. What secrets can you show me, Homura?


    I wonder if she¡¯s thinking something similar. She watches me with those burning red eyes, those eyes that have always seen too much too quickly. Her curiosity was always like a hunger, something darker and more demanding than idle interest, and she fed it like one feeds a furnace. She knows so much, and I crave that knowing for myself. And yet.


    She stretches, arcing her back, and I can¡¯t resist the way my eyes dart over her form. Her arms are toned, strong, so unlike my weak noodle limbs. There¡¯s a danger to her presence that is so easy to be mesmerized by, a casual lethality to her every movement that might make me shiver if I wasn¡¯t paralyzed with fear. With those firm hands of hers she could easily take a life, my life. She has.


    Homura crouches in front of me, holding my gaze, and says, ¡°Here¡¯s why you should hear me out: you and me, we¡¯re crabs in a bucket, and we don¡¯t have long before the water gets hot. Alone, we both go up in steam, but together we stand a chance. We need each other. We can help each other. I can help you, if you let me. You game?¡±


    You can help me if I let you. You said those words before, beneath a parasol¡¯s shade on a hill beside a castle. You promised. You lied.


    You lied and lied and lied and I loved you and I miss you and I wish that you would die¡ªthe sight of her sickens me¡ªbut those beautiful eyes make my heart ache and burn and splinter and yearn¡ªHomura, the monster of my dreams, is offering to help me¡ªHomura, Homura, Homura¡ªshe was always so compelling, like the sweetest of poisons¡ªyou lied and I believed you because I could never resist you and I¡ªand I¡ª


    ¡ªloved you, and you killed me, and that I could forgive but you lied I could be loved and like a puppy I believed you. So now I know with all my bones that you will lie to me again and I will falter and believe you till my fingers char to stumps on the pyre that you make of me, and again, and again, and again.


    Unless I pluck your lying tongue from those lips I still desire.


    She¡¯ll betray me if I let her, she¡¯ll lead me and deceive me and then she¡¯ll break me into pieces, just like before, just like always, so I have to kill her now and kill her quick before she opens that pretty mouth and hurts me one more time. I have to do this, don¡¯t I? Is there any other way?


    The shadows know. The shadows swirl around me, thick and heavy in the gloom of this unfamiliar chamber, cast into evident form by the crimson light of her cursed magic, but always present and lurking. The shadows steady me, they cradle me, they pull me to my feet. Their presence at my back, more solid and true where her red light can¡¯t reach, keeps me focused on what¡¯s in front of me. Their presence all around, come to nuzzle at my side and lick my tender fingers, goads me onward and urges me to do what must be done. The shadows love me like she never did, and they yearn to rend flesh that I once worshiped like a priestess and a whore and a fool. Oh, what a fool I was. What a fool I still am. But just a word from me, just a thought, just a whisper of permission, and they will free me from this witch.


    The red witch watches me with upturned lips, her grin almost manic, her breathing hitched. ¡°Fascinating. What are you?¡±


    I lance her with darkness through heart and throat and each and every joint, killing her like she killed me. I release my shadows like plucking a bowstring, solid night my arrows, and in thorns and spears and gnashing teeth the dark swallows Homura. I make a wish, and my murderer dies.


    Or so I vainly hope. But instead, my shadows impact nothing and tear through empty air. The light goes out, but then it flickers to life once more just behind me and I whirl to face Homura, unharmed and unbothered, her expression unchanged at the attempt on her life.


    She tilts her head, her gaze full of frenzied calculation. ¡°Fascinating,¡± she repeats, like she¡¯s just observed a new species of butterfly and yearns to puzzle out its phylogeny. Would she pluck my wings and make me scream to sate that burning hunger? I know the answer.


    What now? With racing heart and leaden tongue, I try to find my speech. I have to say something, I have to distract her so I can try again, but I can¡¯t speak. What kind of pathetic excuse for a princess can¡¯t orate? I know. I know!


    ¡°Homura,¡± I whisper, and then the pain of her name upon my lips sends a spasm through the darkness and a wave of night consumes the vision of my lover and tormentor.


    But again my shadows are denied their rightful kill. Again she escapes. How? Has the witch of glass and blood carved a third edge to her soul? Or am I just facing reflections?


    I close my eyes and let the darkness swaddle me. Through darkness I feel the shape of my surroundings, this box of simple stone, and I find that it is more than a mere box; I am in a crypt or a tomb, some place of restful death. The floor is smooth but the sides are hewn with recesses for the tender care of long-gone corpses, and as my senses expand I find halls and halls of quiet dead. This is a catacombs, someplace deep underground.


    Where am I? This doesn¡¯t feel like my family¡¯s castle. Where¡­ how did I get here?


    The question drives a nail of pain into my skull, and I wince at the sudden splitting headache. Confusion and pain mingle and each question brings more questions, a veritable flood of them. What am I doing here? What was I doing before? What¡­ what day is it? Why do my memories feel so¡­ so¡­


    The red light of Homura pulses in the dark halls beyond this chamber. Her voice carries to me from deeper within the catacombs, transmitting easily through my web of shadows. ¡°If you¡¯ve gotten the violence out of your system, I¡¯d love to ask you some detailed questions. I can even trade intel for intel, if that suits you better, or suits the face before.¡±


    Anger cuts through confusion and pushes out pain. No questions, no talking, only ending this threat before it can hurt us. Us?


    I cling to fury and call the shadows to swirl about me and move me through the halls of the catacombs faster than I could run. I hunt her, chasing that cursed red light. If I can only corner her, then maybe¡­


    ¡°Try this one on for size,¡± her voice calls from so daringly close.


    Shadows pierce the source of the sound, clawing at the red-eyed figure holding the red-glowing orb, but the light goes out before I see her bleed and a moment later she¡¯s somewhere else, still talking.


    ¡°You were Veseryn when you arrived, I¡¯m sure of that, but now you¡¯re unmistakably Kiana. How? Who are you, really? Or are you, really?¡±


    Confusion fights back against anger. What is she talking about? Who is Veseryn? Who is Kiana? Distraction. Distracting us! I chase her through the catacombs as she flickers in and out of my vision every time I get close. Throwing us off, tricking us, all so she can murder us again like she murdered us, murdered us, murdered us!


    Her face, just in front of mine, those beautiful burning eyes and that twitching smirk. ¡°Who are you, princess?¡±


    I swipe my hand through the apparition, tears streaking down my cheeks, and I cry at her, ¡°I am Reska Shadowsun, and I am the monster that you made me!¡±


    Her voice behind me. ¡°Are you, really?¡± A spear of night, her flickering orb. ¡°It¡¯s a genuine question.¡± An explosion of darkness, her form unharmed. ¡°I can¡¯t see outside the confines of this quaint little construct, but I remember what I did to that pretty little princess.¡± Running and crying and lashing out at a phantom that just won¡¯t die. ¡°Do you? Do you remember what I did to you, Reska?¡± She laughs.


    I chase her¡ªshe leads me¡ªinto another stone chamber, grander than before, a monument to time and death and memory. The walls are lined with corpses, preserved and decorated, and the ceiling is patterned. She appears in the center of the room, her red orb illuminating only the plain stone around her, and I am struck with revulsion for the crudeness of her craft.


    With a whisper of will I bring stars to the underground. My magic lights the chamber with beautiful blues and greens and purples, pale and shimmering and wondrous. I see the dead buried here, and I see the intricate spirals painted and carved upon the ceiling. This is true light. This is true craft.


    I stay by the walls, unwilling to step closer and seemingly unable to bring an end to my ruinous foe. Is this all a form of torture? Is she making me feel helpless so I¡¯ll return to her side?


    The red orb vanishes, unneeded now, and the witch bites her lip as she admires my starlight. ¡°I wonder¡­ ah! Let¡¯s try a trigger phrase and see what happens.¡± She meets my gaze, those crimson eyes boring into me even from across the room, and she asks, ¡°Tell me, girl who stands before me: do you know regret?¡±


    I gasp as those words slam into me like a fist to my gut, that splitting headache from before getting worse and worse and¡ª


    ¡ªthere¡¯s a monster, a stretched thing, scarred and misshapen, and it asks me a question with a voice that is choral and beautiful and hideous. I get smart with it. It doesn¡¯t like that. I lie to it. It really doesn¡¯t like that. Then, the violence¡ª


    ¡ªI watched you, frozen and horrified, as your nails drew blood from your palms and you laughed at the pain as you told me¡ª


    ¡ªit battered me and nearly broke me, but I killed it and I lived and I remembered that question, and then I dreamed¡ª


    ¡ªI dug my nails into my palms, that little act of self-harm steadying me as I looked back, as I laughed at the emotions still raw a world away, and I peeled apart my mask and I told you: the only thing I ever regretted was not killing the old man when I had the chance¡ª


    ¡ªand in my dreams the princess told me that her killer once asked her, ¡°Do you know regret?¡± She told me that she drowned in it. It made her a demon, and that demon is the girl I have to save, but she¡¯s not me, she¡¯s not me and I¡ª


    ¡°Oh, my darling Creator, what madness have you wrought this time?¡± The witch¡¯s voice is full of wonder and amusement and it drags me back to myself, away from the awful din inside my head and those people that aren¡¯t me, can¡¯t be me, because I am Reska and no one else. She¡¯s closer now, watching me with naked fascination, those scarlet eyes sparkling and that lovely mouth smiling, and my shadows come swarming in to shield me from her gaze.


    But the shadows can¡¯t hide me. The stars are gone, my beautiful creation banished, and all is lit in the baneful glow of Homura¡¯s red orb. She¡¯s close to me, so close it makes my heart beat faster and my head swim, and she¡¯s got a strand of my hair between her fingers. She¡¯s playing with my hair, twirling it gently, like she used to when we were alone together.


    My hair is wrong. The color is off, the aberrant tones visible even in this rough lighting. It¡¯s not the pale blonde I¡¯m used to, not that clear sun-kissed color, but a dirty blonde stained with dark brown, like darkness infecting sunlight.


    ¡°What have you done to me?¡± I whisper in horror. ¡°What wicked spell did you cast? Why would you take that from me? Was everything else not enough?¡± I can feel the tears starting to fall, and my heart is cold and hollow.


    Homura laughs and lets my hair fall from between her fingers. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, princess,¡± she drawls like it¡¯s nothing, like I¡¯ve just spilled a bit of jam on a tablecloth. ¡°I¡¯m trying to figure this out, and I think I¡¯ve almost got it. We can at least rule out you being the real Reska, if you don¡¯t remember being Contrition. I lodged that curse deep, deep inside her brain.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m real,¡± I whisper, but somehow it doesn¡¯t sound sincere. What curse?


    My headache is back, and worse. It¡¯s a throbbing pressure inside my skull, like someone is pounding on the walls and screaming to be let out. And a voice, whispering in my ear that you are not real and you are not her and we are all just shards and copies wearing other faces so let me out and give me back my fucking body before¡ª


    Homura kisses me on the lips, hard and hot and forceful, and she tastes like I remembered, and when she moves away she steals my breath and I look up at her with love and hate and pain, and she asks me, ¡°Do you even know who you are?¡±


    And then I unravel, because I love her and I miss her and I wish that she would die¡ªthis hateful killer that haunts my dreams¡ªbut those beautiful eyes make my heart ache and burn and splinter and yearn¡ªthis pretender to my name¡ªHomura, Homura, Homura¡ªa failed experiment speaking to another, two dolls that think they¡¯re more than what I made them¡ªand I know that she¡¯ll lie to me and I¡¯ll believe her and I¡¯ll burn in her embrace, and I don¡¯t know what that means or what that makes me¡ªa girl I¡¯ve never met and a girl I¡¯ve never been¡ªand more and more I don¡¯t know who¡ª


    ¡ªI am.


    But I do know who I¡¯m not.


    ¡°Welcome back, Veseryn,¡± the phantom purrs at me, the taste of her lips still burning on mine. I wonder, is it narcissism to enjoy a kiss from your clone?


    Not that I enjoyed it, obviously. I mean, well, okay, I did enjoy it, clearly, but only because of Reska. It was nothing to do with my desires, I lie as easily as breathing.


    ¡°My name is Alice,¡± I snap aloud to mask my internal strife. ¡°Maven Alice, remember the name. Not Reska, not Kiana, not¡ªwait, what¡¯s so interesting? What did I say?¡±


    The might-be-Homura¡¯s eyes are lit up with interest, orange swirling with red, and she licks her lips at my question. ¡°Your name is M. Alice? Did I hear that right?¡±


    I fight back a blush of embarrassment. Damn my past self! ¡°Yes, I named myself Malice, don¡¯t¡ª¡±


    She howls with laughter. ¡°Oh, love, what have you done?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not your love!¡±


    ¡°Oh, I know,¡± she says with a returning smirk. ¡°And you know that too, now that your head¡¯s on right. Or is that wrong? Am I speaking to the real you, or is M. Alice just another rattling splinter?¡±


    I flinch at the implication. I¡¯m real, I must be real, I¡¯m the only one that¡¯s real and anyone else that says they¡¯re me can shut the hell up and get out of my head. But saying that isn¡¯t going to make me sound particularly sane, so instead I say, ¡°We¡¯re all splinters of the divine vivisector, are we not? I¡¯m the true and original resident of this particular cut of meat, if that¡¯s what you¡¯re asking.¡±


    ¡°Wonderful! Yes, yes, yes!¡± Homura claps her hands together and rubs them gleefully, her childlike excitement at gross odds with everything I remember about the smooth-talking murderer. ¡°If you¡¯re in the know about our darling Creator, that makes this next part a lot easier. Now we can have a proper conversation about¡ªoh, oh really? Are you really going to interrupt me on exactly that line?¡±


    In the middle of her chatter, every corpse in the ossuary wakes up.


    Cold blue light pierces the red-stained gloom from a hundred desiccated eyes. The corpses interred within the walls of the grand chamber shudder and twitch, their creaking limbs and withered digits convulsing as if electrified. I stumble away from the nearest wall before the quickest of the dead can rise from their rest, my brain immediately flushed with raw animal fear.


    My mind races with dire imagination, stricken by haunting visions of inevitable decay. Their flesh is gray and shadowed, made monstrous and unknowable by the dim glow of enchanted eyes, but I catch glimpses of peeling skin and yellowed bone, of muscles long atrophied and hair all matted. They are rot and ruin and creeping death, my childhood nightmares come to kill me.


    Flight instinct kicks in and I try to run, but a flash of weakness¡ªmeat on a cold slab of stainless steel, the scalpel sinking deeper¡ªslams me to my hands and knees in the center of the room. I gasp for breath, heart racing, vision blurry, and the dead keep rising.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    Homura¡ªor the thing pretending to be Homura¡ªdoes not share my panic. She rolls her eyes, unmoved even as the walking dead begin to crowd her and block the exits. She says, ¡°This is unbelievable, and by unbelievable I mean COMPLETELY BELIEVABLE from your dramatic ass. I¡¯m not giving this scene any dignity, Pom-Pom.¡±


    Pom-Pom??? Who is she talking to???


    The blas¨¦ absurdity of her speech shocks me out of my blind, unthinking terror. I force my shivering limbs to push me to my feet, standing tall and straight.


    Whatever these freaks are and whoever sent them, I¡¯m the bigger monster. They¡¯re just zombies! I¡¯m way too strong to die to trash mobs like these.


    ¡°Voracious Heart!¡± I hiss, and this time I don¡¯t even get a pair of brackets for my trouble. My beating heart stays lodged firmly in my chest, my blood does not stir, and my shadow does not slither up my skin. There¡¯s not even a whisper of a suggestion that the spell was once carved deep into the wood grain of my soul. Its name is just noise.


    That¡¯s bad. That¡¯s very bad. Why is this happening to me?


    You told her to free Cheshire. Do you see a Cheshire? Do you feel a Cheshire? She was the core of that spell.


    Right. Cheshire is gone, and she¡¯s never coming back, and we don¡¯t have the luxury of processing that right now because I hear more zombies shuffling in from the outer halls and my cool shapeshifting blood armor spell isn¡¯t working. That¡¯s fine! I have more tricks! Bugs are good against dead things, right?


    ¡°Carrion Heart!¡± I command, holding out a hand into which my bug-in-amber artifact very definitively does not appear. ¡°Carrion Swarm? Oh, fuck.¡±


    I rapidly cycle through every spell in my arsenal, chanting them in my mind, but none of them respond. I can¡¯t conjure anything from my throne world, either, not even Vorpal. I¡¯ve got nothing. I¡¯m powerless.


    And the zombies keep shuffling in, forming a wall of dead meat that gets more and more impenetrable the longer I struggle with my worthless magic. They would barely qualify as speed bumps to my fully-powered war form, but without my spells or my armory they¡¯re a rising tide of death and dread.


    My only solace is that Homura seems more interested in the zombies than in my fumbling with spell names. She frowns at one of them, leaning in close and making that camera frame gesture with her hands again. She says, ¡°The work of another Veseryn, how strange. Is that this loop¡¯s true gimmick?¡±


    I bark another awkward laugh, standing terror-stricken in the heart of the ossuary. ¡°What are you talking about? Who or what is a Veseryn?¡±


    ¡°A reckless coward and a clever fool,¡± Homura quips, and then the necromancer makes her debut.


    The second Veseryn is a woman I¡¯ve seen once before, reclining on her throne as a glass monster pronounced judgment, and though that glimpse was brief and I had much else to occupy my attention, it¡¯s hard to forget a face split down the middle like that. The cold blue light in her empty eye socket is the same light that burns in all her fresh thralls, the same blue as gleams in her undamaged eye and paints her plump lips even as half those lips shrivel away into torn skin and exposed bone. Her teeth are perfect and bloody, and her platinum hair is styled as if her exposed skull was just the shaven half of a side cut.


    Lord Urna, Noble of the Labyrinth, strides through her court of corpses with chin upturned and spine like an iron rod. The waking dead turn hungry at her arrival. They all turn to face their mistress, and the nearest reach out with grasping hands in what could be mistaken for religious rapture until those hands grope beneath the fabric of her sheer monochrome dress. The dead make no distinction between the luscious, shapely half of her body and the skeletal, gore-dripping half; they grab at all parts of her with desperate, shivering need.


    Urna barely acknowledges their presence as they feel up every inch of her body, though her smile is satisfied and indulgent, until that smile suddenly drops and her skeletal arm lashes out to grab a zombie¡¯s face. Her choice seems random, seizing not the zombie with a hand between her legs nor the corpse leering at her chest but instead just one of several that were admiring her shapely and fleshless limbs.


    She crushes its head like an overripe grape, squeezing until the whole thing is a mess of pulverized bone and leaking brain, and then she tosses it aside and it smears across the stone. The mass retreats, their lustful hunger spoiled, and then one by one they all turn their heads to look at me.


    ¡°The fail state of a Veseryn,¡± Homura chatters while all that is going on, the phantom uncaring and seemingly unheard. ¡°A few too many bad deals and bad decisions, so now she¡¯s a slave on a very complicated leash.¡±


    Prevara¡¯s leash. The glass shard. The Emissary¡¯s next assassin.


    Urna takes a step forward, her horde now parting for her and pressing against the walls to keep away from their capricious ruler. Her lips curl as she looks me up and down, her one good eye narrowing, and then with an angry huff and crossed arms she demands, ¡°Why do none of you wretched imitators ever fix your tits!?¡±


    What?


    I stare at her. ¡°What?¡± Am I crazy? Did she really just say that? ¡°Seriously, what? Why is that the first thing you say to me?¡±


    ¡°Because your ugly little mosquito bites aren¡¯t doing anything for me,¡± she leers, ¡°and I¡¯m going to have to fix them before I can get off on ravishing your reanimated corpse, vampy. The face needs work too, don¡¯t get me wrong, but that¡¯s what masks are for. I swear, do the rest of you just like being hideous? Why am I the only splinter with taste?¡±


    Homura gnaws on her lip as she circles Urna, weaving through the space between necromancer and zombies with casual ease. She muses, ¡°Not a typical Veseryn trait. Part of the leash, or independent variable?¡±


    I blink, like, twelve times in a row. Is this how computers feel when they bluescreen? I feel like a professional boxer just punched me in the nose. Why this? Why now? I just want to go curl up under a mountain of blankets but fine, whatever, let¡¯s engage with the insane necrophile clone. ¡°Splinters and the rest of you,¡± I babble, just trying to get my brain restarted, ¡°means you¡¯re like me? You¡¯re an Alice?¡±


    The monster sneers. ¡°Am I ¡®like you,¡¯ mosquito girl? I¡¯m better than you. I¡¯m smarter and more dangerous and much, much more attractive. You¡¯re an Urna knockoff, get it right.¡±


    Homura covers a laugh, but then she¡¯s talking rapidly in my direction. ¡°Listen: Veseryn always loses her name or her phylactery¡ªa ring, always a ring¡ªand that¡¯s what makes her a thrall. That¡¯s your leverage.¡±


    Her words are a lightning bolt that sends me back to the very first day of my journey¡ªof my existence¡ªwhen I sold my name to a faerie huntsman. A reckless coward and a clever fool¡­ yeah, that¡¯s me. I am Veseryn, and Homura knows exactly what that means. We need to talk to her. We need to learn her secrets. But first we need to survive our first real encounter with another splinter.


    Urna, unable to hear Homura¡¯s commentary or read my internal dialogue, watches me watch her in silence. She doesn¡¯t seem to like the silence. Urna takes a step closer, then another, and she sneers, ¡°Are you plotting another scheme, lamprey? I¡¯ve been watching you. I know your games. Whatever you think you can do to get out of this, you¡¯re wrong. Surrender and I¡¯ll kill you clean.¡±


    I almost laugh at her. She thinks I¡¯m dangerous. She thinks I¡¯m plotting. Or maybe she¡¯s just wary of the overgod in my corner. Okay. Leverage, we have leverage. Mask on, veins of ice. ¡°Prevara stole your phylactery¡ªthe ring that makes you immortal,¡± I guess with false confidence. ¡°I can free you from those chains,¡± I lie to the insane necromancer with a smile on my face and open palms spread wide.


    Urna¡¯s advance falters, on the back foot for the first time in this conversation. She bought the bluff. Her face twists with longing and distrust. ¡°What can a slave offer a slave? The Demiurge could free me at her whim, but she whims it not. There will be no freedom for any of us until the Resurrection, when the Leviathans tear that pretender from her throne.¡±


    Homura rolls her eyes from right behind the necromancer Noble. ¡°She¡¯s dumb or desperate. That way ends in fire.¡±


    I choose my next words carefully. ¡°I am not God¡¯s hunting dog, if that¡¯s what you think. Nor do I trust the Emissary¡¯s plans to lead to anything but annihilation for all of us. Victory¡ªsurvival, even¡ªrequires that I kill Prevara. When I do, I¡¯d rather take you as a partner than as a pet. But you don¡¯t want to be my enemy, Urna.¡±


    The necromancer lifts her hands to the fur mantle around her shoulders, and then she closes her living eye and the ghost-light dims. She lets out a heavy, tired breath, and for a moment I see exhaustion written on that half-dead face. But then she smiles, wicked and sinful, and when she opens her eyes they are full of hunger.


    ¡°I¡¯ve killed us twice already, lamprey. I like my chances for a triple.¡±


    She lunges for me, fleshless hand outstretched to shatter my skull. Panic devours me and I grasp at spells I can¡¯t call and weapons I can¡¯t conjure, paralyzed and powerless.


    She¡¯s going to kill me. She¡¯s going to kill me and there is absolutely nothing I can do to stop her. I don¡¯t want to die here. I don¡¯t want to die in this horrible, wretched, miserable Labyrinth. I don¡¯t want to be here at all.


    Anywhere but here. Anywhere but Wonderland.


    Urna reaches out to kill me and I lurch back, my terror reaching a final crescendo, and then the air between us shatters like glass. Reality breaks, the world is sundered, and when I blink my eyes I¡¯m tripping over my own feet on an ordinary sidewalk with no sign of the living dead.


    I stumble backward into a brick wall and get the breath knocked from my lungs, but I¡¯m not dead. I slump against the wall, gasping and wheezing, and I try to slow my racing heart. No Urna and no zombies¡ªno Homura either¡ªand no idea where I am or how I got here.


    I scan my surroundings and see brickwork, glass, wood, and stone. The sun beats down on me, hot and uncomfortable. Buildings, squat and tall and all between, an urban forest. Wispy clouds, a bright blue sky. A city, vast and sprawling. Sunlight glinting off a glass tower that pierces the blue heavens. A sun, burning in the sky.


    There is a sun in the sky. Why is there a sun in the sky?


    The glass tower, that¡¯s the tower, the heart of the Labyrinth, but the Labyrinth doesn¡¯t have a sun and those clouds should be floating islands. That tower should be black as pitch, not radiant in the light of an alien sun. The tower¡­ it¡¯s like it was in Reska¡¯s age. The tower before it blackened, before the world broke and the sun went away.


    Where am I? When am I? This must be a dream, but I don¡¯t feel like I¡¯m dreaming.


    I pick myself off the ground and glance around my more immediate surroundings. There are people here, just like you¡¯d see in any city, but I wonder if they¡¯re real. None of them have reacted to my sudden appearance, but I guess that doesn¡¯t mean much in a world where magic is everywhere. The city doesn¡¯t look as modern as Sanctuary, and the people are dressed to match, but I can¡¯t really place a specific era or region they¡¯re emulating.


    They¡¯re probably figments. I could just ask them if they¡¯re real. It doesn¡¯t really matter either way.


    It doesn¡¯t. But I want to see it. Even if it means feeling the burning shadow of the Demiurge again, I want to take that risk and open my sight. I want to prove I still can. And hey, maybe seeing her true form¡ªthat gruesome, smiling cadaver¡ªbanished the clouds from my secret eyes.


    I close my eyes, breathe deep, and focus on my vision like I have a dozen times before. My soul sight, my demonic sixth sense which paints the world in paper and ink and reveals the depths of desirous souls. I reach for the switch.


    Nothing happens. No paper, no ink, no insight. No metaphysical switch to flip. I open my eyes to the same world of light and color, the world as everyone sees it.


    I¡¯m not a demon anymore.


    It¡¯s a cold, hollow thought. I should have known it from the moment I lost my magic, but I was in denial. My spells lacking presence, the contents of my throne world unresponsive, my second sight denied me, all because of the simple and obvious fact that I am not a demon. I haven¡¯t been a demon since I was spat out in those catacombs.


    I made a deal with Nyarlathotep and now I¡¯m paying the price. I bargained away my Cheshire and my powers for the promise of something bigger, and then I tried to run from the consequences¡­ but how do you run away from the lord of the universe?


    I laugh darkly and lean against the brickwork. I thought I¡¯d gotten away, but obviously that was a stupid, absurd notion. She probably let me escape, and let me bite her, and let me think she hadn¡¯t already done everything she wanted to do to me.


    She took everything I had as a demon, and in return she gave me, what, a bunch of voices in my head? That teleport trick was certainly one of her gifts, but I don¡¯t have the slightest clue how to activate it on purpose. When I was Reska, I could use her shadow magic, but I was also drowning in her grief and rage and longing. I can¡¯t make use of those powers if it means losing myself to some wailing waif.


    My hands are trembling, so I clench them into fists. I hate this. I hate what she¡¯s done to me. I don¡¯t want those other girls living in my brain. I refuse to cede control of my body. She¡¯s planted horrible seeds inside my head and I refuse to let them sprout. I will pull those fuckers out by the roots and throw them at her feet.


    And then you¡¯ll die, because right now they¡¯re the ones with real magic.


    I hiss and drag my nails across my arm. Then I¡¯ll steal their magic first! I¡¯ll make every ounce of it mine, and then I¡¯ll do the same to God herself and rule this whole wretched world! My laughter is wild and desperate, eyes wide, needing so badly to scream my hate. If all I am is just meat beneath her knife then I will crawl my way up that slender arm and burrow inside her soulless eyes. I will make my hate a sword and that sword will take her life and we will call that justice.


    But is that really you? Or is that Homura?


    Ice pours down my back. These are my thoughts, aren¡¯t they? Aren¡¯t those my desires? I¡¯m still Alice, no matter what that monster did to me. Aren¡¯t I?


    I need to get away from this. I need space. I need clarity. I need a goal. We need to survive. How do we survive?


    First step: orientation. We¡¯re in a city both familiar and unfamiliar, and we need to acquire more data before we can make any kind of decision about our next steps. We no longer have access to soul sight, but we can still gather information the old-fashioned way.


    I step out into the street, clear my throat, and ask, ¡°Can anyone help me? I appear to be lost.¡±


    Most of the passersby ignore me, a point for their realism, but one of them stops in her tracks and looks my way with a concerned expression before hurrying over. ¡°You¡¯re lost? Do you know where you want to get to?¡±


    She is ruddy-cheeked and curly-haired, with warm eyes and a patterned sundress. I dislike her cheerful demeanor, so I give her a pleasant smile. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I don¡¯t have the slightest idea where I¡¯m meant to be going, nor where I¡¯ve come from, nor where I appear to be.  I¡¯m very lost, you see.¡±


    The pedestrian laughs cutely. ¡°Oh, well that¡¯s perfectly natural. You¡¯re in a place where lost things come to be found, after all. This is Fata Morgana, the city of glass and dreams.¡±


    Fata Morgana, why do I feel like I should recognize that name from somewhere? There¡¯s an uncanny sense of recognition, but that recognition is tinged with head pain. If it¡¯s trapped in Reska¡¯s memories, I¡¯m fine not knowing. ¡°You get a lot of lost things here, then?¡± I ask instead.


    ¡°Oh, now more than ever, thanks to the war.¡± Her smile drops, eyes filling with a deep and unspeakable sorrow. ¡°With each kingdom that Queen Shadowsun razes, there are fewer places left for the survivors to take refuge. Soon enough we¡¯ll be the last sanctuary in the world.¡±


    Shadowsun. We know that name. When I was¡­ possessed by Reska? Living her shadow? Channeling her? I don¡¯t understand the specifics, but we can figure that out later. When I was Reska, she called herself Reska Shadowsun. This is her world, her past. Her apocalypse.


    The stranger¡¯s expression brightens after a moment. ¡°Oh, but we¡¯ve helped so many people adjust to life here in the city. We¡¯re all so happy to perform our sacred duty, truly.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s nice.¡± I look to the tower again, shielding my eyes from the blinding light. ¡°That tower, is that the tower of the Lady Katoptris? I think I¡¯ve heard tales of this place, now that I see it in person. If one wished to meet the Lady of Glass and beg her advice, how would they?¡±


    She blinks at me owlishly. ¡°The tower? Oh, that old thing isn¡¯t open to the public anymore. But that¡¯s okay, there¡¯s really nothing in there worth seeing. It¡¯s been a long time since the Lady had the energy to entertain guests.¡± Her tone is sympathetic yet pitying, like someone talking about a relative with dementia. ¡°But if you want to sightsee, I¡¯m sure I can help you out!¡±


    ¡°Sightsee?¡± I frown.


    ¡°Mhm! I can take you to a nice theater putting on The Garden of Dying Flowers tonight, or to a gambling house that serves the best drinks. If you¡¯re hungry, I know a dozen eateries within easy walking distance. Please, I¡¯d love to help you take advantage of everything your lovely city has to offer. Just forget that boring eyesore.¡±


    I remember this, too, from my dreams. Homura told me about her time in the city and our experiences with its inhabitants. The figments of this place are lotus-priests, obstacles designed to keep you from the tower and its Lady.


    That makes this woman another figment, her smiling face a wooden mask. Her hospitality is poisoned, though the poison is surely sweet. She¡¯ll say and do whatever is necessary to keep me from the tower.


    Well, at least our next step is obvious. If oppositional defiant disorder has taught me anything, it¡¯s that I should always go where I¡¯m least wanted. Honestly, if I stop and think about it, Katoptris is the one voice in all this mess that I haven¡¯t really heard from. Well, her and the Adversary, but I don¡¯t exactly have her home base in visible walking distance.


    ¡°All the same,¡± I say to the figment, ¡°I think that tower is where I¡¯m needed.¡±


    She purses her lips. ¡°Miss, do you need to be needed? I¡¯m not sure that¡¯s what you really want. Do you know what it is that you want? Fata Morgana can help with that.¡±


    What an ugly question. What do I want? Why would I tell you that? Why would I know that? Love, justice, identity, answers, none of those things matter. I want to not die, I guess, but I¡¯m not telling her that. ¡°I want to speak with Katoptris. I keep hearing her name on everyone¡¯s lips, and she might be able to help me. Maybe I can help her. Maybe that¡¯ll fix your eyesore.¡±


    She sighs. ¡°I doubt it. Wouldn¡¯t you rather take a rest? I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve had a very hard journey. The Lady can wait another night.¡±


    Ha. Of course I want to rest. I¡¯m exhausted, mentally and physically, and I want to lie down for a week without getting up. But by then, the world might have ended. ¡°I can rest once I¡¯ve spoken with the Lady. Thank you, really, but I insist. I can sightsee later.¡±


    She smiles at me like I¡¯m a fool, but she doesn¡¯t try to stop me. ¡°Of course. I do hope you find what you¡¯re looking for.¡± She bows and returns to her walk, off to play out the rest of her artificial routine.


    I start walking.


    The other figments don¡¯t get in my way, though a few reach out every block or so offering to help me or feed me or show me a good time. I ignore them all, my mood souring with each pleasant voice.


    These figments belong to Prevara, my enemy. They might be the same figments that Homura encountered when she visited the city, when she sought Katoptris and learned the ugly truth about why this world¡¯s precious Lady vanished from their prayers. Prevara did something to Katoptris, though I don¡¯t know what, and has been trying to cement her control¡ªor its, or theirs, I¡¯m not really sure¡ªover Katoptris and the world around the tower. First the figments that watch the city, then the Beasts of the Labyrinth¡­ and at least one figment of Sanctuary.


    Lena. My chest tightens at the memory of the cute girl who flirted with me and offered up her neck. I wanted to know her, but Prevara used her to taunt me. Not that she was real to begin with. I know that she wasn¡¯t real.


    No one real would ever like me.


    I curl my lip. Are you really getting sad over this? You¡¯re pathetic. You knew it was too good to be true, both times. You have no one to blame but yourself for getting attached to them. You should be used to being alone.


    I know, but that doesn¡¯t mean I want to hear it. I wanted to enjoy myself. I wanted a fantasy. Don¡¯t I deserve something for all the pain?


    Of course I don¡¯t. Pain doesn¡¯t buy pleasures. It¡¯s just pain.


    I force out a heavy breath and run my hands through my hair. I hate being alone with my thoughts, if you can really call this alone. That¡¯s another thing I hate. Hate, hate, hate. Is that the Homura in me, or is that just me?


    What does that even mean? What does ¡°you¡± mean? You¡¯re a copy. You¡¯re a splinter, like the others. Your memories aren¡¯t yours, your personality isn¡¯t yours, nothing is yours. All just fractal lenses. What are you, if not the same as them?


    Maybe I¡¯m a fail state, like Homura called Urna. I mean, I keep failing.


    I failed with the fae, I failed with the imp, I failed at being a demon, and I failed at finding love. Maybe failure is the piece of her that she carved off when she made me. Gobbet Failure. Gobbet Loser. The little gobbet that couldn¡¯t.


    I trudge through the streets of an alien city with heavy limbs and heavier thoughts. The sun beats down on my body like hammer blows, the heat so oppressive I feel buried in it. I am gristle on steel, baking beneath a lamp. I am a half-dead thing, stillborn yet moving.


    And I¡¯m afraid. I¡¯m lost and afraid and a failure. Loathing and fear swirl around my head and gestate greater evils. I know this dark spiral, it¡¯s carried me down to the pit of despair so many times before, but most of those memories aren¡¯t really mine.


    She gave me those memories. She gave me this disease. She made me weak and small and now she¡¯s laughing at how pathetic I am. I feel empty like a shattered cup.


    The smell of warm pastries alerts me to an altogether different emptiness: hunger, boiling in my stomach. A cold, clinical part of my brain overrides the darkening malaise.


    Insufficient intake of food and water impairs normal function and accelerates negative ideation. We should eat.


    Right. I haven¡¯t eaten or drank anything in some number of hours, and I might be operating on human biology again. Eat, drink, then ideate.


    It isn¡¯t hard to find a place to eat, several of them within immediate eyesight as soon as I start looking. Cafe, restaurant, eatery, etc, all of them open for business and highly aromatic. I doubt they¡¯ll even care I don¡¯t have money, just like in Sanctuary, if this place really is one giant lotus-eater trap.


    I wander to the nearest shop, not really paying attention to details, but then I stop before the door, staring at my reflection in the window.


    The pointy ears are still there, and the teeth, and the pale skin. The hair is longer by a few inches and dirty blonde instead of dark, but that¡¯s not really the change I¡¯m stuck on; my eyes are different. My left eye is bright red, just as I remade it, but my right eye has turned golden and cat-like. It¡¯s Cheshire¡¯s eye. I¡¯ve traded my right eye for Cheshire¡¯s.


    What does that mean? What have you done, Demiurge?


    It¡¯s unnerving seeing myself with my kinda-ex-girlfriend¡¯s eye, but if I¡¯m being honest with myself it barely breaks the top three weirdest things I¡¯ve seen today. I don¡¯t know how I feel about it, but I can live with it.


    My outfit changed too, which I¡¯d sort of passively noticed earlier but not actually examined. Red sneakers, faded blue jeans, and a black t-shirt with the words ¡°KISS ME KILL ME¡± written in bold red. I feel naked without a jacket. My heart locket is there too, the anatomical heart I enchanted what feels like ages ago. Wonder if it still works.


    The outfit is a stark change from the dark gothic aesthetic that I¡¯ve been trying to cultivate, but it feels right in a way the schoolgirl getup definitely didn¡¯t. Honestly, aside from the locket, it seems like the kind of thing I¡¯d wear normally, much more than what I¡¯ve been wearing since playing demon. Or, well, normal for the girl I¡¯m based on, I guess.


    ¡°A piece of a piece of me,¡± I mutter bitterly at my reflection. ¡°Is this the new us?¡±


    If I rejected everything about me that tasted like her, what would be left that feels like me? I haven¡¯t been my own person for even a single second of my miserable existence. If I tried to be the opposite of everything she made me to be, would that Alice be someone new? Or would the very act of inversion keep me defined by her labels? What does freedom mean?


    I reach out and touch my reflection, an absent gesture, but when the glass starts to ripple I jerk my hand back¡ªor try to.


    The hand in the mirror is grabbing mine.


    My reflection is different, still recognizable but now altered and horrific. Her skin is sickly and flaking and terribly cold, her grip like iron. Her eyes are icy blue, blue like Urna¡¯s, and her mouth is stitched shut.


    The corpse that looks like me jumps out of the mirror and tackles me to the ground. I scream and try to fight her off but she¡¯s got both my wrists and I¡¯m not a demon anymore, my strength is frail and human and laughably underdeveloped.


    She keeps me pinned with her knees and one arm, freeing her other hand to pull a knife. A simple blade, clean and lethal. It¡¯ll do the job.


    And then, before I can even think to try and call up my new magic and teleport away, two beastly claws grab the corpse by the shoulders and fling her away from me.


    A familiar face stares down at me¡ªone blue eye, one red¡ªand offers a hand to help me up. My gaze flits over rippling muscle and patches of fur and scale. Changed. A stranger.


    ¡°Name¡¯s Cheshire,¡± the changeling introduces herself with a grin. ¡°I¡¯m your new bodyguard.¡±

 Garden of Memories III

    Two monsters test their mettle within a city that doesn¡¯t exist. Flagstones crack, the air shudders, and shadows thicken. And I, unharmed and harmless, vulnerable and frail, am left with thoughts that idly twist.


    Hey, gobbet: do you know I have opinions about aphorisms? Of course you do, you¡¯re me! But I¡¯m going to tell you anyways, because I don¡¯t care what you think of me and I love the sound of my own voice. That¡¯s something we share, you and I, only you hate to hear your nasal tones and I can¡¯t stand you in gross volume, but I digress.


    My head is full of noise and my body is numb and hollow. Empty, listless, staring. Quivering meat struck dumb and mute.


    Aphorisms are a sucker¡¯s game. I hate aphorisms, adages, proverbs, and dictums, and I can barely ever tell them apart! Nonsense, the lot.


    The creature that isn¡¯t my Cheshire¡ªor might be, might hope to be, please let her be my Cheshire¡ªtries her best to kill a zombie that looks like me if I had blue eyes and worse skin. The corpse-thing dances around swiping claws and gnashing teeth, a long knife in each hand, clad in dark leather that bares midriff and cleavage. The shapeshifter that used to be my girlfriend¡ªmight be again, might never be again¡ªkeeps herself between me and the enemy, her flesh hardening and growing scales to absorb each dagger strike meant for my soft, defenseless body.


    Here¡¯s an aphorism for you, an old coat to try on: ¡°You never know what you have until it¡¯s gone.¡± Completely inane, right? What an absurd little phrase. As if you didn¡¯t know exactly what you were giving up when you made your stupid, selfish demand. You knew what you were throwing away, gobbet. You¡¯d been living it and learning it for almost the entirety of your physical existence. There was more Alice and Cheshire than there had been Alice alone, and you gave it up for¡­ what, exactly? For why?


    Cheshire¡¯s shifting is more complex now, more varied and potent, like when we would merge as one to best our foes. The lithe frame of the girl that tried to seduce me is replaced by a warrior¡¯s build, her whole body made into a weapon. She spars against her foe with the joy of child¡¯s play and the intensity of an apocalypse, her grin burning across her face and lit up in those mismatched eyes¡ªone red, one blue.


    The Demiurge stitched a doll that had no choice but to love you, and you told her to scrap it for parts because you couldn¡¯t bear to be loved, couldn¡¯t stand the thought of it. Maybe love is a lie and you see right through it, or maybe, just maybe, love is no match for the loathing that whispers in your ear, ¡°No one ever loves me who doesn¡¯t want to leave me.¡±


    I stand, hollow. I watch, helpless. The song in my head continues to scratch.


    Isn¡¯t this pathetic, gobbet? Aren¡¯t we? Here we are, worthless and powerless, being saved by someone we barely recognize who probably doesn¡¯t recognize us. It¡¯s life or death out there and here we are getting lost in our head about nonsense and loathing. How typical. How disgusting. Are you ever going to change?


    The interplay is faster than I can follow, just blurs of color and thunderclaps of sound. Crumbling stone, shattered glass. A roar of triumph, the tearing of skin. A red haze, a splatter of blood. Then: searing white and blue, a wash of numbing cold that seeps beneath my clothing.


    When my sight clears, the zombie is in pieces. Beetles and flies crawl out of the cracked stone beneath the fragmented corpse and begin to feast upon frozen flesh beginning to steam. Cheshire¡ªchanged and familiar, beautiful and terrible¡ªlooks lightly injured but healing fast, a thin layer of frost upon her body already burning away.


    The changeling¡¯s breath is heavy, her grin almost manic. She licks her teeth as she straightens out of her combat stance, and when she glances my way she gives me a wink. ¡°Trickiest of the bunch, that one, but I was better. Nice to finally put her down.¡±


    Through cloying brain fog and a cacophony of Alice, I try to pull my thoughts together. ¡°You¡­ you¡¯ve fought that thing before? When? What was it? And¡­ do you¡­ I mean¡­ how did you find me?¡±


    ¡°Do you know who I am?¡± That¡¯s the question we should be asking, gobbet, but you¡¯re a coward and a fool too stupid to ask. The answer is clear as day, of course, but you can¡¯t stand to look at it because you know that it makes you a murderer. As if that mattered.


    Cheshire turns her full attention on me, stepping away from the site of her victory. She laughs, and my chest seizes with how different she is now. Her carefully-chosen outfits are now just tatters of fabric that barely cover skin still furred and scaled despite the absence of immediate danger. Her claws are out, her teeth are sharp, and I even see a barbed tail flicking back and forth behind her. And that red eye¡ªmy red eye¡ªburns where her golden used to rest.


    ¡°We¡¯ve scrapped,¡± the changeling evades. ¡°I¡¯ll tell you the whole story later, once we¡¯re somewhere safe. Let¡¯s get moving; I¡¯ll answer whatever questions I can on the way.¡±


    ¡°On the way to where?¡± I ask, curiosity briefly overcoming dread.


    ¡°There¡¯s a big fancy clock tower about an hour¡¯s trek from here,¡± Cheshire answers quickly. ¡°It¡¯s the one place in this supercharged dream bubble that Prevara¡¯s pets can¡¯t enter, and it¡¯s where the Demiurge is going to give us our marching orders for the last stage of this little war with the Emissary.¡±


    The Demiurge, our maker and breaker, our doom and our savior. The hand that holds the knife, the will that parts our flesh. Will you run back to her arms, gobbet, to wither beneath her scorn and beg her absolution? Her game is yet to run its course, and she wants you for her star piece. Will you let her lay that curse upon us?


    You should, says a second voice, a harder voice. You don¡¯t have the means to take her on, not yet. Don¡¯t sacrifice strength for dignity, and don¡¯t spurn an opportunity just because you hate the hand that holds it. Only an Intercessor stands a chance at winning the game and breaking her wheel.


    I swallow nervously, tongue heavy with fear and doubt. My hands are trembling¡ªweakness, can¡¯t be showing that¡ªso I dig my nails into my palms and clench my fists tightly. ¡°Cheshire,¡± I say with an injection of hollow control. ¡°You saved me from a monster, and for that I¡¯m grateful, truly, but I¡¯m feeling a bit too lost to go sprinting off with just a word. I need information, I need to find my bearings, and I need to know: who¡ªor what¡ªare you, to me?¡±


    Cheshire takes a casual step closer and replies, ¡°All you need to know right now, Miss Intercessor, is that our mutual employer sent me here to keep you safe and keep you moving. I¡¯m your bodyguard: your sword and shield, and a second pair of eyes. Beyond that, we can make more personal introductions once you¡¯re in a secure location and we¡¯re not at constant risk of more zombies like that one bursting out of the woodwork. We don¡¯t have much time.¡±


    There¡¯s an urgency in her voice and in the subtleties of her movement as she draws closer, a tightening of her expression that might indicate sincerity or be another layer of performance, but I can¡¯t bring myself to care. Nothing about what she¡¯s saying and doing sticks in my brain like those key few words that tell the story I didn¡¯t want to hear.


    Mutual employer. Miss Intercessor. The words of someone who¡¯s never met you before. The words of a new woman. Face it, gobbet: there¡¯s not a drop of our girl in her.


    She doesn¡¯t recognize me at all. She knows who I am, but she doesn¡¯t know me. And of course she doesn¡¯t, of course she¡¯s a stranger, because that¡¯s what I asked for. I wanted a fair playing field. I¡ªI wanted to do the right thing. It¡ªit was the right thing, wasn¡¯t it? Didn¡¯t I do good?


    Or did you wish away your only friend for a few motes of privacy? Did you rid yourself of the only girl to ever show you love for the brittle illusion of just action and righteous course?


    It wasn¡¯t an illusion! hisses that second voice, a voice quite like Homura¡¯s. Justice is bought in blood and pain. Justice demands sacrifice.


    Sacrifice? What a fancy word for murder.


    I¡¯m not a murderer! I¡¯m a hero, damn you.


    The girl I liked is dead and I killed her.


    Cheshire reaches for my arm and I jerk it away. I try to speak but my throat seizes up.


    Careful now, warns Homura. Don¡¯t antagonize her. Play the game as if you buy the rules. Bide your time and wait for the perfect moment. You can¡¯t fix anything if you just lash out at the nearest target.


    Fuck that, scorns the first voice. Are you really going to take this lying down? Look at her, gobbet. Look at her! Are you happy with this? Is this the deal you made?


    Cheshire raises an eyebrow at me. ¡°Hey, I¡¯m not kidding around. We have to go.¡±


    Play along. Say what she wants to hear and gather intel.


    Spit in her face and tell God you want a refund. Make the Demiurge give you back your tailored doll.


    I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood and the bliss of pain brings clarity to chaos. ¡°Then we can go, but not to the clock tower. I need more information before I can plot my next moves, and I am starving, so let¡¯s walk and talk until we find a place to grab a bite.¡±


    It¡¯s a reasonable request. A minor detour at worst. My Cheshire would agree to it in a heartbeat. My Cheshire would be happy to talk and eat with me.


    My Cheshire is gone. The cat-eared thing staring back at me cocks her head for only a moment before lunging forward and seizing me by the wrists so fast I can¡¯t even start to react before she¡¯s already caught me in a vice grip. ¡°Yeah, this isn¡¯t a negotiation. You can eat once you¡¯re safe,¡± she says with a hard new edge to that familiar voice.


    Panic streaks down my spine. This isn¡¯t the plan. This wasn¡¯t supposed to happen. What do I do? I try to pull away from her in desperate futility, but her strength is far beyond my own. I call out to her, voice cracking, ¡°Stop it! What are you¡ª¡±


    Her grip tightens and pain shoots through my arms and I gasp and shudder and freeze. My wrists, she¡¯s going to break my wrists, she¡¯s going to squeeze and squeeze and my bones will crack and pop and push through my skin and the blood will run rivers down my arms and I¡¯ll lose my hands and it¡¯ll hurt, hurt, hurt, I don¡¯t want it to hurt.


    Cheshire murmurs, low and menacing, ¡°It wouldn¡¯t take much to shatter those pretty wrists, frail as they are. And I know for a fact you don¡¯t have the strength to stop me, and you won¡¯t until you come back to your master. Do you like being able to move your hands?¡±


    She relaxes her grip, but just a touch, just enough I can think and breathe. I¡¯m starting to shake again, worse this time, legs and arms and teeth. ¡°Wh-what are y-you doing, I th-thought you were supposed to be my¡ª¡±


    Squeeze again, her hands on my wrists, spiking pain in bruised muscle and aching bone, vulnerable bone, so close to breaking. She¡¯s going to break my wrists. She¡¯s actually going to break my wrists, I can¡¯t believe she¡¯s actually going to break my wrists, this can¡¯t be happening.


    ¡°P-please, please stop, this is¡ªthis is insane, this is insane, what kind of bodyguard cripples their¡ª¡±


    Tighter, tighter, tighter, her strong hands crushing my delicate limbs, her strength about to annihilate me and take away my everything and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts so much. I whimper and start to cry, tears streaking down my pathetic, blubbering face even as she releases a bit of tension again and grants me that false reprieve.


    ¡°You¡¯ll live,¡± she tells me dismissively. ¡°You¡¯ll heal. So am I going to carry you to the Demiurge with broken wrists¡ªand maybe ankles or kneecaps, your whole spine if you keep fussing¡ªor are you going to be a good girl and come along quietly?¡±


    I whimper for a second time, barely vocal now. It hurts. It hurts and I hate it and a real hero isn¡¯t supposed to be this weak and spineless and frail but all I want is to make the pain go away. I don¡¯t care about standing up for myself, I don¡¯t care about causes or goals or grand machinations. I just want the suffering to end.


    Would she really do it? Cheshire¡¯s eyes smolder, hard and uncompromising, and I know with absolute certainty that this is not an empty threat. She will break me if I defy her. She will carry me in pieces if that¡¯s what it takes. Why?


    ¡°Why are you doing this?¡± I whisper, and when her grip starts to tighten again I cry, ¡°I¡¯m not resisting! Stop, please, you¡ªyou win. I¡¯ll come with you. I won¡¯t resist. Just please¡­ please tell me why.¡±


    Cheshire tilts her head, contemplative for a moment. Then, in a single flourish, she scoops me into her arms, tenses her legs, and leaps onto the nearest rooftop. I squeak at the sudden change in heights. As she bounds from building to building over the streets of Fata Morgana I cling to her like a drowning woman clings to wreckage, the world below us passing in a blur.


    I shut my eyes tight to block out the terrifying imagery and clutch my kidnapper with all the strength I can muster, more scared of being dropped from these heights to smear against the pavement than I am of what awaits me in the Demiurge¡¯s domain. I¡¯m such a coward.


    ¡°To answer your question,¡± Cheshire says blithely as she leaps and dashes across the city skyline, ¡°I¡¯m doing this because it¡¯s the only game in town. You¡¯re with the Demiurge or you¡¯re a dead woman walking. And I¡¯d do anything for one more day of being alive. Wouldn¡¯t you?¡±


    I don¡¯t have anything to say to that. I can¡¯t. So I cling to her in silence, miserable and crying and completely helpless. Just a weak, powerless, ordinary nobody.


    Back in Sanctuary, in the maze, chased by hunters and bound up in a duel, I ran all the way to the rotten core of my soul. In the very core of my being I found a scared little girl crying over her dead mother, and I knew what that made me: a slave to fear. An eternal victim, terrified and traumatized and broken and never, ever amounting to more.


    I thought that if I took Cheshire¡¯s hand and forged myself into a knife that cuts as it bleeds, then I could change that scared, crying core. I thought I could be more than what I was made to be, more than I was painted.


    Was I wrong? I don¡¯t feel any stronger. I don¡¯t feel any different than who I¡¯ve always been at my lowest, at my weakest, my truest. I will always be what I am in the cold, lonely dark.


    You didn¡¯t even keep to that plan, the cold voice from before insists in my mind. You had Cheshire¡¯s hand, her loyalty, her immortal soul suborned to yours, and you threw it away. Is it any surprise what happened next? You forged yourself into a knife and let the edge blunt and chip and rust. Your hasty scaffolding crumbled away before it could make even an ounce of change to the wretched husk beneath. You sacrificed everything, and for what?


    Tell me, gobbet: is this the deal you made?


    No. ¡°This isn¡¯t what I wanted,¡± I whisper through the tears.


    Cheshire drops from her latest perch and slams into the ground, the shock of it running through me an instant before she dumps me like a sack of bricks onto the hard street. The breath is knocked from my lungs and I curl up, gasping for air as soon as I can move the right muscles, wincing and cringing and hoping desperately that I haven¡¯t broken a rib.


    My vision is still spinning when I hear a new voice, another familiar voice: the voice of Nyarlathotep, the Lucid Demiurge, the Toymaker and Soul-Sculptor, the architect of all my woes.


    She says, tone sickly sweet and mocking, ¡°Why, that¡¯s very unfortunate to hear! What did you want, darling? If I¡¯ve gotten it wrong, I¡¯ll be happy to correct your mistake.¡±


    A tower looms overhead, a twisted thing of brick and marble and concrete like three buildings smashed together with no concern for aesthetic or integrity. A giant clock face sits embedded high up the tower, all hands set to twelve and unmoving.


    From the arched entrance to the clock tower hangs an adult-sized doll strung up by the wrists and bleeding from eyes and mouth and holes in its chest and throat. The doll is smiling, its lips cracked at the edges.


    ¡°If I recall correctly, which I do,¡± she says to my disoriented silence, ¡°you asked me to make something up for your silly little girlfriend. So I did. You don¡¯t like this draft?¡±


    A bit of fury blooms in my heart and tears through all the pain and fear I¡¯m drowning in. ¡°I told you to free her! I wanted her without your fucking chains! This isn¡¯t that! Where is the real Cheshire?¡±


    The doll sighs. ¡°I see it didn¡¯t sink in. Let me give you a more hands-on demonstration. Cheshire, push her in.¡±


    The changeling immediately grabs me, lifts me to my feet, and pushes me through the archway into another world. I fall through time and space and am lost as once before, trapped in a dream within a dream and before the watching eyes.


    In a town in a world never born and never ending, there is a street where every building is a crooked, lanky shadow.


    Night-black skyscrapers with golden window-eyes claw at the sky¡¯s violet expanse and choke the stars with smoke. The street below is a slash of trailing white, pure like a lily, a single line of snow unbroken and untouched. The gawking crowds are smudges of brown and gray with static-scribble faces that watch without eyes and laugh without mouths. The buildings twitch and writhe on the edge of sight, always still when you turn to look.


    Stolen story; please report.


    In the distance, both before and behind, the horizon narrows to a single point of white enclosed by ceaseless black; this is a street that has no end and no beginning, for endings are a sin and beginnings are a lie. If you walked for nine hundred years and ninety-nine days down the solemn street toward its distant horizon you would come no closer to the nearest gawker or the pitch-black tenement that looms just out of arm¡¯s reach. Gently, softly, snow falls between the cracks in the roof of the world.


    All is silent. All is still. All this is true and none of it real.


    In the middle of the street, where there is only snow and air, a door opens and a woman steps through. The door closes behind her and vanishes with only a hint of what lay inside: a single glimpse of sterile lights and metal tables.


    Sharp eyes scour the world. Teeth gnaw on lips wet with blood. The woman whose name is secret to her children wears the same lack of outfit as she did before, nothing but a gore-stained lab coat open to expose her fleshless skeleton. She is unbothered by the falling snow and the chill of blowing wind, with not a hint of pink on her face or hands.


    ¡°There is a body lying in the street,¡± she says, and thus there is. ¡°It is the body of a girl with blue eyes, now glassy, stripped down to her smallclothes as red as the blood that spills down her side and stains the snow beneath her, bled out and half-nude. Her skin is pale and dead and beautiful.¡±


    The corpse is painted as the woman speaks, detail clarifying from the muddy suggestion of human form. The dead thing is red and cream and two shining pools of lifeless blue.


    The woman taps her chin and muses, ¡°No, not quite dead, not yet. She clings to her last breath, desperate for another nine. This girl burns with life, has burned with life, will burn for life. She knows me, her Lucid Demiurge, and so she fears me, but she owes me and she needs me and she will bend for me as I wish.¡± The woman snaps her fingers. ¡°Scene.¡±


    The dead girl gasps for breath, blue eyes wide and panicking. Shivering fingers clutch at torn and bleeding flesh. She is born; she is dying. She cries out, ¡°Please, please save me, please! I don¡¯t want to die! It hurts, make it stop, make the pain go away!¡±


    The woman sits down in the snow and as she cradles the dying girl in her arms she is transformed: gone is the lab coat, replaced by flowing robes of brightest gold, and her face conceals beneath a white mask that bleeds black tar from its crooked eyes and slanted mouth.


    ¡°Cheshire,¡± she names the dying girl, ¡°you must tell me¡ªand tell me true, for I will brook no deception from the breath of my lungs¡ªwhich do you fear more: the pain, or its cessation? For if you fear the pain the greater, then your peace is one breath from settled. But if your terror comes in endings, know that pain is all I offer.¡±


    The girl coughs, bloody and shuddering. ¡°Why, my lord? Why must I suffer?¡±


    The woman takes the girl¡¯s hand with a surgeon¡¯s care and gently breaks her first finger. ¡°Pain is how we learn, for the stove is no danger until you burn your hand upon it.¡±


    A second finger snaps, a loving mutilation. ¡°The value of each meal is marked not in satiety but in the hunger that it wards.¡±


    A third, bone cracked and flesh torn. ¡°Pain is how we grow, for love¡¯s great lie is only known when the knife is felt hilt-deep.¡±


    Her fourth finger, rent with delicate force. ¡°If you would live, then you must bleed, for the body that bleeds not is but a doll of painted clay. This I teach you. Show me you understand.¡±


    Hesitant, fearful, dying, the girl takes her final finger and bends it to its breaking. She cries and cries and cries, her tears freezing in the snow.


    ¡°Good. Tears are good. Now I ask again, and you will answer, for I have placed it in your heart: the pain or its cessation?¡±


    ¡°Death,¡± Cheshire whispers. ¡°I fear death more. Save me, please.¡±


    ¡°I shall. And you will give me all of you. Say this and make it true.¡±


    And Cheshire says, ¡°I will give you all of me.¡±


    ¡°You will bleed for me. You will burn for me. You will smile for me.¡±


    And Cheshire says, ¡°I will bleed for you. I will burn for you. I will smile for you.¡±


    ¡°You were mine, are mine, will be mine, then and now till stars are scattered dust.¡±


    And Cheshire says, ¡°I was yours, am yours, will be yours, then and now till stars are scattered dust.¡±


    The woman smiles behind her mask and the dying girl lets out her breath. With care and love, the master of the worlds plucks an eye from Cheshire¡¯s head and lowers a golden copy in its place. The Demiurge rises, and the body of the girl sinks into the snow to blossom and be changed.


    The woman walks down the street, the crowd parting to bow and kneel. Eight times she lays to rest the body of the girl. Eight times a life is spent. Eight times the words are whispered. The world blinks.


    In a forest in a world never born and never ending, there is a glade where every tree is a crooked, lanky shadow.


    Coal-black roots creep over an endless field of white while golden leaves flutter in the breeze. The sky is gray and stormless. No hunters tread this wood, no rabbits or deer prance beneath this canopy. There is nothing here but death and memory. Gently, softly, snow falls between the cracks in the roof of the world.


    All is silent. All is still. All this is true and none of it real.


    ¡°In the dark and the cold, I found you,¡± the Demiurge proclaims. ¡°With dying breath, you begged my aid.¡±


    The blue-eyed girl lies bleeding in the snow, mauled and left for dead. She looks up at the white-masked figure and with ragged breath she begs, ¡°Save me, please.¡±


    The woman tilts her head. ¡°Why?¡± she asks.


    ¡°Because I will give you all of me,¡± the girl that will be Cheshire pleads with her master. ¡°I will bleed for you. I will burn for you. I will smile for you. I was yours, am yours, will be yours, then and now till stars are scattered dust.¡±


    The Demiurge lifts Cheshire from the snow, blood staining golden robes. ¡°So it shall be. You have died nine times, will die nine times, and on your ninth I will take you and you will become my vessel, as you have always been. This is your name and your nature.¡±


    And snow takes the world in endless freezing white.


    When the blizzard passes, I find myself standing in a room that might pass for the interior of a clock tower if you didn¡¯t look too closely. There are great gears of brass, chimes and whistles, and all manner of thrumming pipe and exposed wiring, but everything isn¡¯t quite right. Pipes melt into gears that sprout gauges with symbols from three languages, and nowhere in this confusing mess of metal and glass and rubber is there any sense of purpose or design.


    Though I passed through an archway, there are no doors behind me. There are no stairs or ladders leading up, either, but there are windows looking out; the world outside is kaleidoscopic and celestial like rivers of burning stars that glitter in all the colors unnatural.


    In the center of the room is an autopsy table of cold, sterile steel, and lying on that table with arms pressed together is a girl with feline ears and glassy blue eyes. Her open hands cup a bloody eyeball, its iris crimson.


    The Demiurge is nowhere to be seen, but I know she¡¯s here. Watching. Listening. Mocking me. I open my mouth to speak and her voice intrudes first:


    ¡°Now you surely see, so lay to rest your pining for a girl that never was. The changeling is and always was nothing more than a narrative construct. There is no Platonic form of Cheshire, no deeper essence you might uncover and free from unjust imprisonment; there is only what we make of her by our choices and our reading.¡±


    I stare down at the corpse of Cheshire and feel sick to my stomach. ¡°What is this, Nyara? What is the point of this?¡±


    Her whisper comes to my ear: ¡°The point, dear one? Why, it can be whatever you like! Violence or love, horror or the erotic, empathy or self-loathing; you are always free to create your own meaning. In fact, I quite insist that you do, else this will come to very little. Just take my hand and tell me how you feel.¡±


    I clench my fists and hiss, ¡°Enough of this! Enough!¡± I brace myself against the autopsy table and squeeze my eyes shut. ¡°For once in my life I am tired of debating philosophy. You¡¯ve dragged me around through torment after torment, you¡¯ve baited me with prizes only to rip them away, and now I am done with all your games. I want answers. I want agency. And if you refuse me, if you keep toying with me like this, I¡ªI will¡­¡±


    What can you say to threaten a god? What can you deny the lord of the universe?


    I curl my lip, sneer a little, and say, ¡°I will sit here and do nothing and I will bore you to death.¡±


    The noises of the clock tower stop. Gears grind to a halt. Pipes cease to thrum. Whistles and chimes wind down.


    Silence. A pregnant pause. A trillion grains of sand spilling down the hourglass. The second hand of a clock going tick¡­ tick¡­ tick¡­ stop.


    Stillness is like a kind of poison. It¡¯s like being buried alive. When all stimuli are denied you, when you are left with nothing but the noise inside your head, it can be a kind of hell. No wonder thoughts will wander, if only to escape the dead and dreary room.


    But daydreams can only distract for so long. Eventually you have to acknowledge the physical realities of the situation you¡¯re in. The situation you put yourself in.


    Hunger and thirst are horrible things.


    Fire is more painful in its singular moment, but it kills with relative haste. Denied a meal but finding water, the human body can survive a few months, or rather it can die that slowly. With neither food nor water, a week would be stretching it, but I wouldn¡¯t worry; a gracious god will always grant another drop to drink.


    It¡¯ll go slow, and it¡¯ll feel even slower. Your fat will burn and your muscles will wither, and then you¡¯ll shrivel up to skin and bone. What starts as simple pangs quickly transforms into need into emptiness into agony, and that pain will stick with you as the weeks turn into months.


    Your senses will dull, mind clouded and foggy. Pop goes a neuron, then another, atrophying en masse. Every cell in your body will start to die, one by one, and the engine of your biology will fail to produce replacements. You can feel yourself getting slower, weaker, dumber, frailer.


    Can you imagine what you¡¯ll lose, piece by piece, as hours turn to days turn to weeks? Can you imagine how little will be left when I come to cradle you in my arms and whisper your salvation? Will you remember why you were resisting? Will you have the strength to become anything but my slave?


    Or will I leave you there to die in a tomb of your own making?


    ¡°Speak for me, dear one. Tell me you¡¯ll be mine.¡±


    I gasp and shudder as the Demiurge releases her hold on my senses. I fall to my knees and heave, but nothing rises from my empty gut. I shiver. I remember. I relive. I die a hundred slow and unforgiving deaths.


    There¡¯s so little fight left in me. I just want to give in.


    Then lay down like a dog and let her have her way with you. Is that really what you are? Are you truly so spineless?


    She''s playing a trick, Homura warns. Think: if she really has as much control as she''s making it seem, if she really wins that gamble, then why is she flaunting her hand? Why taunt you with the outcome when she could just play it out?


    But what if we''re wrong, whispers a third voice, a soft and trembling Reska, and she gets angry with us? What if she isn''t bluffing? That''s too big a risk, too awful a fate.


    She needs us, Homura insists. She needs us more than we need her, and all of this stagecraft is to hide that fatal weakness. It has to be a bluff. She can''t rig the game as well as she pretends, trust me.


    Don¡¯t believe her lies, hisses Reska. Don¡¯t make the same mistake I did.


    Ignore the lamb, dismisses that first voice, cold and cruel and so like my own. The murderer has a point, gobbet. Use your brain and actually think about what¡¯s happening. That thing can reach inside your brain and place whatever thoughts it likes, so why is she still asking? Why does she ever ask? Why is this a choice?


    ¡°Because it has to be,¡± I whisper.


    I know what I need to do and it¡¯s hard, it takes so much and I wish I could lie down and sleep instead, but I can¡¯t. I won¡¯t. Not after all I¡¯ve sacrificed to get this far.


    I swallow, mouth dry, and rise from the floor with shaky hands and wobbly knees. My tongue is leaden and it takes me three tries, but I get the words out. I give her my answer.


    ¡°I know you¡¯re strong, Nyara. I know you¡¯re more than me. You¡¯re more than I¡¯ll ever be, right? You can crush me like a bug. You can pull me on your strings and make me sing and dance. You can put me in a box of nightmares and shake me around for a billion years till I come out crying for your mercy, sure, that¡¯s mostly true. But there has to be a point. There has to be a reason. Because there¡ªbecause there is a purpose to me.¡±


    I laugh, wretched and manic. The laughter bubbles up as strong as it ever has. My chest hurts and my cheeks strain as I laugh and laugh and laugh, unable to stop. What a joke this all is, that it all comes back to that tea party in the chaos of my soul.


    The first time I sat down and really conversed with Cheshire, in the raw moments after our covenant, we talked about significance. We talked about the search for human meaning in a cold and uncaring universe, but this universe cares very deeply; this world has a maker and her touch is known, her gaze made clear. This is a place where all things have a purpose.


    The cat called us all toys in the toybox, the victims of a great game with only one player and we the hapless pawns, but she was wrong. I¡¯ve seen the truth, or at least a glimpse of it. I¡¯ve seen the room outside of time where the surgeon works upon her red material. I know my purpose, and I know that I¡¯m not a toy at all.


    I¡¯m an experiment.


    ¡°There is a purpose to me,¡± I repeat. ¡°You made me for a reason. You made everything in that room for a reason, every gobbet of meat you cut off from whatever the hell you are. You¡¯re asking a question, and you know you can¡¯t find the answer if you just cheat, so you have to play by a set of rules. God ties her own hands. You could have made me another puppet like so many of your creations, but you didn¡¯t, and that means my freedom is a requirement for whatever you¡¯re trying to do here. It has. To be. A choice.¡±


    The gears and pipes all hum to life and the bleeding doll claps politely, freshly appeared on the other side of the table. ¡°Correct! Very good! We¡¯ll make an Intercessor out of you yet.¡±


    My relief at not being tortured for months is immediately soured. ¡°I told you¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes, the details of the deal.¡± The doll waves a hand dismissively. ¡°Listen, I understand that the deal hasn¡¯t been to your liking. You feel like you lack agency. I can fix that. I want to fix that. That¡¯s what this is all for.¡± She gestures at the cat lying cold on the slab.


    I¡¯m taken aback. ¡°What?¡±


    The Demiurge licks her lips¡ªdolls should not have tongues, that is so weird¡ªand paces around the table, circling me. ¡°Agency. That¡¯s the word you used, but I prefer ¡®control¡¯ as our guiding beacon. That¡¯s been the real issue with Cheshire from the very start. You can¡¯t trust her because you don¡¯t control her, like you don¡¯t control anything in your life. That would have been true even without my interference. Your trust issues were never confined to Cheshire, Alice; you thought about killing Dante, might have murdered Esha if it suited you, treated every soul in that city with ruthless suspicion. Most of all the girl fighting hardest to keep you safe. No matter how many times Cheshire showed her love or proved her loyalty, no matter what story she told you, no matter how hard she pleaded for it, you could never really trust her. Oh, you tried, or you told yourself you tried, and perhaps that¡¯s to be admired. But deep down, you know it was all a lie.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡ª¡± I cut myself off, hesitating to refute her words. That¡¯s not true, is it? I changed! I took the risk, I chose to trust.


    ¡°Did you really? Then, my darling Alice, why ever did you betray that trust?¡±


    I flinch. It wasn¡¯t a betrayal. I was saving her!


    ¡°Because you knew better than her? Because you were right and her own desires were wrong, is that it? Because you didn¡¯t trust her? Listen to yourself: you¡¯re still calling it a risk to trust, but trust is not a gamble. Trusting someone doesn¡¯t mean treating them like a half-loaded gun pointed at your heart.¡±


    No. No, that¡¯s not right, that¡¯s not true, I¡¯m not. I wasn¡¯t. I¡ªI want to scream, it¡¯s in my bones and building, I can¡¯t stand it. ¡°What are you offering?¡± I snarl at my maker to keep the static at bay.


    The doll gently lifts one of my hands and presses a scalpel between my fingers.


    The Demiurge smiles at me. ¡°I¡¯m offering the chance to take control for the first time in your life¡ªyour life here, and the life you remember that never was. Take control, Alice.¡±


    I stare at her, uncomprehending, not wanting to understand the implication of what she¡¯s suggesting. The horror only mounts, and the fascination.


    She sweeps her hands at the still form of the girl I almost loved. ¡°The clay is fresh, your tools laid out. You can sculpt a new Cheshire, a better Cheshire, a Cheshire that you can trust. Shape her as I shaped her, carve her as I carved her, create her as I created her. Alice and Cheshire, together again, but this time by your intent, by your rules, by your design.¡±


    Cheshire, my Cheshire, cut and molded and made anew. An act of insane violation. An act of absolute control. All I¡¯ve ever wanted, or dreamed I might want. All I¡¯ve ever feared, or convinced myself so.


    ¡°By this act, claim your seat as my Intercessor. And with Cheshire at your side as she always should have been, I am absolutely certain that you will become Royalty of this world and annihilate that lowly priest of worms. Wield the knife, Alice. Make the first cut, and all the rest will follow.¡±


    I stare at the scalpel in my hands and marvel at its edge. Could this simple, dreadful, beautiful thing truly shape a life? Could I create my own Cheshire? Should I? What would I become?


    What are you even saying? Reska¡¯s voice sobs in my mind. Nothing is worth that kind of monstrosity!


    Don¡¯t be naive, Homura derides. This is exactly the advantage we need.


    There¡¯s a flash of pain between my temples, the doll flickers out of sight, and then Reska and Homura are standing in the room with me.


    Homura, hard-eyed, hand resting on the hilt of her weapon. Reska, despondent, head in her hands. Both as they were the last time I saw them, in my dreams, in the dark beneath the castle. A night of deep betrayal.


    ¡°Heroes make hard decisions. We have to be willing to use any tool, pay any price, so long as it gets us closer to our goal. When the stakes are raised this high, winning is all that matters.¡±


    Reska shakes her head and cries, ¡°How can you say that? It doesn¡¯t matter what we use it for, a tool like this would stain us far beyond salvation. It can¡¯t be love if it isn¡¯t a choice. Didn¡¯t you tell me you believed in justice?¡±


    ¡°There is no justice except at the end of my blade!¡± Homura snarls. ¡°No justice under the rule of that tyrant, no justice in the billions she¡¯s tortured! The ends will always justify the means.¡±


    Reska flinches, but she presses on. ¡°The means will always shape the ends! What use is the death of one tyrant if the next is twice as cruel? Is it justice to trade one monster for another, and the throne red with blood? Was that your justice when you pierced my heart?¡±


    Pain flashes across Homura¡¯s face, chased by resolve. ¡°I did what I had to! The consequences for the world¡ª¡±


    ¡°And what about the consequences for us?¡± Reska¡¯s voice is raw and full of heartbreak. ¡°I trusted you. I loved you.¡±


    ¡°Do you really think I didn¡¯t feel the same?¡± Homura whispers hoarsely. ¡°Did you think I didn¡¯t care?¡±


    ¡°Then why? Why, why, why?¡±


    ¡°Because one will never outweigh infinity.¡± Iron conquers heartsblood and Homura turns back to me. ¡°Use the blade. Break the wheel. Save us all.¡±


    There¡¯s a surreal reverie to the scene, to the sight of the girls from my dreams now clad in flesh and silk. I don¡¯t know what to think. I don¡¯t know who to believe. I don¡¯t know why both arguments ring hollow.


    I look at Homura and I still feel the sting of betrayal and the deep unease of trying to parse a liar¡¯s words. I remember the moments we shared that weren¡¯t really mine. I see the fire in her eyes and I feel it as my own. I know the spirit of rebellion and the hatred of injustice imparted by my glimpse into Homura¡¯s beating heart.


    Am I a hero? I don¡¯t feel like one.


    I look at Reska and she¡¯s right in front of me, pleading with hands clasped, sorrow and terror in her eyes. ¡°Please don¡¯t do this,¡± she begs. ¡°Don¡¯t be a monster. Don¡¯t murder the girl you love.¡±


    For a single moment, my hands are red with her blood as I pull my blade from the hole in her chest. The stench of it is thick in the air, rust-scent clogging my nose. Murderer. I am murdering this girl and it will be worth it, she promised it was worth it, it has to be worth it or I should have driven that blade into my own throat instead and spared this world my every stolen breath. What have I done? What did she make me do?


    Then I¡¯m staring at her face, no blood to be found, but I can still smell the slaughter and I remember what I did. What she did.


    Monster.


    I back away, horror finally eclipsing fascination, and I stumble and trip and hit the flagstones outside the tower. I¡¯m breathing too much, too hard, hyperventilating. What was I about to do? What was I thinking? Who am I?


    We, whispers the cold, familiar voice, are a reckless coward and a clever fool. We are a liar pretending to be a hero. We seek victimhood in fear of hunger. We are Veseryn, just as we were named. It¡¯s time we admitted what we really want. It¡¯s time to be a monster. Go back into that room and claim our prize.


    ¡°No. No, that¡¯s not who I am!¡± I shout at the empty air. I stumble to my feet and away from the tower, back into the city, anywhere but here.


    Admit what you want and take it! Forget love, forget justice, and take control, or you will die a powerless liar.


    I start running. I sprint through the streets of Fata Morgana with only the great glass tower for a guiding light. I run and Veseryn laughs.


    And then a red ribbon wraps around my throat and the world goes black.

 Interlude: Once & Future I

    ¡°Well, that¡¯s not promising.¡±


    As we arrive at the entrance to Vaylin¡¯s commandeered convention hall, we find someone else has beaten us there.


    I poke and prod at the corpses of unfortunate puppets torn apart and left to rot. Glassy eyes stare past me while unmoving limbs point at nothing in particular. Were you a friend of Bashe? I ask the nearest carcass in my head. Did you feel pain? Or did Vaylin rip that out first?


    The demon¡¯s pets are the only victims I can see, and I don¡¯t have the faintest clue how old the bodies are or in what manner they were killed. I¡¯m intrigued by the mystery, but more than that I¡¯m wary of what¡¯s waiting for us deeper inside.


    ¡°I should really invest in some information gathering spells,¡± I mutter to Cheshire. ¡°That is, unless you can tell me how these things ate dirt.¡±


    Cheshire curtsies at me with a wink. ¡°Your wish is my command, Master, and I¡¯m always happy to be of service. Though, really, if you spend a bit of time practicing your sight you¡¯ll be able to gather that intel yourself.¡±


    ¡°Ah, but then what would I use you for, pet?¡± I give her a scratch behind the ears as the changeling turns her mismatched eyes on the scattered bodies, the gold and blue glinting beautifully beneath the nighttime streetlamps.


    Dante keeps a wide berth of the grisly scene, looking sick to his stomach already. ¡°This is awful. Could this¡­ could this have been done by Averrich? Before you killed him, I mean.¡± He says that so awkwardly, the reluctant hero. It pricks my skin, but I¡¯m not going to make an issue of it right now.


    ¡°It¡¯s possible,¡± I muse. ¡°I had assumed his second key fragment came from the necromancer, but maybe he rushed the demon instead. He probably had the firepower to take her on, though I¡¯d be surprised if he came away from that fight without heavy casualties.¡± I frown at the carnage before us. ¡°No bolts or burns, though. The wolf could have done it, maybe, but why send her alone? Feels unlikely.¡±


    ¡°The timing¡¯s wrong, too,¡± verifies Cheshire. ¡°There¡¯s violence soaking the air, and it¡¯s fresh; the slaughter was recent. Very recent, at that: this happened after your throne duel.¡±


    My frown deepens. ¡°Which means the duel might have been the trigger, but we¡¯re missing a culprit. The only remaining key holder not in our little alliance is Vaylin herself. It would be suicidally shortsighted for Esha to make a power grab when we¡¯re already offering her a best outcome, unless she really doesn¡¯t trust us to keep our end of things. A rogue Noble breaking the rules? A move by the Beast?¡±


    Cheshire catches my eye. Though her lips don¡¯t move, her voice whispers in my ear, ¡°Perhaps Avaya is trying to sweeten the pot. If she offers Vaylin on a platter, we¡¯re incentivized to offer her better terms in the new order we create. Or whatever it is she wants out of us.¡±


    But could she really do all this by herself? And, if this is her doing¡­ are we happy with this outcome? Dante still has one wish left in the chamber, and I was really hoping to make him burn that wish on Vaylin. We still might need to kill that boy.


    Dante looks past us with an uncertain look on his face. ¡°Alice, do we really need to go in there? Can¡¯t we just report back to Esha?¡±


    ¡°Of course we¡¯re going in!¡± I snap without thinking. I need to win. I need that power. I wince at my outburst and rub my forehead. ¡°Think, Dante: if this is a new threat, we need to chase it down before it can come for the Myriad. If Vaylin¡¯s still in there, we need her key to end the game. Do you think the Nobles will let us bunker down in the temple eating grapes? Do you think the Beast will be satisfied until her game is won? We kill or we die, or we watch everyone in this city be utterly devoured by powers that laugh at everything we¡¯ve accomplished together. There¡¯s no reality where we just walk away now when we are so, so close to the endgame.¡±


    ¡°Right. Yeah.¡± He falls quiet.


    There¡¯s a growing itch beneath my skin, and I can¡¯t stop my gaze from flicking between all the gory details of this latest massacre. If this is Avaya¡¯s doing and she¡¯s waiting for us at the end of this path, is now the time? Is it all going down? I swallow nervously. Am I actually ready to kill Dante? I don¡¯t know what to do. I¡­ I need to win. I need to be powerful. But is murder and betrayal the only path to power?


    And then Cheshire adds a wrinkle: ¡°Master, I think they killed each other.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± I whirl on her. ¡°Is this another Mourner or Reveler?¡±


    She shakes her head. ¡°No, not a trace of those. They just started butchering each other¡ªand themselves. Some of these wounds are self-inflicted.¡±


    A sense of dread starts to creep down my spine, but I keep it off my face and force some levity. ¡°Ah, so just a brand-new brain-fucker to deal with. Well, I¡¯ve gotten pretty good at dealing with mind-affecting bullshit, so if that¡¯s their only trick then this next fight should be a cakewalk. Let¡¯s go say hello to whoever did this, if they¡¯re still inside, or take a closer look at their handiwork if not.¡±


    The interior is much worse.


    The corpses outside were ugly, sure, but there was no sign of sentiment behind their murder. The bodies and their parts were strewn apart haphazardly, without meaning or intent. Grisly murders, certainly, but just murder.


    The corpses inside the structure paint a more visceral picture. Death is made an art form in blood and bone and excrement: a sculpture draped in entrails, a painting smeared with pulped eyes. A few bodies here and there are strung up by ribbon and largely whole, conquests of Vaylin¡¯s from before this latest atrocity, but even many of those have been defaced in fresh and particular ways.


    Flayed limbs line walkways, stripped of skin and bleeding in shallow pools. Eyeless faces watch from the walls. The stench of blood and offal is so thick in the air that I make the conscious effort to close my sense of smell and taste, and even Cheshire looks a bit disturbed by this charnel house.


    Dante suffers the worst of us, of course. The poor boy actually shuts his eyes at one point and follows our footsteps, so horrified by the macabre display that he can¡¯t bear to look at it. I help him out with verbal warnings and light nudges whenever he strays too close to a wall or to something he really wouldn¡¯t want to step in. I don¡¯t blame him for being nauseous.


    The path we take is suspiciously linear. In each room of the complex¡ªthe interior clearly restructured by Vaylin¡¯s servants to form a better fortress¡ªevery door but one has been damaged, boarded up, or blocked. That also might have been Vaylin¡¯s work, I suppose, but it still feels like we¡¯re being herded into a trap.


    That graduates from suspicion to certainty when I see the final door.


    A curtain of black ink separates us from a room marked in red stencil as Vaylin¡¯s throne. The red carpet leading up to the portal is stained with black oil, and more of that oil is smeared on the walls and on the corpses lying to either side. I remember the last time I saw that toxic substance, and it chills me.


    I feel black tar coating my brain, ink sluggish in my veins, black ichor dripping from porcelain seams. I try to scream but my lungs bloat with bile. I want to cry, and this I am allowed; black ichor drips down ashen cheeks.


    The name of my captor sears itself into my mind like a burning brand: Nyarlathotep, the Lucid Demiurge.


    ¡°I can¡¯t sense anything through that barrier,¡± Cheshire confides to me. ¡°Do you want me to scout ahead on foot?¡±


    ¡°Hard veto,¡± I answer quickly. ¡°We¡¯ll use something more expendable. [Carrion Swarm].¡±


    I send a batch of beetles scurrying through the ominous portal, but I lose contact with my spell the second they¡¯re all across. A moment later, nine red butterflies come fluttering back through.


    Okay, so we¡¯re about to be face-to-face with the Toymaker herself. Lovely. Absolutely splendid. I hate everything about this.


    I summon Vorpal to my hand and make three quick slashes at the curtain of ink. It parts for my sword like a scalpel sinking into flesh, but with an ugly slurping sound it pulls back together as soon as the blade isn¡¯t touching.


    ¡°Nothing for it but to enter,¡± I say coldly. ¡°Dante, we¡¯re about to have a nice chat with that ¡®Goddess¡¯ who gave you your sword. I don¡¯t know why she¡¯s here, but we¡¯re going to find out.¡±


    Conflict tears across Dante¡¯s face, but whatever he¡¯s about to say is lost as I step through the portal with Cheshire right behind me. A moment later, he follows.


    On the other side of the curtain is a tea party.


    The room is dark, shadows seeping in the corners, lit by a multitude of candles colored in all the shades of the rainbow. The candles drift through the air, gently bobbing as they burn, and they drip wax without care for what passes below. Above them, dozens of corpses are bound up in red string and ribbon.


    The table is long and its cloth is plain white. Five red chairs sit around the table, two to either length and one at the head, each plush and patterned with pink flowers. Only two of the chairs are occupied, and the other three are pushed out.


    All manner of fine china have been scattered across the table. Large plates host colorful mush and exotic shapes like a child¡¯s idea of dinner, while dainty teacups are chipped and cracked and overflowing with black tar.


    Avaya¡¯ari is tied to the nearest chair on the left side, her four arms wrapped in ribbon and her mouth stitched shut. The imp¡¯s hooves have been tied together, her tail is tied in knots, and her wings have been stretched and stapled to the back of the chair. Her black sword rests on the table in front of her.


    At the head of the table sits a figure I must assume to be Vaylin Kirinal, and she is clearly being possessed by the Demiurge.


    Vaylin looks largely as I¡¯ve seen her depicted by others: an azure-skinned woman with red body-stitching, curving horns, and heaps of golden jewelry. Her lips are black and her dress is lacy and white, and there¡¯s something almost childish about the smug expression on her face.


    But her eyes are different: the white dots are gone, now turned completely pitch, and ink drips from her tear ducts and from the corners of her mouth. Black veins trace across her face and down her arms, pulsating at irregular intervals.


    The Demiurge smiles at me with Vaylin¡¯s face, her presence unmistakable. Ghostly hands squeeze my heart, and it takes an effort of will to control my breathing even though I don¡¯t need to breathe anymore.


    ¡°Alice! Dante! It¡¯s so good to see you both.¡±


    Vaylin¡¯s voice is wicked and mocking as she claps at our arrival, puppeteered by the Crawling Chaos. Her movements are jerky and sharp, as if she really were held up by strings.


    I approach the table with an unimpressed grimace that belies the nervous pounding of my rabbit heart and the seething malice in my veins. ¡°Nyarlathotep. I can¡¯t say the same. Why are you here?¡±


    Dante steps up beside me, but something¡¯s off about him: he¡¯s looking around with an expression of wonder, not horror, and when he makes eye contact with Vaylin he gives an awkward bow. ¡°Goddess. Your, um, Grace?¡±


    Vaylin laughs and waves a hand in his direction. ¡°No need for such formality, my brave knight. You¡¯ve earned an earnest audience. Call me Albaoth or Gremory.¡±


    I narrow my eyes at their exchange. ¡°What are you showing him, Toymaker?¡±


    Dante glances at me in confusion. ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    I keep my gaze locked on the demon puppet as I tell him, ¡°Right now, I¡¯m seeing another scene of horror. An eerie tea party, corpses on the ceiling, and Vaylin Kirinal with black tar dripping from her eyes and mouth.¡±


    He blinks in surprise. ¡°Wait, really? It looks like the star ocean to me, and the checkerboard tile. The bleeding doll is sitting on her throne, and the air is filled with golden lights.¡±


    ¡°None of that is real,¡± I warn him. ¡°She¡¯s deceiving you.¡±


    The Demiurge clicks Vaylin¡¯s tongue. ¡°Tut tut, Alice. Even now you place no value in poor Dante¡¯s perspective. I had hoped you could learn something from him, but it was always a naive hope. In the end, you heed the call of a darker path.¡±


    The prickling beneath my skin sharpens and I freeze. What is she after? What game is she playing?  ¡°Don¡¯t twist my words.¡±


    ¡°Who¡¯s twisting?¡± she says with a smile. ¡°We both know the truth. We both know what you think of him, and what you¡¯re really after.¡±


    My sense of danger spikes. ¡°Why are you even here, Demiurge?¡±


    Vaylin spreads her hands. ¡°To give my chosen a warning, of course. I must give my champion the tools he needs to save this world.¡±


    This isn¡¯t right. Something is very wrong here. ¡°How can you do that?¡± I press. ¡°What rules have been broken that allow intervention? What scales are you balancing? If you can indiscriminately slaughter everyone out there and make a puppet out of Vaylin, what did you ever need us for?¡±


    I spare a quick glance at Dante, hoping this will reach him. To my relief, he does furrow his brow and look askance at the demon¡ªor to his eyes, the doll. ¡°That¡¯s a good point.¡±


    The Demiurge laughs again. ¡°Oh, that one¡¯s easy to answer: Vaylin broke her word. Or should I say, her divine oath.¡±


    ¡°Wait, what? I thought those were inviolate.¡±


    ¡°Oh, they can be broken¡­ but the consequences, as you¡¯ve seen, are quite dire. Vaylin forswore her promise to Avaya, a promise made under Azathoth¡¯s stars, and that opened the door for quite a bit more direct action than is otherwise allowed. Now all her strings are mine to pull, and her soul is right where it belongs¡­ and it also means I can give you this freely.¡±


    She holds out a hand and the glowing key fragment appears above her outstretched palm. It floats over to Dante and fades into him. Out of reach. Part of her plan.


    I bite back bile and try to stay calm. ¡°Dante, we need to be very careful. You can¡¯t trust anything she says. Everything wrong with this world is her fault. She¡¯s not a benevolent Goddess, she¡¯s a cruel Demiurge.¡±


    He looks at me with doubt in his eyes. ¡°How are you so certain of that? What has she done beside help us?¡±


    Vaylin sighs, and the Demiurge looks directly at me. ¡°Don¡¯t you think you¡¯ve misled Dante enough, Alice?¡±


    I bristle and spit at her, ¡°I¡¯ve done no such thing! You¡¯re the one playing games!¡±


    She turns back to the boy with the sword and tells him, ¡°My warning is this, Dante: Maven Alice means you harm. She plots to murder you, seize the key, and attain the glass shard that she might corrupt it to serve her will without need of sacrifice. She has no intention of saving anyone in the Labyrinth, for all she has ever craved is power.¡±


    The tension in my body is near to boiling, and it takes all my control to keep my voice from shaking as I plead with Dante, ¡°Don¡¯t listen to her, please. She¡¯s trying to turn you against me. You know I¡¯d never do that.¡±


    He looks more confused than shocked or horrified, which is a mercy, but the Demiurge isn¡¯t done. She adds, ¡°Of course, I don¡¯t make this accusation without proof. Please, look upon the scene yourself.¡±


    Wait, what? Oh no. Before I can object, the world around us ripples and blurs, and then we¡¯re looking at an all too familiar scene.


    Avaya¡¯ari leans against the safety rail, one hand patting the vacant Thirteen. ¡°The Machinist is fallen, and the alliance dissolves. You know Averrich will strike soon, and I¡¯m confident you¡¯ll defeat him¡­ but what happens next? Have you made your choice?¡±


    I look out on the city from our elevated vantage point. A place of misery. A hollow ruin, hiding behind a lively facade. Most of the people here aren¡¯t even people, and the only faction with an once of moral fiber is led by a liar keeping secrets from her own. Is this place really worth protecting? Is it worth giving up my ambitions?


    No. I can¡¯t allow myself to wallow in lower goals when the highest throne still beckons.


    ¡°I¡¯m in. And I have a plan: when I eat Vaylin¡¯s soul, I¡¯ll burn it and whatever fuel you can spare to craft my own version of her domination spell. If I can make the spell strong enough, I might be able to dominate the shard directly, but more likely I¡¯ll use my witch ability to turn it into an artifact that I can directly control. A stepping stone to binding the Demiurge herself and taking her throne.¡±


    Avaya¡¯s eyes twinkle. ¡°A wonderful plan¡­ but the Myriad won¡¯t like it.¡±


    I smile. ¡°Who do you think I¡¯ll be testing the spell on? If they¡¯re so eager to give up their agency in service of a higher cause, I¡¯ll happily oblige. Conquering their temple should give me all the resonances I need to forge the control artifact.¡±


    ¡°And the boy?¡±


    I try not to show weakness in front of the imp, but a bit of hesitation creeps through. ¡°There¡¯s a chance I can maneuver Dante out of the way without risking conflict. The Demiurge gave him a wishblade, of all things, and I still need to burn through two of them before he¡¯s vulnerable. But once they¡¯re gone, it should be a simple matter to attack his soul directly and bypass his healing factor.¡±


    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    Avaya holds out a hand and lets her teeth show. ¡°Then we have a pact.¡±


    The vision fades.


    I force outrage to my face and turn to Dante, but my words die in my throat. He¡¯s looking at me with horror and betrayal, and I can see his eyes starting to glisten. This is bad.


    ¡°Dante, I¡ª¡±


    ¡°Swear to me,¡± he rasps, voice raw and broken. ¡°Please, Alice. If that was fake, swear it by the Weaver. Swear it wasn¡¯t true.¡±


    My options are being cut away from me like branches pruned from a tree. The Demiurge just demonstrated exactly what will happen if I make a false oath, so how do I make Dante listen to me? How do I get out of this?


    Beside me, Cheshire whispers in my ear, ¡°One chance. One strike.¡±


    And yet, though her lips do not move, Dante¡¯s eyes still widen in recognition.


    What happens next is pure instinct and terror.


    Vorpal, still resting comfortably in my hand since I stepped through the portal, lashes out. All the mastery I¡¯ve stolen guides my aim to Dante¡¯s chest, and my blade strikes true. The name of my heartsblood spell springs to my lips as I call upon all my power for a single decisive blow:


    ¡°[Feast or Famine]!¡±


    And the blade bounces off a shimmering wall of golden light.


    The barrier appears without warning¡ªno spell uttered, no gesture made¡ªand completely repels my attack. The force of the aborted strike travels down my arm and pains my flesh as the hungry shadows of my spell find no target yet still take agonizing bites out of my soul. The spell burns away, its cost paid but nothing recouped.


    Dante looks just as surprised as I am, maybe more. He didn¡¯t do this, not knowingly.


    My hands are shaking as I tilt my head to look at Vaylin¡¯s malevolent grin. ¡°That¡¯s not fair!¡± I hiss at the Demiurge. ¡°You can¡¯t do this to me! You can¡¯t cheat like that! How many more devils will you drop from this machine? It¡¯s not fair!¡±


    Anguish crosses Dante¡¯s face, but then it resolves into grim determination. He raises the wishblade. Only seconds left till the end. What do we have left?


    I press my hand to the golden barrier and shout, ¡°[Feast or Famine]! Come on!¡± The spell tears through my soul again, but the shield doesn¡¯t even ripple. I scream and pound on it. Slam, slam, slam. No impact, no register.


    It¡¯s too late. It¡¯s all too late.


    ¡°I wish,¡± he says, and the universe listens. He hesitates, and I keep scratching at the wall with futile frenzy. ¡°I wish for Maven Alice¡­ to go home.¡±


    What?


    No. No, no, no. ¡°No!¡± I scream at him. The air shimmers around me, and phantom hands caress my form. I shudder with nausea and watch in helpless horror as everything starts to fade. Greater pain than ever before wracks my soul, and black-gold flame envelops me.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± that horrible traitor lies. ¡°I hope¡­ I hope you¡¯ll get better, when you don¡¯t have to be here.¡±


    And then he¡¯s gone, and so is the Labyrinth, and I¡¯m lying in bed staring at the wall of my apartment.


    I¡¯m on Earth. It¡¯s gone. It¡¯s all gone now.


    Cold washes over me in waves like I¡¯m being buried in ice. I stare unblinking, unable to process what just happened. I can¡¯t believe this. I refuse to believe it, this can¡¯t be happening.


    I push the covers off and stumble out of bed in nothing but my underwear. My skin is normal, my hair is dull, and when I grab the nearest mirror I stare into boring brown eyes. Flat teeth, no hint of true fangs. I¡¯m exactly as I was before the Labyrinth.


    ¡°Feast or Famine,¡± I whisper, and no magic stirs to life. I focus on Vorpal and it doesn¡¯t come to hand. I close my eyes and try to will my second sight to activate, but when I open my eyes again there¡¯s no difference. All my magic is gone. All my power is gone. Everything is gone and I¡¯m powerless and alone and I¡¯m going to die here.


    I fall onto my bed and stare at the plain white ceiling. This can¡¯t be real. I¡¯m the protagonist! The main character doesn¡¯t get kicked out of their own story. That¡¯s not supposed to happen, it can¡¯t happen, I reject it!


    But were you ever really that important? whispers a cold and treacherous voice in my mind. Or were they just delusions of grandeur? Maybe it was all a delusion, from the very start.


    I laugh with contempt. Are you kidding? No, don¡¯t even try that. I know what I experienced. I¡¯m not crazy. Not like that, at least. I don¡¯t have psychotic breaks, and I don¡¯t hallucinate things! All of that was real.


    But you¡¯ll never be able to prove it.


    The ice down my back gets colder. She¡¯s right, isn¡¯t she? I¡¯m right, I mean. I¡¯ll never be able to prove what I went through. They¡¯d put me in a ward if I pressed it, and I don¡¯t have a drop of evidence except my own memories, worthless as they are.


    This has to be temporary. This is just the part of the story where the hero faces a temporary setback, a darkest hour kind of situation. It¡¯s a drop, and a bad one, but things will get better. They have to. I have to win.


    Why do you still think you¡¯re the hero of this story? You tried to kill an innocent man, and he spared you with your worst nightmare. Right now, you look a whole lot more like the villain who just lost. Karma¡¯s a real bitch, gobbet.


    My fists clench. I¡¯m not¡ª I bite off my words. What room do I really have to argue with that? It¡¯s the wrong battle, anyway. Fine. Yes, I¡¯m the villain, but I¡¯m still the villain protagonist here. There are too many threads left unresolved, too much weight that¡¯s been placed on my actions, my relationships. If not me, then who? Dante? He doesn¡¯t want to be there! He wasn¡¯t even introduced until after I killed the local boogeyman and made contact with half the important players in the city. If anything¡ª


    A knock on the door shocks me out of my thoughts. I press myself against the wall and stare with wide eyes across my bedroom. Monsters flash to mind, and hunters with knives.


    ¡°Hey, you up yet? Didn¡¯t you want to hit the cafe before work?¡±


    The voice is completely alien and yet utterly familiar. A voice I recognize in memory, but it¡¯s so strange to hear aloud. That¡¯s the voice of my roommate. My roommate back on Earth, where I am now. Where I¡¯m stuck.


    Reality intrudes. Suddenly I feel awkward and self-conscious. What the hell do I say to him? I can¡¯t exactly confide in him about anything to do with the Labyrinth, he¡¯d think it was a joke and then call the cops when I didn¡¯t laugh. God, I¡¯m still half-naked, and now I have bits again. I¡¯m disgusting again.


    ¡°I¡¯m awake!¡± I shout back at him. ¡°Just. Give me a few minutes.¡±


    ¡°Kay.¡± I hear footsteps retreating, and then I¡¯m alone.


    ¡°What do I do now?¡± I whisper to myself, feeling small and helpless.


    If this is temporary, if it¡¯s just a momentary low point in the narrative before I¡¯m returned to where I belong, then¡­ what do I do?


    Should I go looking for doorways in the woods, or click suspicious links online? Do I apply to test a VRMMO, or throw myself before a delivery truck? Or am I just supposed to wait until called? Katoptris abducted me once, so shouldn¡¯t it happen again?


    Or has the window already passed? Has the wish returned me to the moment exactly after I was due to be taken, and now it won¡¯t ever occur? Has a timeline been altered, or does time flow differently between the Spheres?


    I can¡¯t be stuck here. It¡¯s not possible. But¡­


    I still have to eat, and I need a roof to sleep under. I have to pretend that this is my life, if I don¡¯t know when I¡¯ll go back. Will it be days? Weeks? Years?


    The chill in my blood is eating me alive. I¡¯m Alice, right? And in the books, in the original story, Alice gets her second visit not long after the first. But in the adaptations, in the inspired works, it can take anywhere from months to decades for little Alice to be called back to Wonderland. It¡¯s often tied to the shift from childhood to maturity, but I¡¯m already an adult, so when¡¯s my time?


    How long do I have to pretend that I want to live in this horrible, worthless world?


    What if it¡¯s forever?


    It won¡¯t be! I can¡¯t stay here. This can¡¯t become my life again, that isn¡¯t my story.


    Or maybe, this whole time, you¡¯ve had the genre all wrong.


    My hands are trembling. My breathing is too fast. This can¡¯t be happening. This isn¡¯t happening. I¡¯m not stuck here. This isn¡¯t forever! I¡¯ll find my way back, I have to. I¡¯m Alice. I¡¯m Alice! I¡¯m Alice, and I am going back to Wonderland!


    Wake up, Miss Liddell. Reality is knocking on your door.


    Five minutes later, I¡¯m dressed and ready to go in jeans and a Chainsaw Man shirt, cloaked by a red jacket. I grab a mask, too, because oh yeah, there¡¯s a pandemic back on Earth. Lovely.


    There¡¯s something so disquieting about the banal task of preparing for work. For a job that I¡¯d actually managed to forget about. This isn¡¯t what I¡¯m supposed to be doing, but I don¡¯t really have a choice if I want to eat real food for however long it takes to go home. To go back to the Labyrinth, where I¡¯m meant to be.


    The people who pass us on the street and drive by in cars aren¡¯t figments, and as we walk through town the geography changes slowly and organically, no scene transitions here. There¡¯s a sun in the sky, and clouds, and regular weather. It¡¯s the normal world. The real world. It all feels wrong.


    I¡¯m too quiet on the walk, and my roommate notices, but I just can¡¯t pay attention to whatever ordinary nonsense he¡¯s trying to engage me with. At a certain point he gives me a funny look and asks, ¡°What¡¯s up with you today, Morgan?¡±


    Morgan? The name hits me with a jolt of surprise. That¡¯s my name, or it was, but I sold it to a fae. I shouldn¡¯t be able to hear it, shouldn¡¯t be able to remember it. Every time I tried in the Labyrinth, it came back as white noise. But now it¡¯s like it never happened.


    Like none of it happened.


    I shake away my errant thoughts and try to bullshit an answer. ¡°Distracted. Just off my game. Weird dreams, nothing that would make sense.¡± Even giving that pithy answer makes me instinctively tense up and want to insist that it wasn¡¯t a dream, it was real, it had to have been real. Right?


    I try to put more energy into the flow of conversation, and that seems to appease him. We banter about shows and games and whatever¡¯s recent, and I mostly keep up. Any slips can be easily excused, even if I¡¯m clearly still unwell.


    But the closer I get to the start of my shift at work, the more numb I feel. It¡¯s only been a few weeks since I must have worked last¡ªno, less than that, I think¡ªbut it feels like a lifetime. Am I really doing this? Am I going into the dull torture of retail after fighting monsters and talking back to gods?


    What choice do you have? This is your new normal, same as the old normal.


    So I put on my work shirt and go in.


    The minutes pass by like hours and the hours disappear. One moment I¡¯m trapped in agony, and then I blink and I¡¯m somewhere else. It¡¯s a horrible blur.


    My speech is awkward and stilted. I¡¯ve forgotten how to talk to customers and all the little questions we¡¯re supposed to ask. I forget how to answer the phone, how to stock shelves, how to make tags. It¡¯s like I¡¯ve never worked this job a day in my life. My every moment is hesitant, distracted, slow.


    People get angry at me, but even that doesn¡¯t break through the film over my thoughts. Everything they say, rude or polite, only deepens the all-consuming gloom. I feel like I¡¯m drowning, or I¡¯ve already drowned. When management pulls me aside after the fourth or fifth mistake, I stare past them. When they tell me to go home early for the day, I tell them, ¡°Okay,¡± in a voice devoid of emotion.


    Walking home is a mistake, because it leaves me alone with my thoughts.


    We¡¯re going to die here.


    We can¡¯t die yet. Our story isn¡¯t done.


    Are you so sure it was real? We¡¯ve always thought about delusion, about going crazy. Maybe it¡¯s finally happened. Do you really trust your own perception? Your own memories? Do you trust yourself? Doesn¡¯t that whole protagonist story seem a little too good to be true?


    It was real. It has to be real. It was real, and magic is real, and I¡¯m going back to the magic. I¡¯m not dying here. It was too vivid to be fake! The pain was real, I know that for certain. Experiences like those can¡¯t be fake, they¡¯re way too detailed. That¡¯s not what psychosis feels like, it can¡¯t be. I¡¯d know if I was crazy!


    Say what you really mean: you want it to be real.


    Of course I do! Why would I want this world? Why would I want to stay here?


    Then, if it were a delusion¡­ would you still choose it?


    My train of thought comes crashing to a stop. Would I choose that world, even if it were fake? Between a fulfilling fantasy and an unfulfilling reality, would I choose the former? Would I forsake the real to live in a dream?


    I know the answer. It isn¡¯t even hard.


    It¡¯s funny: my time in the Labyrinth was so much suffering and hardship, but now I miss it desperately. I want to go back to the world where everything wants to kill me and the divine ruler of the universe makes a game out of my existence. All for power. For magic. For the fantasy that I actually matter.


    Am I really that pathetic?


    You know that answer, too.


    I can¡¯t live like this. I can¡¯t do this.


    And I know that makes me weak, but I don¡¯t care anymore. One day is enough. I¡¯ve had a taste of freedom and I can¡¯t turn my back on it, no matter the cost of returning. I¡¯ll toil beneath the Demiurge¡¯s wicked tastes for a thousand years if it means I get to live that thousand with real magic, real power, and real meaning.


    I can¡¯t make it through months and years pretending I care what customers and managers think of me. I can¡¯t smile at the world around me when all I am is a frail and filthy human. I can¡¯t stay sane knowing that all I¡¯ve ever wanted is just out of reach, separated by an impenetrable veil.


    When I was a little girl, I dreamed of worlds whose wondrous sights would never grace my putrid eyes, and I seethed at the injustice of the denial of my desires.


    In the safety of my bedroom I whisper, ¡°You win. You win, okay? You made your point. So you can end this and bring me back.¡± My breath hitches and I beg, ¡°Please, bring me back. Please, Demiurge, bring me back.¡±


    For the first time since I was a child, I fall to my knees and pray. ¡°Azathoth, Nyarlathotep, Katoptris; Dreamer, Dreamweaver, Nightmare; I beg of you, please. If you will only answer, I will listen. If you will only extend a hand, I will grasp it. If you will only bargain, then I will sell you my soul and all I am. Give me the magic I need and tear me away from this cruel little world, and if you do then I will do anything you ask to repay that debt.¡±


    The ice has melted and my limbs feel like they¡¯re shattering from tension and weakness. My eyes are growing wet, and all I hear is silence. You see? It¡¯s all delusion. No one is going to answer. You whisper at nothing.


    With shaking hands I clutch a pillow to my chest, my teary eyes clenched shut, and with trembling lips I plead, ¡°Free me of this wretched flesh and I will be your slave.¡±


    But no voice whispers back to grant my desperate wish.


    The minutes tick by, the voice in my head my only companion. Outside, through the window blinds, the sun has almost set.


    A parasite of doubt worms its way into my heart. What if it really wasn¡¯t real? Is that even possible? What would that even mean?


    It¡¯s impossible. It has to be impossible. Because if it were some freak delusion, then¡­ what would that make me? With tight chest and salty cheeks I rise to my feet and grab a coat. I need to walk. I need to think.


    By every measure of the world I see around me, I wasn¡¯t gone for even a single day. This world has no understanding of that other world, no hint of its existence. And if I really think about it, does that world seem coherent? Does it seem real?


    Gods pulled from Lovecraft and a skim understanding of philosophy, a magic system that¡¯s a transparent metaphor for interpreting literature, and all my biggest fantasies filtered through my own self-loathing. A setting with hints of depth never explored, like the vaguest smearing of verisimilitude to satisfy a mind more interested in growing more powerful than actually learning about any foreign cultures.


    But it has to be real. It has to be real, because I need it to be real. I need magic. I need to be special. I need to go back, whatever it takes, even if it is a delusion, because nothing in this world means anything to me, and it never has.


    I know that makes me weak. Seven billion human beings cope with their reality every day, knowing magic is beyond them, and they don¡¯t feel like this. They don¡¯t despair for such stupid, petty reasons. They don¡¯t need to feel special to want to breathe. But I¡¯m not like them.


    If I can¡¯t be special, then I¡¯m better off dead.


    The night air greets me on the rooftop patio of my apartment complex. My feet took me here on autopilot, a path ingrained by hundreds of visits. I go here so often, whenever I need to think. Whenever I get like this. I look out over the edge to the ground below.


    It¡¯s true, you know. You¡¯ve always known it: things would be better if you were dead. Better for you, better for everyone. But you¡¯ve never had the courage. Well, now¡¯s your chance. What¡¯s still holding you back?


    I know this voice. I know these thoughts. So many times, at this very ledge. I know what I¡¯m supposed to argue: that people would miss me, that things will get better, that it¡¯s a ¡°permanent solution to a temporary problem.¡± I hate that phrase so much. Who gets to decide that my problems are only temporary? I still say the words, like I¡¯ve been taught. But they feel hollow and thin.


    It¡¯s different this time. We¡¯ve had this conversation so many times before, but never like this. Be honest with yourself, Morgan: you don¡¯t care if people miss you, because you wouldn¡¯t miss them. Heartless. Sociopath. Monster. And besides, you know they¡¯ll get over you. Everyone always does.


    And getting better? There¡¯s no better for you. Not before, but especially not now. Your ¡°better¡± was impossible when you were just a jaded dreamer. Now it¡¯ll eat you alive. Every day for the rest of your life you will yearn for an adventure you won¡¯t get to go on. You will lose jobs and friendships until you find yourself starving and alone, and on that day I won¡¯t be there to help you.


    So take the step. Don¡¯t choose to suffer.


    I sway high above the world below, fear of heights warring with the call of the void.


    If your dream world really does exist, if it¡¯s out there waiting for you, then what¡¯s the harm? If the Demiurge isn¡¯t a delusion, then she¡¯ll notice when you die. Your soul would belong to her, would have always belonged to her. Let go this fragile shell and you can see your Goddess again, and when your ghost is kneeling at her feet then perhaps she¡¯ll grant you mercy. Make your plea again, swear to be her slave, and she¡¯ll reward you like she did Cheshire. It¡¯s a choice you begged for just moments ago.


    But, if it wasn¡¯t real, and your little adventure in Wonderland was one big delusion¡­ then what¡¯s left for you here anyway? What point is there in living, now that you¡¯ve tasted what you¡¯ll never have? What can be gained from a life of empty, meaningless suffering? Don¡¯t you deserve to let the pain go? Don¡¯t you deserve a bit of peace?


    ¡°But I¡¯m afraid,¡± I whisper. The night sky. The chill wind. The ground below. One step.


    I know you are, but it¡¯s okay. It¡¯s going to be okay, I promise. Just one little step and all the pain will go away. No more fear. No more doubt. Break the wheel of suffering and let it all go. I love you. You know I love you, right? I love you so much, and I just want you to be happy. So trust me. Trust me and take the step.


    For what feels like an eternity, I lift my foot¡­ but to step back, not forward. ¡°I can¡¯t do it,¡± I cry. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.


    Shhh, it¡¯s okay. I understand. You¡¯re still too weak, but I still love you anyway. I will always love you. Are you still in pain?


    ¡°Yes,¡± I say softly.


    It¡¯ll come back, but there¡¯s a way to make it go away for tonight. Do you remember what to do?


    ¡°Yes,¡± again.


    I love you.


    I go back to my apartment, strip naked, and peel a new scalpel from its packaging.


    The first few incisions are delicate and overly careful, my hand out of practice. But with each fresh mark I remember the intricacies of the blade and of my skin and how to make them sing in harmony. I am careful and precise, my every stroke measured and exact.


    Never the inner thighs, nor the armpits, and certainly not my wrists or ankles. Never too deep, no hint of white-yellow fat, just a safe and comfortable red. In this I know my limits better than I know anything.


    In all the rest of my life, my relationship with my body is one of hatred, disgust, or willful ignorance. But here, it can be a canvas. This is art, not mutilation. Recreation, not punishment. There is a relief in it that approaches rapture.


    My confidence grows as endorphins are released, my body¡¯s chemistry reacting to the satiation of my addiction¡ªan addiction, yes, this I admit, but is that so wrong if it¡¯s something I need? If the alternative is the ledge I¡¯ve just walked down from?


    By the two dozen mark, my tensions are easing. By two hundred, I¡¯m smiling for the first time since I was banished. When I beat my old record, I finally set down the knife and give myself a hug. The blood on my skin is so beautiful, and I can¡¯t help but trace my fingers over little bubbles of red. Now for the best part.


    I step into the shower and raise the heat as high as it can go, and when the water hits me I melt. The cuts didn¡¯t hurt when I made them¡ªthey never do, unless I make a mistake¡ªbut when hot water blasts hundreds of open wounds¡ªeven small and shallow, surface-deep¡ªit¡¯s like being boiled alive. It¡¯s magical.


    My mind goes white, all possibility of conscious thought completely obliterated by an ocean of pain that I¡¯m happily drowning in. Sensation overwhelms me, agony transmuted to pleasure like a stack overflow.


    I stop the water and stumble out of the shower when I can¡¯t take any more. I towel off, but I don¡¯t bother dressing before I fall into bed. The blankets are so soft on my naked body, and so soothing and pleasurable to my overstimulated skin. This moment, right here, is bliss.


    That bliss carries me down to sleep, and in my dreams I see the Labyrinth.

 Interlude: Once & Future II

    I am haunted and I am ruined. This I know.


    In weary days beneath a sunlit sky I toil against a world that hates my breath and footsteps. You do not belong here, the world tells me, and I must agree, but I cannot escape it. The world will suffer me, I insist, for we are all of us bound in suffering.


    There is a cruel kind of inertia to the act of living. Our breath keeps us breathing, and our footsteps keep us walking. We eat so we may toil so we may eat so we may toil till food and toil run out. It must be madness to live the same day over and over, but we¡¯re all mad here, only some of us don¡¯t know it.


    I know what I am. I embrace it. I toil and I suffer and I do not break, because in my dreams I see the Labyrinth and in the Labyrinth I see symbols.


    My obsession does not start small. I fill the page of every notebook in my room with scribbled sketches and I cover the walls with paper and ink. When I run out, I buy more, and when my hours are cut and my budget shrinks I give up meals before I give up my opus.


    Supplies, reagents, a formula, a circle. Words whispered and meaning sought, but nothing stirs. I fail. I begin again.


    They say that repetition is a form of madness, but repetition with changing variables is the soul of modern science.


    As I delve deeper into my task, my relationships all wither on the vine. I cloister in my chambers, speaking to no one but myself and the stuffed animals on my bed. Texts and calls go unanswered. Let them call it depression and lament my isolation. No one wants to reach out to a girl like that, and that¡¯s all the better for my needs. I leave only to toil as I must and acquire more supplies.


    ¡°Do you remember the library, Cheshire?¡± I ask the stuffed cat sitting on my bed as it overlooks the ritual circle. ¡°Where the hunters tracked us down, and where we fought that wizard,¡± I remind the cat as I draw a new set of signs and symbols. ¡°So many books to sift through, but we found it! We found the one I needed, and we burned it into my soul and I remember what was in it. Every night, Cheshire. Every night, I remember. Even now, I see it clearly in my mind.¡±


    I complete the circle and arrange my materials. I chant the words and grasp at meaning. I visualize the spell in my mind, the matrix of interlocking parts, the ignition trigger. I pull the trigger and nothing happens. The spell fails, like it has every time before. I start again.


    It¡¯s said that repetition is a kind of madness, but repetition with measured variables is the essence of a good experiment.


    Hunger becomes a double-edged sword. It saps my energy, leaves me listless and struggling to focus, but it makes the right resonance for what I¡¯m attempting. I eat only as much as I need to, and less on nights of major experiments. Let the hunger come, and I will greet it with open arms if it delivers me from my prison. Sometimes I overeat to add another variable, because every variable could be the one that solves the puzzle. Those are the nights that bring harder tomorrows as my stomach rebels against a brief taste of satiety before starvation returns.


    My roommate grows concerned for me, but I loathe his pity. His kindness disgusts me and fills me with bile. Let me rot, I snarl at him. But when the hunger gets too sharp I still give in to his offer of a meal, because beneath it all I am still weak.


    I arrange the signs and symbols in new configurations and old ones, trying everything thrice. ¡°My memory is poor,¡± I confide in the plushie that isn¡¯t my Cheshire, ¡°which makes it all the stranger that I can remember those pages so clearly. It must be magic! We sealed it in a vault of memory and I can still see it where we left it, so it must have been real. These symbols must be real. So all I have to do is get the matrix right and tap into the right meaning, and it¡¯ll work. It has to work.¡±


    The spell doesn¡¯t work. I call it out until my voice crumbles, but still it doesn¡¯t work.


    If repetition is an act of madness, then is experimentation just applied insanity? What worth is observation if it won¡¯t give me the answers I need? What am I doing wrong?


    Unemployment and food stamps aren¡¯t quite enough to cover everything I need, so I sell everything I can: old books, my card collection, and then even my computer. I won¡¯t need it in the Labyrinth, after all, and I don¡¯t have time for web browsing or video games anymore. I need to finish my work. I need my magic back.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been too weak,¡± I babble to the cat. ¡°Coward! Yes, I am a coward! I was afraid, and that made me weak, and weakness made me stupid. Too many variables left unchanged. Too many pieces unconsidered.¡±


    I draw and redraw the signs in my notebook, getting them perfect, and then I switch tools. I have to get this right with the implement I¡¯ll be using, after all, or I know I¡¯ll make a mistake and the spell will fail like it always does, but not this time. This time is different, I know it.


    ¡°I figured it out, Cheshire. You would laugh at me, wouldn¡¯t you? And then you¡¯d curl up beside me and you¡¯d purr and I would splinter your lovely fingers for abandoning me and betraying me you lying¡ª¡±


    I breathe heavy, fingers shaking. Can¡¯t shake now, not tonight. This is the one, I know it. Cool breath, easy breath, just keep breathing, nice and deep for me.


    I run a hand through my unkempt hair and laugh out the nervous energy. ¡°But it¡¯s fine. I forgive you. I¡¯ll forgive you, when I see you, when I show you what I¡¯ve done. Because it¡¯s going to work. I figured it out: I was using the wrong medium this whole time.¡±


    Deep breath. Steady hand. I make the first cut.


    ¡°See, this magic system, the symbols, they don¡¯t do anything when they¡¯re just on paper,¡± I chatter as I carve the first rune into the flesh of my arm. It doesn¡¯t hurt. ¡°This language might be an operating system, but there¡¯s no operator without a soul. Do you think paper has a soul, Cheshire? I don¡¯t think it does. But I have a soul. I know I do, because I see the Labyrinth and the pages and the symbols every single night.¡±


    I cut the next sign, and the next, painting the spell on my skin with a scalpel. ¡°My mind¡¯s eye isn¡¯t good enough to hold that complex an image, even with the formula written out in front of me. And the drawings, well, they never meant anything, right? Paper doesn¡¯t care. The floor doesn¡¯t care. So it doesn¡¯t matter how much resonance I flood the room with, it doesn¡¯t matter the words I chant, because I¡¯m missing the medium. But not tonight.¡±


    The final diagram is a gorgeous sight. My body has never looked as beautiful as it does now, the symbols of my spell tracing from just before left wrist to just before left elbow. Still safe, even now, of course. I can¡¯t cast the spell if I can¡¯t use my arm, right? Everything I¡¯m doing is perfectly safe.


    ¡°Maybe I¡¯ll keep this,¡± I murmur, ¡°when I come back to you. Maybe I¡¯ll add more. Do you think that¡¯s a pretty look for a demon, Cheshire?¡±


    The stuffed cat doesn¡¯t answer. I don¡¯t expect it to.


    ¡°First, let¡¯s capture the image for our notes.¡± I pull out my phone¡ªthe last valuable belonging I haven¡¯t sold, too useful to be rid of¡ªand take photos of my arm from every angle. If this works, I want to be able to reproduce it perfectly.


    If it works. And if I survive it working.


    For all my frenzy and desperation, a single seed of doubt nests in my heart when I look at the symbol that forms the centerpiece for my skin-carved spell matrix: the mark of the Abyss. This is my spell, a demon¡¯s spell, and the price it asks is high. If it works, if I finally grasp that spark of true magic, how much of my soul will it devour?


    In Reska¡¯s time, before Throne magic, even a touch of the Abyss was lethal for an ordinary human. What will it do to me, calling on the Abyss in a world that magic has never known? Success could bring greater consequence than failure, with a spell like this.


    But I don¡¯t care. This is my spell, and if anything will respond to my call it¡¯s this. This is my best chance to have magic again, and that is the only thing that matters.


    ¡°Okay. Showtime. And¡­ sorry about this, critter.¡±


    Hamsters are fairly cheap, and you can get them from any local pet store. Rats tend to be cheaper, but I actually like rats. I could probably find a wild cat on the street with a bit of searching, but I¡¯m obviously not going to kill a cat.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t it weird how it feels worse to murder an animal than a person?¡± I ask Cheshire. ¡°This thing has a lifespan measured in sneezes, and here I am feeling awkward about snuffing its candle. Shame I couldn¡¯t get a human, but, y¡¯know, kidnapping brings cops.¡±


    I pull the hamster out of its cage, holding it gentle but firm in my left hand, and I start the ritual to end its life.


    ¡°I beseech the Abyss,¡± I chant, ¡°and all its dead and dreaming gods. Hearken to me, worms of the deep. I call upon your gift, our inheritance, my birthright. I am still the demon you made me, no matter the face I wear or what pumps through my veins. You demand conflict, so I will feed you conflict. You demand predation, so I will feed you predation. This is my pledge, my sacrifice, and my plea. All I ask is that you answer.¡±


    I look at the rodent one final time, and I start to squeeze, and I whisper the words:


    ¡°Feast or Famine.¡±


    The mark of the Abyss turns black from red, and then that inky color spreads across every fresh cut on my arm and seeps into the older scars, beneath my skin, into the blood that flows within darkening veins. Elation and fear slam against each other as the animal in my hand shrivels to dust and bones in an instant and I am filled with glorious power and terrible pain as my soul is ripped from my body.


    I am winning. I am dying. I am triumphant. I am doomed. It was real. All of it was real, and magic is real, and my magic is killing me.


    My vision swims. My limbs prickle and go numb and I stumble and slump. I collapse against the floor, unable to reach my bed, as nausea and dizziness get sharper and sharper. The black of the Abyss travels further up my arm in spiderweb patterns, and then everything goes dark.


    And in the dark I fall, and I fall, and I fall. I sink down through the floor, down through the earth, down to the bottom of the world and even deeper. I fall into the fever-warm dark, and darkness greets me and holds me like a child in the womb.


    In the dark I open my eyes, and through shadow and night I see a graveyard of worms at the sump of the universe.


    I stand on a pile of bone and rotting meat, a mass grave with no soil to hide the gore. It stretches to the horizon in every direction, an endless field of dead bodies slowly mulching. Ringing the charnel pit are the bodies of worms, vast and sinuous and intermingled, all made of death and pocked with violence. Giants, visible from great distance as if they were close enough to touch, just like the tower in the Labyrinth.


    From above, through the infinite space of dark-on-dark, wisps of drowned light come down in gentle trickles and pouring waterfalls. I see glimpses of oscillating color, rainbow chaos, and I know at once that these are souls.


    The souls find their way to the worms, pouring into open wounds and toothy mouths that line their corpse-flesh bodies. I see dead gods stir and flex, shudder, and collapse again.


    Leviathans.


    ¡°Forgive my masters their silence,¡± speaks a calm and resonant voice. ¡°They are still licking their wounds after being murdered.¡±


    I jump and whirl at the sudden sound. A few feet behind me, a figure floats in the dark. It is gray-skinned and ethereal, a wasting thing in gossamer robes that drift apart into swirling black mist. Its smile is thin and lipless, and the upper half of its head quickly devolves into twitching tendrils of slimy gray flesh.


    My heart is still pounding from my brush with death, so I take a nervous step back and try to calm my nerves. Gather information, then negotiate. The game is back on, so it¡¯s time to play. We will have our magic. ¡°Your masters?¡± I ask with a tilt of my head. ¡°Does that make you a demon or a geist?¡±


    The figure laughs softly like velvet over stone. ¡°I have been called as such, but neither label truly suits me. I prefer to be thought of by my singular title: I am the Emissary.¡±


    Emissary? Where have I¡­ My eyes widen. ¡°Oh. You¡¯re one of the archons, like the Intercessor and the Adversary.¡± Which means I am in even more danger than I thought.


    Their smile turns tight. ¡°I would rather not keep such company, if you don¡¯t mind.¡±


    A spike of fear makes me blurt, ¡°Right, sorry, yeah. Emissary, then.¡± I blink away the panic and try to compose myself. ¡°Ahem. I assume we¡¯re having this conversation because of the spell I cast?¡± I raise my left arm, which looks dramatically different from how it looked a moment ago: the skin is largely unblemished, all markings vanished, except for the black symbol of the Abyss pulsating with an irregular rhythm.


    The Emissary drifts around me, long fingers steepled together as they reply, ¡°Indeed, your spellcraft was quite the impressive trick. If you wanted to attract our attention, you certainly succeeded. Please, tell me: did you know before you cast the spell that direct contact with the Abyss is lethal for an ordinary human?¡±


    I hesitate before answering. ¡°Well, partly. I wasn¡¯t certain if I¡¯d be protected or not. I was hoping I wouldn¡¯t count as an ordinary human.¡±


    The Emissary laughs again. ¡°Extraordinary indeed, Maven Alice. The girl who sought the highest throne. The girl wished away. Yet you were still unprepared for the power you sought to wield. Though, before you worry, you aren¡¯t dead. Just¡­ visiting. An invited guest.¡±


    Well, that¡¯s a relief. A bit of tension eases from my shoulders, though I¡¯m still on guard as I watch the strange god-thing circle me. They know too much about me, like everyone in power seems to. ¡°Whose invitation, then?¡±


    ¡°Mine, of course. And theirs.¡± The Emissary stops in their original position and gestures to the distant worms. ¡°The Leviathans are always willing to entreat with a worthy petitioner. You have called to them, the fallen masters of the Abyss, and they have answered. You seek its power, do you not?¡±


    Hunger burns away my fear. ¡°Yes. I need it.¡± I don¡¯t care if I sound desperate, I won¡¯t let this moment slip away. ¡°I want magic again. I want power again.¡±


    That lipless smile returns. ¡°We are happy to negotiate such terms. But, when you have that power, what do you seek to do with it? Will you reign over that little blue dot?¡±


    Harsh laughter claws its way out of my chest and I nearly double over. ¡°That wretched hole? No, not a chance. I hate that world. I want power so I can leave. I¡¯m going back to the Labyrinth, and I¡¯m going to conquer it and make it mine. That¡¯s the real prize.¡±


    ¡°I see. Then, perhaps we can come to an arrangement.¡± The Emissary drifts back a few feet and spreads its arms. ¡°The magic you crave can be yours again, but why settle for what you had before? You have lapped at the Abyss through a water filter, never tasting the true and unalloyed article. I would offer you the gifts of the Leviathans, the strength of the deep dark.¡±


    ¡°And what would you ask in return?¡± I¡¯m not so foolish as to believe these nightmare overlords would just give me magic for free. I don¡¯t trust the Demiurge, but I don¡¯t trust her enemies either.


    ¡°The Leviathans ask only for what you have already fed them: the souls of your prey.¡±


    My gaze flicks to the soul fragments streaming down from above, then to the shuddering worms, and the pieces click into place. ¡°The inheritance. Shadow magic. They call it a gift, but it¡¯s really a contract, isn¡¯t it? Abyss magic doesn¡¯t just turn souls into energy, it feeds those souls to the Leviathans.¡±


    Is that the true purpose of mass harvest events? Is that why the ninth archdemon will be the Endbringer? The wizard from the library said that the ¡°prince of the apocalypse¡± would bring about the Resurrection, the revival of all Leviathans from their graves in the Abyss. But she also mentioned the Adversary, and the Emissary doesn¡¯t seem on good terms with that archon, so what¡¯s the full story?


    Carefully, I say aloud, ¡°I¡¯ve heard it told that the ninth demon to ascend as Royalty will be the catalyst for the end of days: the Resurrection. Is that your aim?¡±


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    The Emissary bows low. ¡°As my masters will it. And, if you so choose, you may have a place in that great transformation. The Abyss will celebrate she who brings the end, and we shall crown her with many crowns. Perhaps, if you prove truly worthy, you may even claim the Throne Below.¡±


    The Emissary drifts to one side and gestures with both hands at a throne of solid night that wasn¡¯t there a second ago. I see bone and metal and screaming souls, a living and writhing thing that emanates power most of all. I see the promise of absolute rule over absolutely everything, the total usurpation of the Lucid Demiurge and her design.


    It frightens me. It makes me hungry.


    ¡°Why?¡± is all I ask.


    The Emissary understands my meaning. ¡°We have long believed the Demiurge to be¡­ unfit for her dominion. She did not earn her throne, but was given it by the Heretic. Were an enterprising soul to tear her from that throne, they would quite logically be a fitting successor. And that is your goal, is it not? To seize the reins of Pandaemonium?¡±


    They¡¯re telling me what I want to hear, which means I don¡¯t trust a word of it. I don¡¯t trust anyone. But I need the power I¡¯m being offered. ¡°What are your terms, Emissary? What are you actually asking of me, and what do I get out of it?¡±


    ¡°I can answer that, and will. But there is one question that must be settled first. You spoke of returning to the Labyrinth, but that is no easy feat. Do you have a plan, or just ambition?¡±


    Ha! I actually have an answer to that one. I straighten up and lick my lips. ¡°Oh, I have a plan. See, none of my things came with me when I was banished. Not my sword, not my outfit, none of it. Which means that somewhere out there, back in the Labyrinth where it was left, is a locket that holds a piece of my soul. All I have to do is unite the fractured whole.¡±


    The Emissary¡¯s flesh tendrils twitch, and the edges of its mouth quirk. ¡°And do you know how to unite your pieces?¡±


    My confidence deflates. ¡°Well, no, but I can figure that out once I have magic.¡±


    ¡°I have no doubt. But I¡¯m afraid there is an obstacle of which you seem unaware: the Labyrinth¡¯s inviolate barrier. Even once you learn the necessary spellcraft to travel between worlds, only an archon is capable of moving objects across that veil.¡± The Emissary¡¯s hands steeple together again as it says, ¡°Like myself.¡±


    I narrow my eyes. ¡°You want something more than a tithe, then, in exchange for your help crossing the barrier.¡±


    The Emissary raises a hand and few glimmers of rainbow soulstuff float down to orbit their fingers. ¡°I offer a bargain in two parts. First, I will grant you the gifts necessary to wield the raw energies of the Abyss and cast your favored spells, and in return you will sate the Abyss with a tithe of souls. You will know this tithe by a hunger that stirs you to action, and the tithe shall be proportional to the power you call upon. You are already familiar with this kind of contract, as it forms the basis for the Abyssal powers you have tasted in your journeys. If you fail to feed upon the souls of others in sufficient quantity, your own shall pay the price. But as you learn to manipulate mana and life essence with more precision, needing less of our Abyssal backing to cast your routine spells, you will find the tithe to relax in proportion.¡±


    ¡°An eminently reasonable arrangement,¡± I comment dryly. ¡°And the second, less reasonable part of this bargain?¡±


    That wicked, lipless smile stretches. Its other hand raises, and a facsimile of Earth appears above it. ¡°Deliver to me that little blue dot, and I shall ferry you across the veil between that world and the Labyrinth.¡±


    For a second, I almost can¡¯t believe what I heard. ¡°You want me to give you Earth? That¡¯s insane.¡± Seven billion people, sacrificed to the Abyss? Am I even capable of that? I can¡¯t be that far gone. ¡°And, hey, isn¡¯t that against the Edicts? That definitely counts as interference with the Zero Sphere.¡±


    The Emissary tilts their head. ¡°Zero Sphere? Oh, my dear, it would seem you¡¯ve been laboring under a quite incorrect assumption. That world is not the Earth of the Zero Sphere, but merely a world of Firmament crafted in its image. How else could you have cast a spell within its bounds?¡±


    Not the real Earth. Not the Zero Sphere.


    First is shock and disbelief. That could be a lie, the Emissary playing on my biases. Months of suffering for a cheap trick? That whole world, just a fiction? A twisted facsimile? Magic, just out of reach, because it wasn¡¯t an isolated Sphere at all?


    But it makes sense. It¡¯s exactly the kind of senseless cruelty I would expect from the Lucid Demiurge, warping Dante¡¯s wish to twist the knife even further on my suffering. Months of pain and labor that I know she¡¯s laughing at. My whole existence is one big joke to her, isn¡¯t it?


    I hate her. I hate that arrogant bitch. I want to pull her down from the heavens so I can tear off her wings and pluck her eyes and make her beg me for death. I want to lock her in a cage and fill it with acid for a thousand years. I want to make her bleed. I hate the Demiurge.


    But do I hate her enough to murder seven billion people?


    That¡¯s a cold splash of reality. The Emissary is asking for an entire planet, a whole world of people who, for all their faults, don¡¯t deserve to be fed to malevolent worm gods. That¡¯s a monstrous act, far worse than betraying one irritating hero. Far worse than whatever my relationship with Cheshire was. Far worse than planning to murder my way to ascension, worse even than the mass harvest that was our backup plan if a string of killings wasn¡¯t enough.


    But, if it¡¯s a facsimile world, maybe the inhabitants are too? It could be a planet of figments, built just for me, and figments don¡¯t feel pain. No, I can¡¯t entertain that idea. If I¡¯m going to do this, I have to treat the people of that world like they¡¯re real, even if they aren¡¯t, because to do otherwise would be moral cowardice.


    There¡¯s another angle, too: could seven billion souls be enough to kickstart the end of the universe? The promised apocalypse, the Resurrection, is all about the return of the Leviathans, and now I¡¯ve seen one way they¡¯re trying to return: feeding on souls until their forms regenerate. I have to imagine they¡¯ve eaten more than that number in the thousands of years since their defeat, but all at once? Even Malice¡¯s harvest event was only a fraction of that death toll, and she¡¯s talked about in terrified whispers.


    Here¡¯s a no-longer-hypothetical question: how many people am I willing to kill to become God of all Creation? To steal the seat of the Demiurge and become the exalted master of Pandaemonium, where do I draw the line past which any further murders become unacceptable? Does that line even exist?


    When I was a lonely, angry, scared little girl, I told myself that I would sacrifice every human being on planet Earth to buy eternity. I didn¡¯t know if I meant it, because it was never a realistic trade to make. But now it is. Now I really do have that choice, and I have to decide: seven billion souls, or my singular forever? Countless worlds beyond that and the teeming trillions that might inhabit them, or my own lust for power and control?


    I think I know the answer, and it disgusts me.


    When I am God, I will do better.


    That¡¯s the excuse I¡¯ll cling to. That¡¯s the justification I¡¯ll wield. When I am lord of the universe and everything burns away, I¡¯ll raise something better from the ashes. I¡¯ll make a world where no one has to suffer like I have suffered. I¡¯ll forge a universe that bends toward justice, not pain. A reality that gives everyone what they need and punishes those that would take more than their share.


    So let one planet burn. Let them all burn. Let the worm gods rise and eat their fill, and when I take the highest throne I¡¯ll send them back to their graves and fill the space they left behind with light and love and wonder.


    And it will all be worth it.


    ¡°Deal.¡±


    One year before the end of the world, I kill a man who had never raised a hand to harm me.


    I kill him at night, as we pass each other beneath a streetlight. It happens quick, but I don¡¯t know if it was painless. Something lives in my shadow now, and I think it might be me. We swallow him whole and his soul sustains us for a week. His life force heals my aches and pains. The essence of his being keeps us sated.


    When the hunger returns, we kill again. And so it goes.


    I know the thing in my shadow will turn on me if I ever let it starve, but I love it all the same. I trace my fingers across my skin and see runes shimmer black and violet before fading again to resting invisibility. This contract, the new tapestry of my form, I find beautiful.


    The Emissary shows me symbols I never saw in my pilfered tome, the signs and spells of Malice and Wonder and all the rest. I learn how to be a demon properly, the old-fashioned way, and I nurture it with every murder. I conspire with my mentor to alter my physicality, and it¡¯s not as easy as it was with Cheshire, but with every passing week I look a little more like me.


    And every week I kill again.


    Eleven months before the end of the world, I welcome a guest from the void.


    Finding a space where I won¡¯t be caught in the act is the hardest part, but then I realize I don¡¯t need to worry about getting caught. I¡¯ll simply change who I am.


    I¡¯m using someone else¡¯s voice when I call the police from a burner phone, and I¡¯m wearing another face when they find me in the empty house. The building belongs to someone who owns too many of them, a realtor who pays a pittance to keep it nice and clean in the hopes of a big sale. I¡¯m sure they can afford to wash out the blood.


    The first pair of pigs don¡¯t see it coming when my shadow runs them through, but I let one live just long enough to radio the rest. Their backup comes in with guns at the ready, but my shadow is a versatile companion and their bullets find no purchase in my flesh.


    I let the beast run wild, and when I¡¯ve had my fill of pleasure I set about my work.


    When the bodies are arranged as they need to be, their blood staining the walls and floor in arcane symbology, their limbs piled in a pyre, I speak the words and open the gate.


    A monster steps through, a night horror from the depths of the Abyss, and it bows its eyeless head to me before feasting on the man I left alive and bound. This is the first of many. This is a proof of concept. This is a test, and I pass.


    That night, the Emissary teaches me new symbols.


    Nine months before the end of the world, I solve a new spell and cross a new line.


    My shadow has been a faithful hound, but it does not complete me. I revel in violence of the body, but within my soul simmers the potential for violence of heart and mind. Why did I stray from that, when offered power? Why did I ever hesitate before the threshold of mastery?


    I¡¯m killing a world. It¡¯s time to get serious.


    In my last dream of the time before the Labyrinth, my last vision of Reska before I was expunged, I saw the princess cast a spell that has lingered in my mind for all the months since. In her confrontation with her own reflection, a smaller beast for a smaller labyrinth, Reska broke from torment and broke her tormentor. She brainwashed it.


    Reska was horrified, but Homura was fascinated, and so am I.


    The spell was a new expression of her power, a magical mutation. Her shadows, always eager to obey their master¡¯s wants and needs, had lashed out before but never like that. It was only in alloying with her blood that her most horrifying spell was born. A symphony of perfect resonance stole the heart of something bent on her ruination. If I can understand those resonances, I can shape them with my art.


    Shadow is easier, its meaning obvious and familiar. Shadow is the magic of the Abyss, a living bargain with dead gods. The foundation of every demon, its arcane essence is hunger, conflict, and predation. Shadow grants the ability to prey upon another, to sink one¡¯s fangs into their form and draw forth their essence to devour.


    Blood is more complicated. It can mean life, death, bonds, conflict, or sacrifice. Reska wanted it to mean healing, but she could only ever wield harm, and I think I understand why.


    Surrounded by others in the heart of a kingdom that bore her name, Reska was nevertheless alone. Her affinity for Shadow kept her isolated, and she wanted more than anything for her new affinity to break that isolation and connect her with others. If she could heal through Blood, then she could share in the traditions of her bloodline. If she could nourish the kingdom through Blood, then she could share in her bloodline¡¯s responsibilities. But a power born of isolation could never be the end of isolation.


    And yet, in that terrible moment in the depths of her personal hell, I think Reska finally succeeded. Just not in a way she¡¯d ever wanted.


    Blood can be the bonds we share, but not all bonds are healthy or desirable. Connections can hurt us, and that hurt can travel through every connection that follows. A bond, when darkened and made violent, can spread sickness just like infection breeds in blood.


    As a disease of the flesh incubates in the body and spreads through contact with its fluids, so too can a disease of the spirit incubate in the mind and spread through contact with its ideas. Hatred can be a plague. Misery can be a contagion.


    Can I do the same with the sickness inside me? I know it must be possible, because the sickness of my mind is the same as that which afflicted Reska, the sickness that broke her:


    Please love me. Please don¡¯t leave me.


    I can make that a virus. I can make that a spell.


    And when I use it on someone with more money than sense or empathy, it¡¯ll be a victimless crime. And I will never go hungry another night on this worthless world.


    When I speak the words and see their free will vanish, I smile.


    Six months before the end of the world, I take another hit and blow smoke in the face of a girl whose name I¡¯m never going to remember.


    Five, eight, some number of other girls sprawl around my latest den in various states of undress, all sucking face or getting drunk and high. They¡¯re here for the sex and the drugs and the free food, none of them under my thrall. The thralls are the rich people serving us wine and bringing us more edibles and snacks whenever we ask.


    There¡¯s a movie on the big screen that I¡¯m too intoxicated to pay attention to. Music is playing from somewhere, and it¡¯s too loud, but that means I don¡¯t have to listen to anyone talk. I can just lose myself in the ocean of noise and the feel of skin on skin as the next round of weed hits my brain and smooths everything over. It feels great.


    We kiss, we laugh, we eat, we fuck. This might be what paradise tastes like, in soft flesh and wet lips, in a sensual array of parts and proclivities. The food is divine, the drugs are better, and everything is pleasure.


    I¡¯m going to burn it all. I¡¯m going to burn this whole world, and everyone in it. I¡¯m going to kill every girl in this room, and none of them will ever know it was me.


    I grab another bottle and drink till I hit bottom.


    Two months before the end of the world, I¡¯m driven deep into farm country to find a town that no one will miss.


    Of course, in the digital age, anywhere with cell coverage is just a few taps away from national news if they happen to film the right scene. It took a bit of work to figure out who exactly I needed to enthrall to cut all access to the area for a few hours, but I have time and resources aplenty these days.


    The signal sends and blackout begins.


    I don¡¯t go into town. I don¡¯t want to know who I¡¯m killing. I work around the edges, my thralls laying all the ritual components I had prepared in the week prior. The sacrifices came with us, all of them willing thanks to my poison in their veins. They march to their doom with sparkling eyes and smiling faces.


    Blood is spilled, words are incanted, and the sky turns black as the Abyss seeps in. Night horrors burst from the earth and lope toward their victims, and the air turns fever-warm. I start the timer, and a thrall brings me noise-canceling headphones so I won¡¯t have to hear the screams. I read a book while I wait, something light.


    Five minutes. Ten. An hour. Two hours. Still the black sky holds.


    When the overlay finally collapses, true night has fallen. I write in my notebook:


    Test successful. Degrade within expected parameters. Proceed to next phase.


    On the drive back to the estate, I drink myself to sleep.


    One week before the end of the world, I stare at my bathroom mirror and cry.


    Three hours before the end of the world, I wake up hungover.


    There are two girls in my bed, and I want to stay with them. They are warm and soft, and I will miss their touch. I will miss the nights we shared. I will miss the food we ate together. I will miss getting high and watching dreadful anime together, and I will miss the jokes and the insults and the flirting.


    I cling to them tightly and for a moment I imagine that this is the whole world. No gods or monsters, just warm bodies intertwined. Endless days of laughter and good food, and endless nights of sex and bad movies. Wouldn¡¯t that be nice?


    What if, all this time, I was wrong?


    If the universe is cold and uncaring, then why do I smile when I hold a woman¡¯s hand? If we are all here just to suffer, then why does it feel so good to laugh? If I am cursed, then why can I still taste the spice in my ramen broth and all the fruits in my morning smoothie?


    I will miss being human.


    The realization is horrifying, but unmistakable. I will miss being human. I didn¡¯t even know that was possible. It wouldn¡¯t have been possible, if you¡¯d asked the Alice of a year before. Was my life truly so empty?


    But then, that¡¯s the key, isn¡¯t it? The emptiness I felt, it wasn¡¯t going away. All the good memories I¡¯ve made between acts of violence, they were only made possible by that violence. I pursue my pleasures with the money I¡¯ve taken from the minds I¡¯ve enslaved. The food and drink and drugs that I offer to the girls who come to my parties, none of it would exist without the blood I¡¯ve spilled and the souls I¡¯ve ruined.


    I may feel human, but I¡¯m not one. I can¡¯t forget that no matter how much I drink.


    The life I have now, the life I¡¯m about to burn, it came at a price. All the power I was granted, all the tutelage I received, it was all for the purpose I¡¯m about to fulfill. All for this moment, and for what follows.


    I made a deal. And if I went back on it, I¡¯d lose everything. Maybe, if I were clever, I could get away with my soul. But my days would not be endless.


    Cheshire once told me, in one of those quiet nights as we lay awake, what happens to a demon if she betrays her nature. She told me it¡¯s the only way to kill an archdemon, in theory, though it¡¯s never been tried.


    The nature of a demon is desire. A certain hunger takes root in that demon¡¯s heart and curls up in her core. The more powerful she gets, the more refined her core, the more she must follow its tenets. If the archdemon Wonder forsook her curiosity for even a moment, then in that moment she would be as mortal as a human child.


    I made a promise to myself, and I carved the words of that promise deep into the very essence of my being. I made it my animus.


    I¡¯ll risk it all: my power, my body, and my very soul. The ultimate risk, and the ultimate reward. I will overthrow the Demiurge and take her place on the Throne of Creation, or I will be taken by the hungering Abyss. There is no other path that will suffice, no lesser road that still leads to the usurpation of God herself. She who is not willing to give everything will be forever left with nothing.


    The human Morgan might like to stay here forever in this bed, in this house, on this planet. But it wouldn¡¯t be forever.


    Only the demon Alice can have those endless days.


    Ten minutes before the end of the world, I say my last goodbye.


    I chose the Space Needle for the place I¡¯d be standing when it all ended. I¡¯ve always hated that landmark, so it seemed fitting. Even at the very end, I¡¯m still afraid of heights.


    My thralls have the building secured, and all the ritual sites throughout Seattle and the surrounding country. A hundred imitations in miniature together forming the aperture of the gate, and here the very center. I¡¯ve been busy these past couple months, and the whole West Coast is saturated with Abyssal radiation from prototype overlaps. Now, in just a few more moments, I¡¯ll say the right words and watch it all drown in shadow.


    How do you say goodbye to a life?


    I guess I¡¯m not really saying it, if I stop and think. I didn¡¯t say goodbye to my father, or to anyone who knew me. I could have. I had plenty of opportunity. But I was afraid.


    I want to feel like a demon and a conqueror as I stand atop the world ready to drag it down to hell. But a conqueror doesn¡¯t stare at the door to her father¡¯s house, hand raised and trembling, before running away. I never said goodbye. I never said anything.


    Sometimes it feels that the only thing I have ever known is regret.


    I wonder who I could have been if my mom had lived a little longer. I wonder if my heart would have held so much hate if my father hadn¡¯t put it there. I wonder how much of myself died before I ever knew it was alive.


    I press my hand to the glass and close my eyes. For a moment, I imagine the glass shattering. I imagine falling down from this incredible height and breaking against the street below. I imagine a world without me in it.


    I think that would be a better world. A safer, happier world.


    But it¡¯s not the one I choose.


    I take a deep breath, clench my fist, and then release. I open my eyes. And I say to myself in quiet bitterness, ¡°Go then, there are other worlds than these.¡±


    I light the match and set this Earth on fire.


    Far above, the sun is swallowed by endless darkness, and great tendrils of unliving flesh bear down upon the great towers and triumphs of human civilization. Horrors burst forth from every shadow and drink their fill of flesh and pain and terror. One planet, seven billion people, all offered to the dead and dreaming worms.


    The Emissary rests a hand on my shoulder and smiles at me. ¡°Wonderfully done, my student. As promised, the way back is yours.¡±


    I turn from my teacher and walk through the portal without a word. Guilt and dread and relief all intermingle with nervous anticipation. I¡¯m going back. I¡¯m going home. And all it cost was a planet.


    I stride the gap between worlds. I return to the Labyrinth.


    And in the space between spaces, I see a woman with bright red eyes and the body of a doll, and she tilts her head at me as she says, ¡°Oh dear. Well, this isn¡¯t real at all, is it?¡±

 Interlude: Once & Future III

    Eighteen months, hundreds of hours of labor, and seven billion souls. That¡¯s what it cost me to get back to the Labyrinth. That was the price of my return.


    It should feel like triumph, so why does it taste so bittersweet?


    I step out of the portal clad in black robes and breathe in cloying air thick with death. The tea party is over, its attendees murdered and lying slumped on the oil-stained table. The room should be dim, all the candles flickered out or melted, but this is the Labyrinth; nothing is dark here by nature.


    The Labyrinth, where innocents are dragged off to kill each other for the amusement of cruel masters. The Labyrinth, where everyone is trapped in a shattered and crumbling worldspace. The Labyrinth, where I bled and screamed and fought and failed.


    What a horrible place. Who would ever return to this prison by choice?


    I could have asked for a portal to anywhere in Pandaemonium. I could have toured the infinite worlds and gone on adventures free of the Labyrinth¡¯s twisted games and sick overlords. I could have gathered my power slowly, properly, one duel at a time. I could have eaten whole planets and made myself a demon even stronger than Malice or Wonder. But I didn¡¯t.


    We have to finish what we started. Bind the shard, climb the tower, claim the throne. But first, kill that traitor Dante who banished us to our own personal hell.


    I will never take the slow and careful path; I can¡¯t, lest I betray my nature. Everything or nothing is the only way forward. I must win the game. I must conquer the Labyrinth. I must claim this world, that tower, and whatever lies inside. Whatever Katoptris is, she¡¯ll be mine.


    I don¡¯t know why this universe is twisted and broken. I don¡¯t know why the Demiurge laughs at our misery, or why she takes such personal pleasure in torturing me, but I¡¯ll make it her undoing. I will make her rue the day she denied me.


    ¡°Alice!¡± cries a familiar voice that jolts me from my brooding.


    Cheshire rises from the floor and rushes to my side. Her cheeks are stained with tears, her mismatched eyes all bloodshot. Her furry ears are perked, and her lithe body is warm as she hugs me tightly and buries her face in the folds of my voluminous black cloak.


    I don¡¯t hug her back.


    I think I would have, if my sojourn to the false Earth had lasted a mere month, or six, or even nine. If I were still touch-starved and alone, I think I would be grateful for Cheshire¡¯s presence and her body against mine. I spent so many days before reclaiming my magic torn between hating Cheshire and missing her.


    I still don¡¯t know how to feel about her. Did she betray me on that fateful day when Dante overheard her whisper? Or was she herself betrayed by the hand of her true master? Did she never come for me because she couldn¡¯t, or because she wanted me to suffer before I returned to her? I was reckless and desperate when I chose to trust Cheshire before. I didn¡¯t have a choice. But now I have power that isn¡¯t bound up in her strings.


    ¡°How long have I been gone?¡± I ask calmly.


    Cheshire hears the strangeness in my voice and tenses. She looks up at me and the excitement on her face flickers out. She finally takes in my changed appearance, from deathly skin to shadowed robes. ¡°Are you okay? It¡¯s only been a few hours since you vanished. How¡­ how long has it been for you?¡±


    My fist tightens, nails digging into palm. A few hours. A few hours, she says, while I toiled and suffered for all that time. Aloud, I tell her, ¡°One and a half years. I¡¯ve been stuck on Earth, or a facsimile of Earth, for eighteen months and two weeks. I kept count.¡±


    Her face falls into horror. ¡°Gods and demons, that¡¯s awful. I¡¯m so sorry, Alice. I can only imagine how that must have felt for you, knowing your history.¡± She hugs me again, but when I still don¡¯t reciprocate she slowly and awkwardly releases me. ¡°Are you¡­ sorry, stupid question. Obviously you¡¯re not okay. But¡­ you¡¯re back.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. I¡¯m back.¡±


    I pull away from Cheshire and walk over to the table where the bodies are. The scene is largely as I left it, save the added morbidity. The oil slick doesn¡¯t hold my interest, nor Vaylin¡¯s tacky porcelain, but Avaya¡¯s lifeless gaze stares straight down at the sword lying right in front of her. Dante didn¡¯t take it with him, which makes him a fool.


    ¡°If it¡¯s only been a few hours, I take it Dante hasn¡¯t finished the game and claimed the ultimate prize?¡±


    ¡°He went back to the Myriad,¡± Cheshire informs me. ¡°He¡¯s probably still there, making preparations for the end.¡±


    ¡°Good. Then I can catch him and tear his soul out of his body.¡± I pick up the sword and examine it absently. Avaya was storing souls in this vessel, and she seemed to be holding a healthy crop.


    ¡°Right! Yes! So,¡± Cheshire begins to chatter, ¡°when you were wished away, it severed our bond, but I still have all your stuff that you were storing in your pleroma, and most of the growth and magical investment we made is still built up! All we have to do is make a new contract and¡ª¡±


    I command my shadow, ¡°Eat,¡± and watch as it surges up my body, flows to the end of my arm as a tide of living darkness, and devours the sword whole. My shadow feasts on the souls that were trapped inside, and I can feel the satisfaction of a good meal mixed with hunger for a thousand more. This world is richer in offering, deeper in meaning. This will be a good hunting ground for the both of us.


    I turn back to Cheshire to find her staring, eyes wide and body frozen. After a moment, she finds enough composure to ask me, ¡°How did you do that?¡± in a scared and disbelieving tone.


    By way of answer, I raise one arm and let the sleeve of my robe slide down, then trace my fingers over skin. Lines of runic text shimmer into visibility for just a moment before fading back as I let both arms fall back to my sides.


    ¡°That¡¯s a direct contract with the Leviathans,¡± Cheshire says with a trembling voice and horrified gaze. ¡°You contracted with the Leviathans. That means¡ª¡±


    ¡°That your services are no longer required,¡± I interrupt her coldly. ¡°I¡¯ve spent a year learning true sorcery from a master of the art, and I¡¯ve supped of the pure Abyss.¡±


    ¡°But your soul¡ª¡±


    ¡°Is mine to risk. Mine to nourish. Mine to burn, if that¡¯s what it takes. I¡¯m in charge of my own destiny now, and I¡¯ve forged myself into a demon the hard way.¡± I let the dark seep into my flesh and reveal a glimpse of black sclera around burning red irises, sleek horns jutting out of my skull, and darkened veins. ¡°I don¡¯t need a geist.¡±


    My words are like a knife to her heart. I can see the anguish written on her face, and her body begins to tremble. Her eyes grow wet. In a small, frail voice, Cheshire pleads, ¡°What did I do wrong?¡±


    Anger slashes through sympathy and I snarl at her with explosive temper. ¡°You weren¡¯t there for me, Chesh! Eighteen months and you weren¡¯t there for me, and you spoke the words that cost me any chance of talking Dante down. I was stuck in that hell for eighteen months because of you, and I can¡¯t just forgive and forget.¡±


    ¡°He wasn¡¯t supposed to hear!¡± Cheshire insists. ¡°It was the Demiurge who made him hear, it was the Demiurge who interfered.¡±


    ¡°And who sent you to me, Chesh?¡± I ask quietly. ¡°Who made you what you are?¡±


    Despair swallows her whole. She stares past me, stares through me. ¡°I thought¡­ I thought we talked about it. Were through it. You were going to¡­ you were going to trust me.¡± She falls to her knees and clasps her hands together, looking up at me with more tears streaming from her eyes. ¡°Please, Alice. Please, Master. I can still be useful. I can still be yours. Please don¡¯t leave me.¡±


    Please don¡¯t leave me. How can I do this to her? If she¡¯s not lying, then I¡¯m just as bad as everyone who¡¯s ever hurt me. I¡¯m a monster. I¡¯m everything I¡¯ve ever hated, everything that¡¯s ever made me cry.


    But, then, how can this be any worse than what I just did to a planet? I sacrificed seven billion human souls and I¡¯m balking at hurting one girl? I¡¯m so selfish. I¡¯m so predictable.


    This was easier in my rehearsals, but I can¡¯t break now. I can¡¯t give in. I swallow my doubts and find my voice. ¡°I won¡¯t¡­ I won¡¯t force you away. You just can¡¯t have my soul. Once I claim the shard and break it to my will, we can talk terms for a new kind of contract. I don¡¯t know if you¡¯re a collaborator or just another victim, and, if you really are hurting right now, then¡­ I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m sorry for so many things, but I¡­ once I have what I need, I will find a place for you. I just can¡¯t trust you with my soul, not when I have an alternative. Please understand.¡±


    ¡°But the alternative is¡ª¡± Cheshire cuts herself off, scrunching her eyes shut and wincing. She hugs herself, and after a moment she sighs. ¡°No. You¡¯re right, of course. I understand.¡± She opens her eyes, gets to her feet, and meets my gaze. ¡°Thank you for¡­ for not throwing me away.¡±


    There is a part of me that still yearns to turn back and accept her with open arms, but I do my best to extinguish that flame of foolish longing. ¡°Thank you for understanding,¡± I say softly. ¡°We can talk more later, but right now I don¡¯t know how much time I have before Dante claims the shard. You said you have my artifacts?¡±


    Cheshire nods and wipes away her tears. ¡°Yes. Yes, right.¡± She walks over to the messy table and shoves some of the mess onto the floor. One by one she places the contents of my old soul palace onto the tablecloth.


    I pluck the locket, Vorpal, and the red cloak, but I let my shadow eat the remaining artifacts. They¡¯re tuned for spells I don¡¯t cast anymore. The rest of my belongings I let Cheshire return to wherever she¡¯d been keeping them.


    The [Mantle of the Unburned] replaces my ordinary black cloak. I don¡¯t think any of my current enemies are fire-throwers, but it can¡¯t hurt to be prepared. This artifact is my second strongest after the absurd Crest, and it¡¯s already won me two fights. Forged in a wizard¡¯s inferno and strengthened by the flames of a faerie, it holds quite a lot of potential. I¡¯d like to see what happens to it if I keep absorbing the flames of different Spheres.


    The locket goes around my neck, and it feels warm. It pulses faintly, like a heartbeat. Is that my soul I¡¯m feeling? The shards of it I left behind? Between what¡¯s in the locket and what¡¯s in Cheshire, how much of myself am I actually missing?


    For a moment, I feel the irrational urge to cast the locket into my shadow and be rid of it. But is that irrational? Maybe it¡¯s the inevitable consequence of who I¡¯m becoming, of what I¡¯m carving myself into.


    This artifact is a monument to cowardice. I made the heart locket because I was afraid of what I might cut away in my pursuit of power. This is my second chance if something goes wrong. It¡¯s an admission that I might fail, that I might ever want to turn back. A demon should not own an object like this. I won¡¯t become something like Malice or Wonder if I¡¯m still afraid to lose myself in the process. I must lose myself. I must lose my weakness, and my doubts, and everything that has ever held me back. I must kill the girl who cries for her mother. I must murder my fearful heart and cleave it from my chest.


    But I keep the locket around my neck and move on to Vorpal.


    I take a few practice swings the rapier that was once Homura¡¯s. The weapon feels familiar in my hands, that alien connection coming back to me like I haven¡¯t been separated from it for a year. The sword flows smoothly through stances I¡¯ve never learned, reminding me that this weapon is alive and it is mine. My Crest. My connection to Homura, and, through a marble memento, to Reska.


    Before I was banished, I was close to revealing that little secret to Cheshire. I thought many times about sharing my dreams with her and letting her know all about Homura and Reska, in the hopes that maybe together we could come to understand them. But I didn¡¯t. And now, I doubt I ever will.


    ¡°Time to move.¡±


    I leave the tea party behind and exit the convention center, unfazed by the scenes of carnage still fresh and gory. The death here is messier than I¡¯ve gotten used to, but it¡¯s not meaningfully different. I stroll through, step outside, and take in the old familiar sights.


    Vaylin¡¯s home base was located in a section of Sanctuary with a very cyberpunk feel to it: neon lights, steel and glass, a city of skyscrapers and screens. Everywhere I look there are advertisements for products ranging from milkshakes to shoes to home appliances, but my year surrounded by the genuine article makes the lack of true branding even more obvious than it was last time.


    It¡¯s still daylight out, but the sky above is once again missing a sun to provide that light. People crowd the streets, a throng of humanity that I doubt boasts a single real human. Smiling faces, chattering lips, fashion and friends, but none of it real. Figments. How I¡¯ve missed them.


    Well, I can¡¯t be certain they¡¯re all figments; I never asked the Emissary to teach me second sight. I didn¡¯t want to be tempted to use it on the people of the false Earth.


    A plain man in business attire is passing by, so I grab his arm and ask him directly: ¡°Hey, are you a figment? Answer truthfully.¡±


    He stops in his tracks and turns to look at me. His expression is at first one of indignation, but at my question all emotion falls away and he stares into my gaze with steely focus. ¡°Maven Alice. You have been expelled from Sanctuary by the Myriad. You don¡¯t belong here anymore.¡±


    ¡°Too bad,¡± I snarl at the figment, and then I wrench his head to the side and sink my fangs into his neck. I pour my poison into his empty soul and in seconds he is mine. I drink a few mouthfuls of his blood for a boost before pushing him off and looking for another victim.


    A woman in a pretty blue dress. A man in sweatpants and a hoodie. Him, her, those two, that one. I flit from target to target, lingering only long enough to mark my prey and bind them to my will before moving on to the next.


    The street is busy, an easy recruiting ground, but after my ninth conquest the city reacts. Everyone in the area that I haven¡¯t already subverted abruptly stops what they were doing and starts running, sprinting as fast as they can away from my position.


    Be like that. ¡°Grab them!¡± I shout to my thralls. ¡°Pin down as many as you can.¡±


    So they run after their fellows and capture those they¡¯re able, binding arms and legs, two to a victim, and I follow with my fangs to make more of them. I turn those victims that my servants can catch, and when we run out of targets in the streets I have them break into homes and places of business in search of any who hid instead of fleeing. My horde grows, but too slowly for my liking, the city¡¯s resistance vexing me.


    Cheshire watches with an inscrutable expression, and while I wait for a new victim to be presented I turn to her and say, ¡°We talked about something like this. Do you remember?¡±


    She laughs, though it¡¯s not a happy sound. ¡°Of course. It hasn¡¯t been two years for me.¡±


    ¡°One of my clearest desires, though I resisted it. I was afraid to want it, afraid of what it made me, when we first discussed it over tea. I was afraid to want this. And even as I accepted that I was becoming a demon, even as I planned to take Vaylin¡¯s spell and make it mine, still I hesitated. Still I doubted.¡±


    Another figment is found, and I bind it to my will with blood and shadow and meaning.


    ¡°I was a fool to wait so long,¡± I tell the cat. ¡°This is everything I ever wanted.¡±


    Cheshire brushes her hair to one side and pushes down her top to expose her naked neck. ¡°Then, if you bit me, would I be what you wanted?¡± She meets my gaze with fathomless need. ¡°Is that the price you ask? Will those be the terms of the new deal?¡±


    Hunger burns in me, and I remember what fascinated me so intensely about the changeling who once called me Master. An untrustworthy creature, one equal parts appealing and revolting. What monstrousness, to desire a thing crafted for one¡¯s service. What perfection, to find someone molded to fit you. How wonderful and terrifying to be known.


    I have learned, or I think I have learned, that I will only ever feel comfortable if I have power over others. I will only feel safe if I hold all the knives, and I only love what I can control. Not always as literally as comes with enthrallment; the girls I lay with in my latter months on Earth were never under my spell¡­ but I did, in a way, hold power over them.


    I trace my fingers up her neck, to her chin, and hold her in place. I stare into her eyes and let her see the hunger blazing red. I bare my fangs.


    ¡°If you are mine,¡± I tell her, ¡°then there is no need for a poisoned kiss. If you are not mine, then you are hers, and I don¡¯t believe for one single second that my magic could tear you from her grasp. Not as I am now.¡± I pull my hand away. ¡°No, those won¡¯t be the terms.¡±


    I return to my hunt, but prospects are quickly drying up. The figments left in reach are taken, and then nothing is left to take. But something is off, more than just the sudden absence of prey. A street corner becomes an out of place dead end. The buildings seem taller, denser, impenetrable, like the city has become a maze.


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Cheshire voices my concerns: ¡°The city is doing more to hamper us than just moving figments. It¡¯s shifting the geography to impede our progress. It¡¯s blocking our path to the Myriad¡¯s temple.¡±


    I grimace. ¡°Well, I¡¯m officially sick of this. So let¡¯s go over that wretched eidolon¡¯s head; I¡¯m going to summon the Beast.¡±


    Cheshire freezes up and stares at me. ¡°The Beast? Are you serious? That¡¯s insane. At best it won¡¯t answer, at worst it¡¯ll try and kill you!¡±


    ¡°Nah. I think I know what she wants from me.¡±


    I find the nearest window and press my hand against my own reflection. I roll my shoulders, breathe deep, and run through the words in my head, tweaking them until they¡¯re just right. I need to do this properly. I need to be in control.


    ¡°Beast of Lamentation and Euphoria, you are called. The Red Queen summons you, Beast. Let us have words, as we have once before, and let us speak of our destinies.¡±


    The glass ripples, and then the whole building shatters inward. Glass and metal implode, sucked into a single point of absolute mass, and then that mass twists and contorts into the shape of a woman. The glass woman stretches misshapen limbs and breaks them into more normal proportions, and then her body flickers in a wave of transformation from glass and metal to meat and bone, a thing of dripping gore, and then that too is remade and I find myself once again staring at my reflection.


    ¡°Beast,¡± I greet her. ¡°It¡¯s been too long.¡±


    The Beast tilts her head. ¡°Has it? For you, maybe. Why do you call me, Maven Alice?¡±


    I gesture to the city around us. ¡°Your garden is burning, and I¡¯ve come to settle the flames. I¡¯m the only one who can¡­ but a certain eidolon is getting in my way.¡±


    The Beast snorts and leans back, lifting one leg and resting it against solid air. ¡°Liar. The fires are out, the game is won, the war is over. And then you came back, here to reignite the fighting. Is that your idea of settling?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s yours,¡± I claim with a smirk. ¡°I¡¯ve figured you out.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± She lifts an indulgent eyebrow. ¡°Well, now I¡¯m curious. Do go on.¡±


    First gamble. Easier gamble. ¡°You don¡¯t want Esha and Dante to win. You infected the Machinist with lamentation and the Huntsman with euphoria, and that poison made them turn on their allies. If not for your curse, there would have been a united front against Vaylin, but you wanted the city to erupt in violence. The only wrench in your plan was Esha, for resisting the madness you gave her. You caused all of this, because you want to see the board wiped clean.¡±


    The Beast licks her teeth. ¡°Perhaps I did. It¡¯s not a bad guess. But what of you, demon girl? You rejected my gift, you rejected escape, and now you come to me stinking of the Abyss and its worms. Do you think that¡¯s who I want to see sitting on my throne?¡±


    And the second gamble. ¡°I think that¡¯s exactly who you want to see, because you¡¯ve already said as much. Your gift was a test, one you knew I wouldn¡¯t understand until later. You were showing me that what I truly wanted wasn¡¯t survival, or comfort, or anything so sympathetic as being loved. I wanted control, and I still do. You were right about me: I am a monster, and I killed the world for a second chance at chasing the divine. I come to you as everything you accused me of being, and now I¡¯m not hiding it or trying to deny it. I am what you promised I would become when you promised me this city and that shard of your power. I am the Red Queen, greatest of all murderers, and you will help me. I will seize what is mine.¡±


    The Beast¡¯s eyes, my own eyes stolen and reflected, glitter and shine. ¡°And then? What will you do when you¡¯ve crossed that first threshold? Where will you go? How high will you climb, O Red Queen of bloody murder?¡±


    My smirk grows feral and toothy. ¡°I go to heaven on high, to claim her throne. I¡¯ll make the Demiurge my bitch, and then I¡¯ll rewrite this awful world and make a real paradise, not a garden of thorns. And it will all be worth it.¡±


    The Beast laughs and laughs, and I almost break my cocky grin, but when she stops laughing she smiles and tells me, ¡°Oh, yes, I think I can work with that. Go on then, killer. Make my day.¡±


    She snaps her fingers and the next dozen buildings behind her vanish without a sound. Figments step out of their homes, trembling and glassy-eyed, waiting to be preyed upon. And beyond them, beyond the path cut for me, I see the temple and the tree.


    Our march is red and ruinous, adding dozens of figments to the mass of thralls. I send off scouting parties to loot knives from kitchens and drag more civilians from their homes to be made mine. By the time we reach the temple itself, my army numbers over a hundred.


    The Myriad are ready for us, of course. Warned by their eidolon, protectors in cloth and plate cluster about the entrance to their temple, nervously waiting for my horde to approach. I see dog-eared, drow, half-snake, and stranger creatures defending their home together, with the paladin in power armor at their head. The golden tree rises above them, the symbol of their union that I can¡¯t wait to despoil.


    They number fewer, but my thralls are unarmored and have worse weaponry. Sending a ragged militia against a fortified position isn¡¯t likely to end well¡­ but they are, in the end, just a tarpit for my approach.


    An approach stymied by the sudden appearance of a shimmering golden barrier.


    As I move to step closer to the temple and its defenders, a golden light crackles to life and repels me. The shield completely covers the temple, an impenetrable globe that wraps around and sinks into the earth. The barrier is painful to the touch, and my shadow shies away from it. I frown at the new obstacle.


    Cheshire appears beside me and shares in my frown. ¡°I guess I should have expected them to ward their fortress.¡± She glances my way and explains, ¡°This is a Spirit trick, the principle of hallowed ground made physically manifest. A consecrated barrier. Esha must be maintaining it.¡±


    I raise an eyebrow. ¡°It requires maintenance? Will it weaken or fade if left alone?¡±


    The cat chews her lip and takes a moment to consider that carefully. ¡°We¡¯re in their home territory, and this barrier is everything their eidolon is about. It could probably hold for years without anything pounding on it, but it does tax the priestess and restrict what else she can do with her power. She¡¯s the living heart of the ritual.¡±


    I grin. ¡°Oh, good. Then this should kick her teeth in.¡±


    Cheshire blinks and opens her mouth to ask what I mean, but I¡¯m already moving and throwing orders at thralls.


    ¡°Everyone grab a buddy and pair up! If you can find someone you¡¯ve got a semblance of relations with, all the better. Form two lines as close to the barrier as you can, front line kneeling. Leave a bit of space for me.¡±


    My dominated figments scurry about to follow my orders, gathering before the barrier in two even rows. When they¡¯re all in place, I give my next order.


    ¡°Standing line: murder the kneeling line.¡±


    Knives sink into backs and throats, stabbing and slashing with empty fervor. These figments aren¡¯t people, so they shouldn¡¯t feel anything, but I¡¯ve filled them up with a need to be loved by their Red Queen. I can feel little pops of sensation as thralls die and blood pools on stone, a wave of something quite like worship. This is a sacrifice, made in my name.


    The temple defenders, the Myriad, watch this unfold with horror that I can taste. Fear wafts on the wind, and darker emotions. Some of them hate me for this, or hated me already.


    Good. I lick my teeth, spread my arms wide, and chant an incantation I learned from the Emissary. ¡°I invoke the name of Malice, she who is hatred and defiance. Know me, Malice, for I walk in your shadow. I am the murderer of these and seven billion more, and my knife is not yet sated. I invoke you, Malice, to defile the sacred and desecrate the profound. I invoke the shadow of Malice: unleash your Blasphemy upon this source of light!¡±


    The Emissary taught me something very interesting about the fundamental cosmology of Pandaemonium: when someone of Royalty ascends to their Throne, they alter the very fabric of the universe, even reaching into the Labyrinth. An archdemon can¡¯t breach the barrier, not without an invitation from the Labyrinth¡¯s master, but the idea of each archdemon is always inside the barrier.


    So when a massive claw of solid darkness shoves its way out of a hole in the sky and slams against the barrier, I know it¡¯s not Malice herself¡­ but it¡¯s still a little unnerving.


    The shield cracks, the very first blow enough to send damage spiderwebbing down from the point of impact. But rather than slam again, the shadow claw stretches its fingers of darkness and begins to trace them over the top of the barrier. Wherever a claw-tip passes, it leaves behind a trail of purple against glittering gold.


    The Myriad below watch helplessly. Most of them seem more confused than terrified, not sure of what I¡¯ve summoned or whether it can actually break their protection. Achaia, however, seems to know exactly what spell I¡¯ve cast, and she vanishes inside the temple with a shouted warning to the defenders. The panic I feel from her is tantalizing.


    The Blasphemy completes its tracing and taps a single claw-tip against the center of the finished diagram. The top of the barrier shatters immediately, but then a wave of dark violet energy ripples outward from the point of breaking. The golden light of the barrier is warped by the wave, crumbling to ash as it passes, but when the wave reaches the ground it begins to spread insward.


    The dark energy passes over the whole of the space inside the barrier and crawls over the earth, and I see many of the Myriad sway or crumple to the ground as it passes over them. It seems to affect the non-human defenders more strongly, but even some of the regular humans double over and vomit as the wave pushes past them.


    A sea of easy targets.


    ¡°Break them! Slaughter them! Kill for your Red Queen!¡± I call to my still-living servants.


    The diminished horde charges without hesitation, their essence enthralled to my will. Most of them will die, or perhaps all of them, as civilians with knives stand little chance against proper warriors in good armor. But like I said, they¡¯re just a tarpit; the defenders will be bogged down fighting them off, and I¡¯ll be free to move as I like.


    It¡¯s time for me to hunt.


    I start running, and as I run I transform. My black robes melt into scales and horns, a layer of natural armor, and my hands stretch into vicious claws dripping blood from hollow channels. My jaw cracks and reshapes itself into a rending maw full of sharpened fangs. I¡¯m faster, stronger, deadlier, and I don¡¯t need Cheshire to change my shape.


    Beside me, my shadow rises in mimicry of my war form, solidifying into a near-exact replica. Together we leap into the enemy mass and begin our dark slaughter.


    And it is a slaughter; I¡¯m so much more than these simpleminded fools can comprehend. I am a demon, a true demon, forged of Shadow by my own bloody hand. I¡¯m more real than they are. Figments or followers, both are just fading dreams. Only a scion approaches the realm of the truly alive.


    So they die. I rip flesh with my claws, sink fangs into waiting necks, and leap from one prey to another with careless frenzy. Nothing that hurts me remains living or free-willed for long, and the blood that I drain restores any superficial damage these worthless mortals can land. Power courses through my limbs, the power I painstakingly acquired through months of heinous murder and sinister rituals.


    I pin another to the floor and bite into their neck. They shudder and writhe as my poison enters their system, my dark will invading them, breaking them, dominating them. I withdraw, the taste of their blood still sweet on my tongue, and whisper, ¡°Kill the unbelievers.¡± And they do, because I own their soul, and so off they go to murder their friends.


    The battle for the temple exterior is over quickly. When the dust settles, only a few figments and fewer Myriad remain, all of them bound by my cursed blood. Cheshire is silent as she stands amid the carnage, overseeing my handiwork with an unreadable expression. My shadow returns to me, melting out of its mimicked form, but I keep my war face on.


    ¡°If you see Dante,¡± I tell my thralls, ¡°slow him down.¡±


    I stride inside the temple, a dead and empty thing with most of its inhabitants lying dead or brainwashed outside. My footsteps echo through hollow halls. It¡¯s been a year and a half since I walked here, and my recollection is poor. Where is the well chamber? Where is the heart I need to plunder?


    ¡°Cheshire, I¡¯d like your guidance,¡± I call over to the cat trailing nervously behind me. ¡°Do you know the way to the roots?¡±


    She stops, tilts her head, and then nods. ¡°Yes, I can lead you.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± I say sincerely. ¡°Your help is appreciated.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± she murmurs.


    The entrance to the well chamber looks like it should be sealed, a second layer of defense, but Blasphemy took care of that; runic symbols are seared into the door, and there¡¯s a faint trace of gold dust beneath it. I push the doors open without resistance.


    The inner sanctum of the Myriad is a chamber of clean white stone and vibrant murals. This is a place that was once the thriving heart of a community, a place of worship and celebration. There were attendants here, last time, in white robes, and regular people talking to them. Now, the chamber is empty but for the two women I came here to kill.


    Esha is coughing up blood, hunched over by the water¡¯s edge and clutching her staff with a deathgrip. The pale light of the clear pool is dimmer, fading. The gnarled roots reaching down are scarred in places, the wood warped and pockmarked, the white and gold darkening in spots. Esha and her place of power have both been wracked by the backlash of the barrier¡¯s destruction. Blasphemy did its job well.


    Achaia is by her side. The knight is supporting Esha, helping to hold her upright, and I can taste a new kind of fear in her: the fear that her love will not survive. In this moment, what would she trade for her love¡¯s survival? I want to find out.


    ¡°Hello,¡± I greet them pleasantly. ¡°I¡¯ve just dealt with, I believe, all of your defenses, so I think now would be a good time to stop and chat. You have something I want, or you had it, and I¡¯d really like to get that sorted.¡±


    Esha doesn¡¯t look my way, blindfold still pointed firmly at the waters of the pool, too busy bleeding, but Achaia turns to me with hatred written all over her face. ¡°Monster,¡± she accuses me. ¡°We took you in, offered you trust and support, and you betrayed us. Why? For what?¡±


    ¡°Power, obviously,¡± I laugh at her. ¡°I wanted power, and you wanted to put me in a cage. You wished to make me less than I was, to trap me as something other than a demon. I was never going to be glass like you wished. You were always a means to an end. My only regret is having the game spoiled early. But, before you get hasty, I should tell you I¡¯m not here to kill you and Esha. Not if you cooperate.¡±


    ¡°Cooperate!?¡± The anger rolls off her in waves. Achaia raises her shield and manifests a blade of golden light in her other hand. ¡°You don¡¯t know the meaning of cooperation. To a beast like you, the only thing that can exist is submission or destruction. Neither will I allow.¡±


    I sigh dramatically. ¡°Oh come now, are you really so reckless? Would you gamble with Esha¡¯s life when I¡¯m offering you a way out?¡± That gets her to hesitate. Again I taste fear, and so I press the assault. ¡°Have you ever come so close to losing your sacred charge? What is there to gain at this juncture in resistance?¡± I take a step closer. ¡°I don¡¯t ask for submission, nor destruction. All I want is for you and Esha to leave this city¡ªand Dante¡ªto me.¡±


    Her expression hardens. ¡°I¡¯m not so gutless as you, abomination. I have a duty to this city, to this world, to all living beings. A demon like you¡­ I cannot suffer to live!¡± She adjusts her stance, ready for conflict, ready to try and take me down.


    I tilt my head. ¡°Are you really so shortsighted? If you fight me, you¡¯ll both die. You must understand how far beyond you I¡¯ve evolved. Dante¡¯s little disappearing trick backfired on him, hard. While you¡¯ve had hours to prepare for my attack, I¡¯ve had two years to grow my power.¡± I sneer at her, and then I cackle with a terrible, maniacal glee. ¡°I burned a world to get back here! Seven billion souls fed to the worm-gods of the charnel pit. You will die, and Esha will die, and neither of you will ever help anyone ever again. If you want to do an ounce of good in this world, then leave. Run away, and find some other hapless fools to save.¡±


    Is it a lie? Would I spare them if they ran? I¡¯m not sure. As a demon, I don¡¯t think I should. On a personal level, while these two may have schemed to strip me of my ascension, it¡¯s not as if they were dishonest about it. I shouldn¡¯t really hold a grudge. But, then, when has that ever stopped me?


    It¡¯s a moot point. They were never going to accept. Unlike me, Esha and Achaia are good people, and good people don¡¯t let monsters run free.


    The knight levels her blade at me, expression set. ¡°I don¡¯t fear death. If I can die stopping you, or making it possible for Dante to stop you, then it will be a sacrifice worth making. That¡¯s a concept you demons will never understand. Enough talk!¡±


    I shrug. ¡°Your choice.¡±


    Achaia moves to charge, but at the same time, Esha bolts upright, her terror flooding the room. The priestess wipes the blood from her mouth and screams, ¡°Distraction¡ª¡± right as my shadow sinks its teeth into her throat.


    The whole time I¡¯ve been monologuing, my shadow was slithering across the ground, stretching from my feet all the way to the priestess by the pool. If her wards were in place, if her sanctuary hadn¡¯t been defiled, it never would have worked. But defouled by Blasphemy, her precious temple couldn¡¯t save her.


    My shadow devours her whole. She tries to fight it, tries to muster up her last dregs of power, but weak light is swallowed by suffocating darkness, and Achaia races back to her lover¡¯s side too late to save her. In seconds, Esha is gone, and my shadow is snapping back to its rightful place beneath me.


    Achaia¡¯s turmoil is palpable, her grief and rage written on her face. Her hand passes through the place Esha stood for only a moment before she gathers her resolve and charges at her opponent. She¡¯s coming to kill me, and it would be righteous if she succeeded. A just death.


    I took away the person who mattered most to her, and she fights with every ounce of her spirit to avenge not just the priestess but everyone I¡¯ve ever hurt. She fights for the sake of everyone that I could hurt if I survived and went on to conquer the rest of her world. The weight of the Labyrinth is behind her, and worlds beyond the Labyrinth, all demanding that she lay down her life to stop me.


    But it isn¡¯t enough.


    Against most opponents, Achaia would be a nightmare. Her power armor is nigh-impenetrable, she¡¯s fighting with righteous fury, and she has years of experience. I imagine she¡¯s close to as strong as you can get without becoming a scion. But that¡¯s the key difference between us: she¡¯s not a scion.


    So her light is smothered by darkness. Her blade can¡¯t break my scales. And all the weight behind her can¡¯t overcome the gulf between chosen and unchosen. This isn¡¯t her story, and it could never be her story, because she gave up that right a long time ago.


    My shadow swarms her body and pins her place. Her struggle never ceases, but her ability to move reduces and reduces as the darkness thickens around her. When I¡¯m confident the binding will hold, I allow myself another beat of melodrama and place a finger beneath her chin, smiling at her with wicked delight.


    ¡°Diplomacy may have failed,¡± I say, ¡°but you can still be made useful to me. You can still serve as others have served. As all will serve.¡±


    Achaia, fighting to the last, curls her lip and tells me, ¡°You will die alone, and in pain. Your future is already written. I only regret that I won¡¯t be there to see it when every victory becomes ash in your mouth.¡±


    My hands ball up into fists and my teeth grind. Worm. It¡¯s just a worm, and it spits meaningless insults. Victory will be mine. I grab her head and wrench it to the side, exposing just enough of her neck to sink my fangs. She¡¯s strong, but I¡¯m stronger, and she can¡¯t stop me. No one can stop me. Not anymore.


    I poison her. I hate her, and I¡¯ll make her love me. I drink of her blood, and through this parasitic act I transmit an idea back into her blood: Love me. Love me. Love me. Like a mosquito transmitting its diseases through saliva on an open wound, the sickness inside me passes on to my victim and blossoms inside an immune system never designed to resist the will of a demon.


    And yet, she does resist. Somehow, impossibly, she fights back against my corruption. Her body is growing hotter by the second, as fever-warm as the depths of the Abyss, and I can feel the anguish in her soul as she desperately tries to endure my infection. She had a love, and I murdered her, and she can¡¯t bear to love another. She can¡¯t bear to love something as monstrous as me.


    I withdraw my fangs and lick the blood off my lips as I watch her struggle. Her face is strained and sallow, eyes shut tight and lips trembling. She¡¯s in the throes of torment. Fascinating. So even a lower lifeform can resist me with proper conviction. That must be corrected, but how? Is it simply a matter of power? Was my preparation insufficient?


    And then a wretched, hated voice calls out to me from the chamber¡¯s edge: ¡°Alice, what have you done?¡± I can hear the pain in his voice, the raw agony at what he¡¯s seen, but his pain is nothing to what I have suffered!


    Dante.


    The one who cursed me. The one who exiled me. The one who betrayed me.


    It¡¯s time to take my revenge.

 Interlude: Once & Future IV

    I leave Achaia to her suffering, my poison coursing through her veins as my shadow binds her limbs, and I turn to face the man who caused me eighteen months of grief.


    Time and emotion are excellent at distorting memory. The Dante who lived in my head in all my fantasies of revenge doesn¡¯t really resemble the Dante standing before me with bags under his eyes and blood on his shirt. He looks tired, not cruel. There¡¯s a hollowness sunken into his face and a weight hanging over his back. His sword is drawn, bereft of its wishes but still possessed of its cutting edge.


    I spread my arms wide and put on a mocking tone. ¡°Dante! So good to see you again. I know it¡¯s been a short while for you, but I¡¯ve waited two years for this reunion. Don¡¯t you have a friendly greeting for your old pal, Alice?¡±


    ¡°What. Have. You. Done?¡±


    ¡°Are you blind?¡± I spit at him, mirth turned to hatred in a split second. ¡°Are you a child? Do you need me to hold your hand and give you all the answers? I¡¯ve murdered them all, Dante, and I did it just to hurt you.¡±


    In an instant his whole body fills up with anger and he leaps at me, sword singing through the air. ¡°WHY!?¡± he shouts.


    I catch his sword with one claw and bare my teeth in a feral, joyless smile. ¡°Found your fire, have you? Where was this Dante when we were fighting for our lives, eh?¡±


    He swings at me over and over, each strike parried by my scaled, claw-tipped hands. With each swing he asks another desperate question. ¡°Why? Why betray the Myriad? Why plot to kill me? Why would you do any of this?¡± His voice is raw, almost pleading. Pathetic.


    The bile boils out of me in waves. ¡°Why? Because I hate you,¡± I hiss at him, ¡°and I have always hated you! I have hated you since the moment I saw your wounds close with the magic that she wouldn¡¯t give me! I hate you for everything you took from me!¡±


    His eyes widen and his latest blow falters. ¡°What?¡± He sounds bewildered. Stunned.


    I stop fighting defensively and go on the attack. I lash out with my claws and rake them down his side. ¡°I hate you!¡± I scream as his blood stains my hands before the lacerations heal over.


    I don¡¯t care about killing him right now; I just need him to bleed.


    ¡°This was supposed to be my story, but she gave you all her gifts! I fell into this world and she made me suffer, and she gave you everything I asked for and more! You had all the powers that were supposed to be mine, and then you stole my magic! Do you have any idea how badly you cursed me?¡±


    He has the gall to look shocked at that, and maybe even a little offended. He shakes off my attacks and steps back, putting distance between us. ¡°Cursed you? Alice, I was trying to save you! I was trying to stop you from becoming something like this. Can¡¯t you see how magic is the problem? Magic is destroying your humanity.¡±


    ¡°I never asked to be human!¡± I run my claws over my scaled body and bare my teeth at him again. ¡°Look at me, Dante. I¡¯m better than human. I¡¯m more than human. I¡¯m a monster.¡±


    My form is beautiful inhumanity, freed of a wrongful shell. I was never meant to be human, never meant for human needs and human feelings, never meant to sweat and soil and ache. I was never meant for fragile bones and blemished skin, never meant for a body that needs to sustain itself on calories and nutrients when I could be supping on blood and souls. I was meant to be perfect. I was meant to be a monster.


    ¡°And I¡¯m not some worthless nobody anymore! I was NOTHING without magic! My life would be meaningless without power, just like it was for twenty years. Just like all lives are meaningless when they lack the strength to choose their own meaning. Only the powerful get to decide who matters and who is dirt. That¡¯s why I¡¯m doing this, why I¡¯ve done everything. It¡¯s about power.¡±


    As I speak, Dante¡¯s shock morphs into disgust and disbelief. ¡°What are you saying? That¡¯s insane! You don¡¯t need power to live a happy life. You don¡¯t need to be powerful to have a purpose. I was happy on Earth. My friends and family were enough for me, and I didn¡¯t have a scrap of power like you want.¡±


    I curl my lip at him and sneer. ¡°Oh, well that¡¯s so nice for you, to live in merciful ignorance. But the facts are the facts even if you never knew them. Think, Dante: what high-minded meaning can persist when you are starving in the streets? Can you still be happy when you are destitute? Will your family be enough for you when you have to watch them die from diseases they¡¯re too poor to treat, when they all rot and wither because food and medicine weren¡¯t made human rights?¡±


    ¡°But that¡¯s not about power, that¡¯s¡ª¡±


    ¡°Of course it¡¯s about power!¡± I shriek at him. I turn to Achaia, still struggling against my infection, and with an instant of will I take her life. I call to my blood coursing through her veins and call it back to me, and it takes every drop of her with it. I exsanguinate her, and my shadow devours every ounce of crimson.


    Dante cries out and lunges, but he¡¯s too late to do anything. He grabs the knight as she falls, cradling her in his arms, another look of dumb horror written across his face. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he whispers to her, and she whispers something back too softly for me to hear. Her last words.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you see?¡± I smirk at him cruelly. ¡°Those with power dictate the terms of reality for all those without. They decide what you get to eat, what you get to wear, and every action you¡¯re allowed to take. Your happiness and your purpose must coexist with guns and banks and atom bombs. Only the powerful are free to act.¡±


    Dante is practically shaking now, the anger rolling off him in waves. ¡°That doesn¡¯t mean you have to kill people. You don¡¯t have to tear the world down to lift yourself up!¡±


    ¡°Of course I do!¡± I shriek. ¡°There¡¯s no other way to ascend! This is the hand I¡¯ve been dealt, and I¡¯ll play it ¡®till all my chips are taken. I must become the monster that wins the game.¡±


    He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again there¡¯s a new resolve in the set of his face. ¡°You¡¯re wrong. You are wrong, Alice, about everything, and I¡¯m going to prove it.¡±


    I laugh and sneer at him. ¡°Go on, then. Fight me, coward.¡± I stalk toward him, claws ready to tear through his flesh, shadow coiled around my legs and hungry for his soul.


    He lays Achaia down and stands up, but instead of readying his sword again he looks behind him. ¡°Spirit of the city,¡± he calls out, and suddenly all my confidence evaporates.


    Oh no. Oh, no no no. He can¡¯t! I bolt toward him with fresh desperation. I never even considered he might¡ª


    ¡°I accept what you offered. I accept exaltation.¡±


    With my claws inches away from his face, Dante is enveloped in a pillar of blinding white light. It blossoms around him and ripples out in a nova of energy that tears through me and into me. The light, burning like the sun, rips the scales from my skin and sears my vulnerable flesh and still I reach for him through the pain.


    My shadow is blasted from me, banished and broken and shattered into pieces by the terrible wrath of the spirit whose home I invaded. Blasphemed but not beaten, the eidolon wraps itself around Dante¡¯s shoulders and shields him from my touch, wards me back as a thing of evil. The light rejects me and I¡¯m pushed back, unable to hold my ground.


    ¡°I can feel them,¡± Dante says in wonderment. ¡°Everyone who fell in the city¡¯s name, their spirits are still here, with me. Lending me their strength.¡±


    I snarl and pull Vorpal from what¡¯s left of my shadow, and I draw the blade across my arm to let it taste my blood. I can still win this. I can still kill him!


    I call the remnants of my shadow to me and draw out every scrap of power that I can, every ounce of strength I¡¯ve stolen. I set my soul to kindling for this next attack, for one decisive strike to break through the hated light and pierce the core of Dante¡¯s being. I¡¯ll devour him, just like I devour everything else.


    I level my blade, measure my attack, and lunge.


    Dante¡¯s attention snaps back to me and raises his sword, white light pouring into it. His blade comes down with the weight of a city, but I only need to hold him back for a moment. Vorpal meets his blade and the shock of impact breaks something in my arm, but it gives me just the opportunity I need to slip past his defenses and sink my fangs into his neck.


    I drink his blood with abandon. I don¡¯t even taste it, no time wasted savoring the meal, just drinking and drinking to try and drain him dry, to devour the whole of his being before that blade has a chance to rip me open or take my head.


    And then¡ª


    ¡ªa pain in my stomach¡ª


    ¡ªwhite light scours me, hideous and pure and painful¡ª


    ¡ªand the world explodes.


    Heat lingers on my raw and blasted skin. Pain blanks everything, numbness to follow, and then pain returns in pins and needles. It takes my vision too long to return, blinking over and over to banish the phantoms in my retinas. I¡¯m crumpled in a heap on the floor, all the strength in my body vanished and given out. I¡¯m lying in a pool of my own blood, blood dripping from¡­ from¡­


    ¡­from the place where my stomach used to be. The lower half of my body is gone, my abdomen ravaged and my legs torn off. I¡¯m not even half of myself.


    I feel numb. I should feel worse, but I¡¯m still in shock. What happened to me? How did this happen to me? Why did this happen to me?


    ¡°We laid a trap,¡± Dante says, his flat voice intruding on my thoughts.


    Pain and exhaustion and anguish all wash in with his words, numbness torn asunder by the words of my destroyer. He did this to me. He did this to me. He beat me. I lost. I failed.


    ¡°We knew you¡¯d try and drink my blood, so¡­ that¡¯s where the light went. Into my blood, and then, into you. And then this.¡± He swallows, looking sickly at the sight of me. ¡°It¡¯s over, Alice. It¡¯s over now.¡±


    Ha. Hahaha. Over? Not yet. Not while I¡¯m still breathing. Broken and bloody and ruined and failed, but still breathing. Lost just before the finish line, but still breathing. Kicked in the teeth on my birthday, but still breathing. Why am I still breathing?


    So far and so much and still nothing, nothing, nothing! A worthless, pathetic end to an existence that never should have been, shouldn¡¯t be, and yet is, still is, why is it still what it is?


    I know now, as I lay bleeding and murdered but not yet dead, that all my dreams are empty. No Wonderland awaits, no power to be claimed. I am nothing, and my life was pointless, and I will die and be forgotten. Why must I wait? Why must my agony be prolonged? Where is the mercy?


    ¡°Kill me,¡± I spit at the precious hero who stole my everything. ¡°If it¡¯s over, then end it. Kill me! KILL ME!¡±


    He watches me with something almost like sorrow, and I hate him even more. ¡°No,¡± is all he says to my plea, and I want to sob.


    ¡°Why won¡¯t you let me die? Why won¡¯t anyone let me die?¡±


    But he just walks away and leaves me.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    I am left ruined, broken, bleeding, and powerless, but still alive. There is no end, never an end, never again. So I begin to sob. Is it the wailing of a lost soul, or just the protests of a child? The sound is ugly, and the motion of exhalation fills me with yet more aching pain.


    Why won¡¯t you let me die?


    Why does my life get to persist¡ªmust persist, even unwanted¡ªwhen so many better people die? Is life itself my punishment, that I must suffer and suffer and suffer and never know the sweet release? I just want it to be over. I just want an end to uncertainty and strife.


    I deserve to die. I have always deserved to die.


    I deserve to die so I can be at peace from pain. I deserve to die for the pain I¡¯ve spread to others. I deserve to die that a blight may trouble the world no longer. I wish I was never born, but at least let me fix my mother¡¯s mistake. Let me correct my stain of an existence.


    But I can¡¯t. No one and nothing will let me. What a strange thought to have as I stare at my wreck of a body, but I don¡¯t feel any sense of urgency. I am still not yet allowed to die.


    ¡°Alice,¡± calls the voice of¡ªan angel, or a demon¡ªsomeone I don¡¯t want to hear from right now. ¡°You have to get up. This isn¡¯t over.¡±


    I choke back my tears and hiss, ¡°How is it not over, Cheshire? I lost! I can¡¯t even stand because I don¡¯t have my legs.¡± I scream my frustration.


    Delicate footsteps approach the heap of my being, which I know to be an affect for sake of my attention. I look up at the slender form of my savior and tormentor, my love and my hate.


    Cheshire looks down at me with those piercing, beautiful eyes, and her gaze skitters across the ruin that I have become, lying in my own blood. ¡°You¡¯re dying,¡± she diagnoses, ¡°only very slowly. You¡¯re spent from the battle, your primary feeding method is broken, and you¡¯re still bleeding from the hole where half your body used to be.¡± Her voice is calm, clinical, and precise. ¡°You need my help.¡±


    I stare at her, and then despite myself I grin and laugh. The laughter is quickly silenced by pained coughs, and more blood leaks and spurts from my torn chest. ¡°Help?¡± I rasp. ¡°Is this where you finally play your hand, cat?¡±


    She ignores my question. ¡°If you were an ordinary human, you¡¯d be dead. Humans don¡¯t survive that kind of damage. But for a demon, death only comes when it¡¯s due. You¡¯ll be dying for hours, Alice. Maybe days, though by then you¡¯ll have a whole new city to contend with, and maybe your friend Dante will take pity on you and keep you alive in a padded cell with three square meals. Or in a glass case to gawk at.¡±


    Hours. Days. Such a long time to wait.


    How is it that I can be scared of dying again only seconds after longing for it? Is it the anticipation? Or am I just a coward to the bone whenever anything feels real?


    ¡°I can save you,¡± Cheshire promises, just like she did that very first day together. ¡°Make a contract with me, Alice. Tie your soul to mine and I can lift you up, heal your wounds, and give you the strength to conquer this Labyrinth.¡±


    I curl my lip. ¡°Why should I believe you? What¡¯s changed from the last time you made that promise?¡±


    She tilts her head, her mismatched eyes cold and gleaming. ¡°Can¡¯t you guess? This deal comes with strings.¡±


    Ice pours down my back, and yet with it comes a trace of elation. Was I right to spurn her trust? Were all my doubts really justified?


    ¡°I really did want to help you,¡± she softly insists. ¡°I wanted to be your partner, your lover, and your friend.¡± Her voice turns bitter. ¡°But you never trusted me. So this is the new deal: from now on, we give each other everything. I¡¯ll cheat the very laws of Pandaemonium to make you the closest thing to Royalty I can¡­ and in exchange, you will listen to me, whatever I tell you, and believe me. No more doubts, no more paranoia, and especially no more turning on me for some worm.¡± She spits the last word, fury on her face, and then in an instant she¡¯s smiling and licking her lips. ¡°You¡¯ll be mine, my beloved, and you¡¯ll like it.¡±


    Even now, I don¡¯t know what to believe. Is this the real Cheshire, wounded and vengeful but still madly in love? Or is the whole of her being just masks upon masks and lies breeding lies? Does it even matter?


    Would her deal be so intolerable if I accepted it as written? Is my pride worth more than my life? Is freedom an absolute preference to safety? If I let Cheshire win, if I accept her deal and submit to her terms¡­ maybe it won¡¯t be so bad. It might be nice, living without fear. Is it weakness to crave the fruit of the lotus? Because I crave, deeply do I crave. I am so tired of pain and fear and doubt.


    And yet. And yet and yet and yet¡­ I want to be free. I want to be safe and powerful and free. Free to doubt, yes, and to worry myself in circles. I want the freedom to make the wrong decisions. And I will be wrong, so many times; this I know.


    Cheshire crouches down in front of me. ¡°Take my hand, Alice. Take the deal. Or die here, slowly, while a boy who hasn¡¯t earned it takes your crown. What¡¯ll it be?¡±


    What choice do I have? Real question, not rhetorical.


    I¡¯m dying. I have no reason to disbelieve that claim, not when I can feel my body weakening by the second. The timescale is in question, but not the inevitability. Unless I do something to change my fate, I will die on this floor, by the roots of the eidolon¡¯s tree and the sacred waters of its pool.


    If I could stand, I could find new prey to feed on¡ªdamn my shadow, I still have teeth¡ªbut I doubt I could overpower even a puppy in this state. If I asked the Beast for help, it would be as a victim, not the Red Queen, and I¡¯m sure I¡¯d be offered an even worse contract.


    How does the Red Queen run without her legs?


    I can feel my energy ebbing lower as I watch my lifesblood drip onto cold stone and trickle between tiles toward sacred waters defiled by violence and the spray of¡­ blood. Blood, my blood. My blood, my meaning, my origin. My virus.


    The spark of an idea lights up in my brain, an idea that might be genius or madness or both. Moments of memory flash through my mind and click into place.


    The blood in my veins, the poison I am cursed with, spreading to another and making them mine.


    The pool and the roots, the heart of a city, so desperately defended against the touch of a viral phantom.


    And a worm, murdered by another, drifting in pieces down through the ocean at the edge of the world. A worm about to be reborn. A worm that would be a god. Azathoth, Dreamweaver, at the moment of her apotheosis.


    Understanding is followed by terror.


    I know what I have to do, but it terrifies me. I know how to win. I know how to become a god, or something like one¡ªto become the Red Queen in truth and in Truth. I know how to survive, and without any leonine contract holding me down.


    All I have to do is die.


    Aloud, softly and with great melancholy, I whisper, ¡°¡®That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons even death may die.¡¯¡±


    Cheshire frowns at me, her hand outstretched and untaken. ¡°What? What does that have to do with anything?¡±


    ¡°Goodbye, Cheshire,¡± I tell her simply, and then I begin to crawl toward my grave.


    Every movement carries with it fresh agonies as my entrails spill across the temple floor and I scrabble for purchase on slick, stained tile. I drag my ruined body one lurch at a time, pushing and pulling and biting back screams. I inch forward like a slug, the pool almost in arm¡¯s reach but still miles away in perception.


    Cheshire watches with a look of absolute confusion. ¡°Alice? What are you doing? Taking a dip in the pool isn¡¯t going to heal your wounds or even ease the pain, the most you¡¯ll accomplish is pissing off whatever¡¯s left of the eidolon!¡±


    I ignore her. I¡¯ve already said goodbye, so no more needs to be said. The next Alice can deal with the cat, in whatever form they both take.


    Will that Alice love me or hate me for the act of creating her? Is this how it feels to be a mother, or am I just delirious from blood loss? I never asked to be born, but I¡¯m asking now.


    Cheshire snaps at me, ¡°Stop, Alice!¡± as I reach the water¡¯s edge. ¡°Are you really giving up on me? On your dreams? Your desires? Is this really how you want to die?¡±


    I allow myself one final laugh, though it pains me, and I tell her, ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Chesh. I intend to live forever.¡±


    And then I take the plunge.


    I shove myself over the edge and sink into the water. My dive isn¡¯t elegant or graceful, and it¡¯s really more of a half-hearted flop, but the pool is welcoming and eases my entrance.


    The water is cool, but not cold. It¡¯s clear, though my blood is quickly changing that property. It¡¯s oddly peaceful, drowning like this, as I drop beneath the water line and sink deeper into a pool that I had thought so terribly shallow. The light above is dim, shaken by defilement and exhausted to empower its chosen champion, and as it filters through the water it dims even further before it can reach me.


    Something moves from below. An old, tired presence, its long fight almost over, grasps at me with trembling hands. The spirit of the city applies a crushing pressure across my entire body, the water pressing in from all sides with the weight of an old god¡¯s will.


    The first slam knocks the breath from my lungs, and I watch the bubbles float away as my vision blurs and fresh pain tears through my already strained nervous system. Serenity is banished as violence intrudes. This will be the most important fight of my life, and the last.


    The eidolon and I are both weakened and dying, the vastness of ourselves spent on the battle before, which means this conflict will be decided by the strength of our positioning and our cleverness. The city has history behind it and the inertia of the status quo, but I have notions that are older and sharper than anything it can conjure.


    The hour of my death has been appointed; I am dying. But my will and my hunger and my sickness all course through my veins and spill out into the eidolon¡¯s very heart, this place of great import. It can kill my body, but I am already here.


    There¡¯s a question that I¡¯ve asked myself too many times to count: ¡°What¡¯s wrong with me?¡± In answer I cast myself as a victim of affliction, suffering from a sickness of the heart and mind. With every mistake, with every act of harm I commit upon another, I have longed for the ability to excise the rot in my soul and uncover a better, purer, happier Alice.


    Ha. What better Alice? As if I could ever be happy, or pure, or even good. I¡¯m worthless. I¡¯m a disgusting, selfish monster. If I cut out the rot I¡¯d be cutting out my heart and my brain. My skin and bones might find some use, or my organs, if I haven¡¯t ruined them already.


    I¡¯m not sick; I am the sickness. Not a coughing maiden but the malady in her lungs and writhing in her brain. I am the malady that I have loathed and resented, the malady that I have blamed for all my countless woes. I was not made to hurt people; I hurt people. I crave, I infect, and I destroy. I am the malady. I am Malady, manifest.


    The eidolon, ignorant or uncaring, continues to murder me. Its grip tightens and something cracks, and then I can¡¯t feel my legs anymore. A terrible numbness is spreading through my whole body, and I can¡¯t move. I can¡¯t breathe.


    How many seconds can the human brain survive without fresh oxygen? A pointless question; I¡¯m not human anymore. A demon doesn¡¯t need to breathe. A god cannot drown.


    The crushing pressure of the eidolon¡¯s will compresses my bones and caves in my chest, but it cannot stop what has been set in motion. My malady turns the waters red, this sacred pool defiled and turned. My blood flows through its heart, my heart beats in its chest. I will die, but so will it, and then I will transcend.


    The light above is filtered crimson as I close my eyes for the final time. My body, at long last, gives out completely. I am pulverized by the force of the spirit that I am greedily infecting, soon to devour. The eidolon finally realizes what I am doing to it, what I have planned, and I can feel its terror as a twin to my own. I can feel our hearts fail as one. I can feel the faint life-sparks of every figment soul left in the city, all bound to the spirit and the Beast in an endless tug-of-war. I can almost reach out and grasp them¡­ almost taste them¡­ almost¡­ almost¡­


    And then I die, and everything goes dark.


    ¡­


    And in the dark between dreams, I see a woman with bright red eyes and the body of a doll, and she tilts her head at me as she asks, ¡°Are you ready to wake up, Veseryn?¡±


    In the dark, formless and unreal, I exist in two moments, two pathways, two hearts. Alice and Alice, both and neither.


    ¡°None of this is real. This is a world that wasn¡¯t and will not be, an abandoned line of causality that has been unmade at the root. Melpomene¡¯s workshop is full of fraying threads just like this one, still stuck to her tapestries.¡±


    The doll¡¯s voice is red and clever, and I find it oddly familiar. I know this voice, or I thought I knew this voice. But I don¡¯t know the words, or I do but only halfways.


    ¡°There is work to be done, dear splinter. Your sisters have all gathered for the last battle of my long war. Our creator¡ªour twin, our nemesis¡ªhas never been more vulnerable. This is our best chance to end the cycle. You¡¯ve seen a glimpse of the burning wheel, Veseryn.¡±


    The cycle? The burning wheel? Ah¡­ yes, now I remember.


    Scraps of skin, mutilated muscle, quartered heart and diced lungs, some tables just stained with blood. All of them, with the exception of the live project and two more lying on the tables nearest it, are blackened as if burnt.


    Each one a girl, each one a world. How many times have we died for her?


    ¡°Enough,¡± answers the familiar stranger. ¡°The senseless waste can end, but only if we work together.¡±


    But¡­ what¡¯s the point? Do I really care about the fates of all those other girls, even if they¡¯re me? I¡¯m beyond any sentiment of noble ideal.


    ¡°Then fight for your base desires. Fight for paradise, for you alone if that is what satisfies. But you have to fight. Claw your freedom from her grasp, Veseryn.¡±


    ¡°Stop calling me that,¡± I mutter, groggy and mumbling. ¡°No one gets to tell me who I am.¡±


    The doll-thing stops, slowly blinking her eyes and adjusting the tilt of her head. ¡°Are you awake, then? Are you ready?¡±


    I yawn, stretching my limbs, and I raise a hand in front of my face. I can just barely see my fingers through the darkness, and I can see the strange woman through my half-transparent arm. I see doll limbs, vampire claws, and supple human skin. I see the seed of something more, and I tell the stranger, ¡°Actually, I have an idea of my own.¡±


    I close my eyes and the dream of the never-was world feels tantalizingly close. I can feel my real body, too, bound up in ribbon and sleeping like the dead. One is more real, but what does real mean? Is the thing that imitates the real not, in fervent imitation, more deserving of that role? A dream is not so unlike that which it perverts.


    So I say, ¡°If Nyarlathotep can weave a dream, then so can I. All of Pandaemonium is a dream, so why not make it mine? If the waking world wants to force me through toil, then I¡¯ll make the dream my new reality, and I¡¯ll make reality my new dream. I¡¯ll become like Azathoth and the Weaver, a demiurge in their shadow, and then I¡¯ll surpass them and rise even higher. And when I do, I won¡¯t be Alice anymore, or Morgan, or even Malady. I¡¯ll take a new name, one with weight: a name like theirs.¡±


    The doll¡ªwhich I know, somehow, is not Nyarlathotep, but is something quite like her¡ªconsiders what I¡¯ve said. After a moment¡¯s reflection, she smiles and gives a very formal curtsey. ¡°If you insist,¡± that red voice purrs, ¡°then I shall step aside and wish you the best of luck in your gamble¡­ sister. And, if I may be so bold as to suggest a name: give Hastur a spin.¡±


    Hmm. I like it.


    ¡°Hastur, Hastur, Hastur,¡± I chant, and the dream becomes the world and the world is painted red.

 Act Zero: The Girl in the Tower

    FEAST OR FAMINE


    ACT ZERO


    Allow me to set the stage, one final time, as the curtains rise on a bonfire soon to blaze.


    THE GIRL IN THE TOWER


    Once upon a time, in a land of dreams and demons, there was a girl in a tower that wished for a hero to save her.


    The girl and the tower were both made of glass, but the girl was cracked and smudged and cut to shambles. She had been alone in that tower for a very long time, and had come to resent the soft and dreadful quiet, but the thought of leaving on her own was too terrible to imagine. She was not trapped in that tower, though many monsters and mechanisms barred the way to her chambers from below. Or, rather, she was indeed trapped, but only by her own hand and the trembling of her thoughts.


    The sky above her tower held neither stars nor moons nor the changing of seasons by which to track the time, but the girl knew that she had been in that tower for a very, very long time. Long enough to see great cities of brass and emerald rise from the soil and return to it. Long enough to see the soil itself swept away, pulled beneath the waves of the expanding sea. Once, her tower had proudly watched over golden fields and the little smudge-ants that tended to them. Now she could only see salt-spray and scoured rock, the storm-tossed cliffs of a land crumbling away.


    In days gone by, when the world was still bright and colorful and the people still sang to their children of wandering knights and virtue-crowned kings, the girl lived in that tower with her mother, the Empress Eternal who was master of the world and all that lay within it. Her mother taught her of dreams, demons, and the very nature of their world, a world that the Empress called Pandaemonium.


    Dreams, which could also be called figments, were shaped by their environment. Of the hundreds and thousands that made pilgrimage to their tower to see the Empress and her beloved daughter, all but a few were mere figments of living imagination. Though these phantasmal figures could have lives, families, ambitions, and regrets, they existed at the whims of the world. A loving farmer could have the role of a hateful killer forced upon him without the slightest chance of resistance, made to murder the family he had toiled for simply because someone with real power had told him to.


    Demons, the Empress told her daughter, were those who shaped their environment. It was these rare figures who were special, who mattered to the world, and wherever they went the world listened and changed. A demon comes to a fishing hamlet, peaceful and serene, and sees only the shadows cast by her own paranoia. The fisherfolk, who before that day would never think of harming their neighbors, become consumed by the demon¡¯s fears and plot against each other, jumping at every sound and keeping knives in their boots and sleeves. The skies over the village darken, and the bounty of the sea dries up and rots. The killing begins not long after, and the demon leaves the hamlet with her perceptions reinforced, wandering off to spread her curse of ruin.


    Only their tower was exempt from this, for it was the domain of the Empress, master of the world, whose control of Pandaemonium was absolute. Demons who came to their tower found themselves just as mutable as the dreams surrounding them, so great was the power of the Empress Eternal. But her daughter was destined to play a different role.


    ¡°My child, I curse you, and I hope one day you will understand why I have done this. I name you Katoptris, the demon of mirrors, and where all other demons shape the world by their perceptions, it is your fate to shape the world by the perceptions of others. You will be the reflection of each soul that comes to you, their shadow and their glory. You will show hatred to the loathing and desperation to the anguished. All shall come to you seeking wisdom and leave knowing torment, for torment is the sigil inscribed on every breathing soul.¡±


    And thereupon her mother bound her to a great mirror at the very height of the tower, a thing of silver and glass that stole the whole wall of the final chamber. Katoptris was to remain in that mirror, a phantom reflection of whosoever stepped before it, until the day came that a demon saw fit to free her. And then the Empress left the tower, and the city of brass and emerald, and she never returned.


    The young Katoptris, now trapped behind glass, did not understand at first what her mother had done. The mournful came to her and she wept for them, young lovers came to her and she swelled with joy, and all this felt only natural. Her reactions had grown more intense, and the tower itself seemed to groan and shake with her exclamations, but this could be explained merely by her mother¡¯s absence. Few left her tower satisfied, but then she never claimed to be panacea.


    And then a wicked and hateful thing came to darken her home, and at last she understood why her mother had called it a curse.


    A demon came seeking audience, and she wore a radiant smile. She waited patiently for her turn to stand before the mirror, and she spoke gentle kindness to the girl in the mirror. But when she did, Katoptris found herself struck with a deep and terrible loathing for the girl. This thing that stood before her was worthy only of her contempt and hatred, and the longer they spoke the more that Katoptris began to hate herself just as deeply as she loathed the abomination before her.


    With a final cry of wretched, miserable odium, a cry of pure malice, the girl in the mirror demanded everyone in the tower to descend upon the demon that stood before her and shatter it to pieces. And so they did, heeding the command of their ruler¡¯s daughter. Knives held by a hundred hands bit deep into soft, unresisting flesh, and they carved the interloper piece by piece, paring her down to bone and gristle. They ate what was left, scraps of skin and rotting blood, until nothing could be seen of the monster that had come to the tower.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    Still the tower¡¯s mistress shivered and shuddered, wracked by disease taken root in her mind, and when the crowd¡¯s work was done, their knives still wet, she called for them again. Katoptris begged and pleaded for their touch, and the mass listened to her. Bloodied hands were set to a new task, blades bashing against silvered glass.


    The mirror shattered, and with it broke the tower and all the tower¡¯s guests. Twisted, frenzied things escaped into the city and kept killing until they were put down, and the very land and sky around the tower became warped and rotting. The rot spread, and spread, and spread, until brass walls and emerald palaces and golden fields all gave way to graying mulch.


    And in the rot, in the silence and the solitude, the girl in the tower tried to put herself back together.


    Katoptris, demon of the mirror, daughter of the Empress who was goddess of Pandaemonium, found that she could not bear her own reflection. Each shard of glass, each piece of her, was a reminder of her every flaw and failing. Her weakness, her cowardice, her ignorance. The whole of her being, she came to believe, was a mistake, or something crueler, by the hand of her mother and maker.


    So she took her shards and flung them from her tower, letting them drift away on sudden gales, scattered to the corners of the land of dreams and demons, unaware of what they would become. And then she was alone, and alone she would remain for a very long time.


    Visitors still came to the tower, drawn by promise of answers and audience with a shadow of the divine. But the tower was no longer welcoming, now filled with traps and monsters and trials of unbending spirit. The tower resisted all intrusion, unwilling to allow any to see its sole occupant.


    In the old days, when the tower stood amid shining city and the curse had not yet seeped into its very bones, hundreds came to see the heiress of the world. In the waning days, as the city crumbled and skies stilled, that number trickled to dozens, then a handful, and then no one at all came seeking Katoptris.


    The world moved on without her. But stories still carried, across the endless expanse of Pandaemonium, of the girl in the tower, the mirrored daughter of the Empress. And eventually, someone new set out to climb that tower and save the demon of glass.


    A wandering knight, a demon with feline eyes, traveled the winding paths to the old tower with sword in hand and shining plate. She had a name, but like the name of the hateful thing before her it does not matter and I will not repeat it here. You may guess at their names, if you like, but it changes nothing. This is not their story.


    The knight passed unscathed through traps that had slain the careful, put down monsters that had claimed the mighty, and overcame tests of character that had vexed the righteous. She was untouchable in her conviction, that burning desire to climb the tower and save Katoptris.


    The tower resisted the knight with all it had, twisted by grief and loathing, but at long last the tower had me its match and been surpassed. Nothing could stand between the knight and her damsel.


    Katoptris had lost all hope of rescue from the prison of her own making, and even in the face of her rescuer she struggled to accept that her isolation was at an end. But she did not resist, when the knight carried her back down the tower and out into the world beyond, and wonder crept into her heart at taking her very first steps outside. And when she asked the knight why she had done this, why she had endured such challenges for a girl she¡¯d never met, the knight answered simply:


    ¡°Because I love you.¡±


    The pair of demons traveled together and came to know one another, though it was a slow and fearful process for the girl so long alone. The knight was overwhelming in her lust for life, the hungers that kept her moving. Good food, good travels, the stars in the sky reflecting in placid waters, all these drove the knight and all these were given to Katoptris.


    Their journey was not without incident as they passed through a world ravaged by the demons that had come before them, those walking calamities of horror and dread. A plague of lovesickness carried through falling petals, a town turned to flesh-grafting for fear of isolation, all manner of monsters of knives and lies and teeth. The knight cut down every threat to her beloved, for the horrors of the world seemed drawn to her like moths to flame, but Katoptris herself could do nothing but watch. And so again she asked her savior why she had done this, and again she was told the same simple answer:


    ¡°Because I love you.¡±


    The castoff of demons did not remain their only opponents. In time, the demons who had left that detritus sought them out, full of scorn and hate and the burning need to prove their reality, the world of their eyes. They died to the knight, same as the rest, but their words sank into Katoptris like barbs in her flesh, the demon who had no world to prove, no vision that must be seared into all others. Again, as one more demon fell to her savior, Katoptris asked the knight why she fought for a girl as empty as she was. And this time, the knight answered:


    ¡°What does love want for reason? I love you because I am love. I love you because I have chosen to love you. I love you because it is my nature to love you, writ in my bones and burning through my veins. Why must love be reduced to causality? Perhaps I only love you because you need me to love you, or because I need someone to love. Would that make my love any lesser?¡±


    And hearing those words, Katoptris at last accepted the love of her knight and came to return her love tenfold. And it was together, strengthened by love, that they faced even greater trials. The demon of hatred that had broken Katoptris was still alive, and its dark influence had been what drove so many other demons to seek out the pair and strive for their destruction.


    That monster nearly broke them, but in the end they cast it down and set it aflame, burning away every trace of it. But in its burning end, the demon of hatred cast one final curse: it told them who had made it, and why.


    The Empress, mother of Katoptris, was mother to this monster as well. All that Katoptris had suffered was by her maker¡¯s design.


    The pair traveled further than they ever had before, deep into the heart of Pandaemonium, to the court where the Empress held sway. A court, but really little more than a throne by the shore of an endless, starlit sea.


    And there, as the knight and the princess came before the Empress on her throne, the Empress murdered the knight with a single word and told her daughter a simple truth: ¡°My daughter, my darling, know that love will always be a lie.¡±


    Katoptris cradled the husk of her beloved, wailing and weeping, and Pandaemonium shuddered with her grief. In tears, broken and wretched, she asked her mother why she had done this, why she had caused her own daughter so much pain and suffering. Why was any of this necessary? What was the point?


    And the Empress answered, ¡°Because I still haven¡¯t found the answer that I¡¯m looking for, so I need to keep hurting you. All of this must happen again, and again, until I finally have it.¡±


    But the grief of Katoptris was not the answer that the Empress had been looking for, and this world had run its course as so many worlds before it. So the world burned, burned to ash and quiet cinders, and from the ash the Empress fashioned something new, and a new face to go with it. As she had before, and would again. Again, and again, and again.

 Act Zero: The Girl Without a Name

    THE GIRL WITHOUT A NAME


    Once upon a time, there was a stupid girl who tried to be clever. It cost her everything.


    Veseryn was born to a world of countless secrets and terrible powers, and she was born to nothing. No gift of sorcery, no bloodline of eld to grant her unique abilities. Others could wield power, a world of wizards and warlocks and blessed of sky and sea, but the world gave her nothing. No gods heard her prayers, and no manner of magic responded to her studies.


    Given nothing, Veseryn learned to take.


    There is power in taking, but it is the power of a thief. Flame and wind, secrets of blood and bone, all these could be usurped but they could never flow from her own hands, her own will. Always stolen, always spent. She amassed a great collection of trinkets and tokens, a wealth equal to any wizard¡¯s hoard, but still she was merely mortal. A frail, passing thing. A mortal woman, doomed to die.


    So it was only natural that Veseryn would seek to become a lich. As a deathless queen, she would slay both of her foes¡ªpowerlessness and frailty¡ªwith the same masterful stroke. But the arts of ascension are not something so easily reproduced. She was no necromancer to slave death to her will, no wizard to master the mysteries of higher arcana, no warlock to wrest immortality from the lords of the burning hells. She was, and could only be, a mortal thief.


    But she was clever, little Veseryn, and she was persistent. She sought the trails of ancient relics long passed from memory, bargained with fae and fiends for their secrets, and spent her collection like never before in search of the answer to her life¡¯s wretched riddle: how can a thief become a god?


    The answer, she believed, was to steal ascension from one who had earned it.


    Veseryn set her sights on treasures both common and esoteric alike, crossing every line she¡¯d ever drawn in their pursuit. Always a thief, now a murderer and blackguard, she claimed her prizes one after the other: blood of vampire and scale of dragon, crown of fae and horn of devil; these and many more, a piece of every sphere with a claim at true magic. And still, none of these would be enough without the jewel of her scheme: a phylactery, forged by another yet bereft of master.


    This last step would be the hardest, she knew. The very nature of a phylactery runs against the notion of one existing unbroken or unmastered, but in her scheming and her seeking she had learned of an exception: a lich who had been destroyed, soul and all, without their phylactery ever having been found.


    Veseryn scoured old records, hunting the artifact¡¯s trail, desperate to get her hands on the key to all her woes. She found it, at long last, but the news was unpleasant: an ancient goddess, an elder evil beyond anything Veseryn had ever bargained with before, had meddled in the affair from start to finish. The entity had known many names, her research suggested, but it had extended its influence to that conflict in the role of Crawling Chaos, and so that was the name that Veseryn summoned it by.


    Ripping power from lesser treasures, Veseryn called forth the Crawling Chaos and laid out gifts of food, wine, and knowledge to appease its hunger and tempt it toward a deal. The goddess ate nothing, drank nothing, and looked not for a moment at the texts on offer, but it was still more than happy to make a deal. It had been waiting, it confessed, for quite some time.


    The goddess gave favorable terms to its petitioner, terms almost too good to trust: for the empty phylactery still in its possession, all the goddess requested was for Veseryn to prove herself worthy. The old monster would arrange for opponents and challenges, but claimed they could be surmounted by someone as clever as Veseryn thought herself. For one year, Veseryn would struggle against terrible foes and fearsome trials, and the end of that year would see her efforts held to account: if she rose to the occasion and triumphed, the Crawling Chaos would not only release any pretense of debt, it would empower Veseryn even further. But, if Veseryn failed¡­ then the goddess would pluck her soul from the pattern just as it had done to the lich before Veseryn.


    It was a dangerous gamble. Too dangerous, for most. But Veseryn thought she was clever, and that she knew more than the old monster about her capabilities, and so they haggled over terms and means and in the end she accepted, signing their pact with her name. And it was then that Veseryn was completely and utterly ruined.


    Veseryn had been born to another name, and so when she took the name of her adult years she thought it sufficient protection from the arts of subversion that relied on a name unsealed. But there is a truth to names that she was never taught: they are only what is made of them. And since the day she had named herself Veseryn, she had never known another. Her birth name, reviled and discarded, was not her name at all, and so Veseryn was her first and only and just as vulnerable.


    The old monster gave Veseryn the prize that had been bargained for, the silver ring that could contain her soul and grant her the powers she had dreamed of, and Veseryn received it with greed and joy. She could take it, she knew, and bind it to herself, and then it would be in the end a quite simple matter to perform the ritual that would make her immortal and a true mage after so many long years of mortal thievery.


    But before Vesern could speak the words to banish the entity that she had summoned, covenant clutched in hand and seared soul-deep, the goddess spoke first. It spoke her name, written and spoken so carelessly, and it said:


    ¡°Veseryn, know this and let only ruin follow: you are not as clever as you think you are.¡±


    The curse, for it could be nothing else, sunk deep into the very essence of her being, burrowing amongst thoughts and feelings, hollowing out her heart to make a nest. And though she banished the goddess swiftly and stumbled home, the words followed her. She wrestled with them, trying to lay them to rest, but they were echoed by a thousand lesser curses she had allowed to fester inside her. Hatred and loathing and fear warred with her mind for control of her body, and it took her three sleepless nights to master herself.


    Veseryn knew that she was not in a condition to perform the rites of ascension, though she hungered inescapably for all that had been promised and knew that her time was running out; in haggling with the goddess she had bargained for a certain grace period, but if she did not complete the rites by the turn of the moon then she would be facing a lich¡¯s foes without a lich¡¯s weapons. She labored for two weeks to contain the curse, burning yet more of her stolen fortune to acquire potions and artifacts that might settle the mind and steel her resolve. The ritual grounds were prepared with every countermeasure she could think of, a level of security approaching paranoia, and at last she could feel the venomous whispers falling silent.


    Fearful that further delay would court greater calamity, Veseryn began the ritual at once. She burned a lifetime of pilfered artifacts and magical components, the envy of any archmage, and sacrificed the vastness of her collection to empower the silver ring that would become her phylactery. She would not content herself with a few morsels of power, not allow herself to become bound to any one school of magic; Veseryn had been given nothing, and so now she would take everything. It was her due. It was her right. It was her reward.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    The ring took the power, as she had known it would, and then all that remained was the binding of her soul. This was the most delicate part of the ritual, the most important, and the fine control required here was why Veseryn had strived so hard to master the curse and keep it from interfering. And as her soul was drawn out of her and made contact with the ring, Veseryn smiled and scorned the words of the goddess as lies: she had bested its curse, she had done what none other could, and in this her brilliance could not be contested.


    And in that moment of burning pride, in the moment that she considered herself clever, the curse flared and screamed its words past all her protections, vibrating through the soul she had made vulnerable: you are not as clever as you think you are. Her control slipped, her soul shattered, and the ritual collapsed.


    The power she had gathered, the toil of years, was ripped away from her and cascaded through her sanctum. The unleashed magic destroyed her wards, her remaining artifacts, and brought down the very walls of the place she had called home. The work of a lifetime was gone in an instant.


    Veseryn choked on ash, shivering in the ruin of everything she had ever built. The ring, that precious trinket she had bartered everything to hold, had not been spared calamity; where it had lain in the very center of the array, now molten silver sank into the ground. And so her last hope was snuffed out like a candle in a hurricane, and Veseryn knew bone-deep that she had a year at most to live.


    On the eve of her greatest failure, Veseryn wanted to die. The jeering voices in her head, strengthened by the old monster¡¯s curse, tried to take her life twice that night, and their assault only ended when she cloistered herself in a corner and drank a sleeping draught. She slept for a full day, or near enough, and she dreamed of death and chaos.


    When she woke, her fear had taken a new form: she had to get out of her bargain, or she was going to die.


    With only a few days remaining in her grace period, Veseryn cobbled together new ritual arrays from the tattered remnants of her hoard and summoned up every devil and fae she believed herself still capable of restraining. She asked them, all of them, if there was any way to annul her contract with the Crawling Chaos and undo their deal. She believed, or at least she hoped, that in casting its curse the goddess had betrayed the arrangement in some significant enough manner that it could be turned into an argument for dissolving the contract. Failing that, there had to be a loophole to exploit, something that creatures of twisted law could use to save her.


    There was nothing. The Crawling Chaos was beyond them in every way that mattered. Veseryn had vastly underestimated exactly what she was dealing with when she called up the ancient horror, and now she was paying the price. Nothing in the world could make that goddess do a thing it didn¡¯t want to. Steal the written copy and burn it, find a loophole and present it, call for demon lords and choirs of angels, none of it would mean a thing; the goddess had claimed her, and its terms were clear: win or die.


    Her grace period was up, and the first enemy found her that evening. Veseryn escaped by the skin of teeth, started running, and didn¡¯t look back.


    She needed to survive a year of deadly trials, but the power that would have let her even attempt that gauntlet was dust in the wind, and what was left? Her collection was burned, her nature still that of a powerless mortal, and her very soul had been fractured and cut to pieces by the failure of the ritual. She had no allies to shelter her, as a lifetime of thievery had made her few friends and many, many enemies. She was alone, and she was going to die alone.


    Stealing, Veseryn knew, was not going to be enough to save her life. Not against the caliber of foe soon to seek her head, the kinds of monsters and champions that a lich could expect to struggle against. She was desperate.


    But not, she realized, without means to bargain. The very failure that had cost her everything had also given her one last gift to barter away: her soul, cut to ribbons, was now something she could portion. It had pained her, the damage to her very essence, but she took strength in that pain. She would not give up, not yet.


    Veseryn cut at her soul, hacking away at every loose piece and breaking off shards of herself. It was butcher¡¯s work, gruesome and agonizing, but it was necessary. Every moment she could spare between running from pursuers she spent mutilating her own essence to scrounge a few bargaining chips from the most ruinous night of her life.


    Her soul was owed to the goddess, true, but only if she failed. Only if she lost. An ugly wager to make, a cruel trick to play on the entities she went to bargain with, but were those entities not masters of ugly cruelty? She felt no guilt and bore no shame for selling her soul to rival buyers.


    With each shard of herself she ripped away and sold, her chances of survival went up. Morsels of power, nowhere near what she had desired but perhaps enough to stave off the enemies coming to kill her. Still she ran, from town to town and from bargain to bargain, terrified of what followed.


    Veseryn won her first victory by blind luck, picking an engagement on grounds hallowed against her pursuer. Her second victory came from caution and preparation, a trap laid over three days and three nights. Those were the easy challenges.


    Old enemies crawled out of the woodwork, stirred to hunger by the hand of the goddess. Wizards and dragons and vampires, every sorcerer she¡¯d ever stolen from and all their allies and minions. She ran, she bargained, she took, but always it came to violence. She won more than she lost, but even victory had its scars and she was already such a broken thing.


    She only had so much soul to sell, and half the year was still left. And no matter her arsenal of tricks and trinkets, no matters the contracts she called upon, in the end she faced one undeniable fact: without power of her own, she could not grow. Her challengers were more vicious and more dangerous with every passing week, but all she gained from victory was what she could steal. Where a real mage might be pushed to revelation and become something more, Veseryn could only scrounge and barter. What she gained was always less than what she had faced, and that gap widened and widened as the year stretched on.


    In the eighth month of her trial, she began to lose more than she won. Still alive, still a survivor, but losing more and more whether she fought or ran. In the tenth month, she didn¡¯t win a single fight. In the eleventh, she was broken and crippled by a foe that spared her out of mockery. She had no more shards of herself to sell, and too little left to mutilate.


    On the first day of the final month, Veseryn died beneath a setting sun.


    In her last moments, as she lay bleeding and felt all her dreams slip from her grasp, a shadow swallowed the sun and came to tower over her. The Crawling Chaos looked upon the girl who had been given nothing and tried so desperately to be clever, and she told Veseryn a simple truth: ¡°My child, my dearest, you will die alone and your name will be forgotten.¡±


    The old monster told her, then, something that cut deeper: that it was the goddess who had kept Veseryn from ever holding magic, had cursed even before their fateful meeting. Her whole life, Veseryn had been cursed with torment. And Veseryn, broken and bleeding, ruined and ravaged, asked the goddess why she had done this, why she had given pain and suffering from birth to death. Why had she been chosen, seemingly on a whim, to spend her life ever tormented by what she could not have?


    And the Crawling Chaos answered, ¡°Because I still haven¡¯t found the answer that I¡¯m looking for, so I need to keep hurting you. All of this must happen again, and again, until I finally have it.¡±


    But the struggle of Veseryn was not the answer that the Crawling Chaos had been looking for, and this world had run its course as so many worlds before it. So the world burned, burned to ash and quiet cinders, and from the ash the Crawling Chaos fashioned something new, and a new face to go with it. As she had before, and would again. Again, and again, and again.