When Nic emerged from his training, the day was almost gone. He had started in the dead of night and pushed himself for hour after hour, beyond any mortal limit, his mind deep in the hypnotic state of pure cultivation.

But as he emerged, the town was in a state of panic.

People stared up at the sky. The square was deserted, all the citizens pushing back into their homes for safety and cover.

Above the highest spire of the temple, a rift had opened up above Winterhome. It was a slender crack in the fabric of reality itself, lesser fractures spreading out from a single long vertical split in the air, through which a strange sort of light poured.

It was a luminous mist that extended out in curls of hazy green-blue, a light condensed until it became a swirling froth like the white foam atop fast-running waters.

Around the rift was the illusion of a golden door. It was half-transparent, but exuded a sense of power, of stability, as if it would continue to stand even when the earth’s stony mantle broke apart and molten blood heaved from the planet’s core.

The door completely enveloped the rift. Three silver chains wrapped around the gateway, but the double door was slightly ajar, and the mist crept through.

“What.” Nic said. “Sofia, why didn’t you tell me.”

“You were in a state of enlightenment, Nicolas. I couldn’t interrupt you unless I deemed it to be a threat. And this doesn’t appear to be one, at least, not immediately.”

There was a sense in the air.

A hidden current of electricity.

Nic sensed it and recognized it instantly; this was the same power that the key had given him, the focus and the hypnotic inspiration he had worked under. As it spread through the air everything became clear, and muted colors became bright. Like a camera lens tightening into focus, thousands of small details emerged in his vision, details that had always been there but went unnoticed…

It was far more dilute than the massive dose he’d received when he absorbed the key. That had captivated him for hours, drunk on cultivation and the sense of purpose he received.

But it was the same power.

“Archive Recall.”

Nothing.

“The information for this has been heavily restricted. The best I can tell you is, this appears to be an entrance to a spiritual plane.”

“So it doesn’t just look like a door. It’s going somewhere?” Which meant…

Something could come through.

“We need to close it.”

“You have the Key, Nicolas. Or rather, you seem to be the Key.”

Nic nodded, lifting his hand. The gate shook as he cycled aura through the space between his eyes, where the Key had vanished into the singular node for his Spiritual Clarity. It felt like a weight was pushing into that tiny space, drilling into his skull, and with every moment the spiritual pressure increased - his thoughts became muddy and the world around him became less real, as if his soul was being forced to depart from his body.

But the doors slowly, slowly began to creak shut, sealing away more of the mysterious power in the air.

At the last moment Nic hesitated. The gate was less than a millimeter open…

But if he truly closed it, the power in the air would be gone. He knew first-hand how precious that power was. How it could let you advance by leaps and bounds…

Giving that to his entire Settlement? To the people of Winterhome, most of whom were lagging far behind the race? The angel had called it a two-edged sword.

Nic had never turned aside from risking everything for a reward.

He relented, and released his aura, falling to one knee as the door remained open by the tiniest fraction. It took long, pained seconds for him to recover. “Sofia…” He gasped out. “We need to keep that guarded every second of every day.”

“Without a doubt. I’ll handle it.”

“Is Tarquin back?” He asked.

He’d sent Tarquin to explore the islands in the sky above. Their presence was hidden by the cloud layers, but Nic knew they were there. They were where Baby Boots had acquired his wealth. However he’d chanced on the dragonsilk robe, it had allowed him to scour the treasures from above before anyone else got there.

“Nicolas, I need you not to panic. He’s fine-”

“Why am I not panicking?” Nic blurted out, his voice filled with just the tiniest hints of, yep, panic.

“The spiders are tending to him. He came back wounded.”

Nic took off running. The shy, quiet spiders from Nylea's tree had arrived and begun to weave a home for themselves. They took the trees alongside the river and draped them in silk, forming cylindrical, mouth-like entrances to a lair of shadows and silver webs.

They were the most valuable occupants of the city - capable of spinning silk, and more importantly, healing pearls.

Nic burst into their grove.

Tarquin lay in a hammock of silk, being tended to by a hunched man with the remnants of bad acne pocked and scarred into his dark face. The doctor’s fingers were dipping into Tarquin’s bare chest like the flesh was water, sinking down to the wrists and pulling back out with strange kernels of black, lumpy material gripped in hand.

There was a shadow on Tarquin’s face.

As Nic stepped around the doctor and perspective shifted, he realized it wasn’t a shadow. Something had blackened and warped half of Tarquin’s face and much of his right arm, carving strange patterns of ash grey and charcoal black in wavering lines along the flesh.

“Ten hours. Ten hours out of my sight, Tarquin…” Nic groaned. It hurt to see his friend this way, in a way that was worse than casually losing an arm or two.

“Nine, really.” Tarquin said with an unapologetic smirk. The right half of the expression was tightened and paralyzed. “I’ll be fine. It’s not as bad as it was an hour ago…”

“Sir?” The doctor called his attention over. “The boy’s not in any immediate danger. Most of the damage, the real damage, was inside his lungs. I sort of… pulled it out…” He gestured to a small bowl where dozens of black kernels sat, slowly dissolving into a thin dark oil.

Nic shook his head. “Tark, what did this to you? And how good did you get them back?”

“It wasn’t anything. I took care of all the monsters up there, easy. I think the tough stuff was already dead.” He spoke raspily, as if the burns had reached inside him. A sudden cough almost doubled him up before the doctor quickly laid a hand on his head, a glow surrounding his palm and easing Tarquin’s pain.

“I just…” Tarquin continued, weakly. “Well, I found what we were looking for. Just… the gourd blew up in my face…” He pointed towards his rucksack, lying at the foot of the bed.

Nic reached inside.

He knew Baby Boots had to have a secret cache of loot. Somewhere he left everything that was too awkward to carry with him.

Inside the heavy duty bag was a lump of cloudy, half-translucent stone with a faint pink color that reminded Nic of dawn, with sylphs dancing in and out of its surface. A massive staff of blood-red wood capped with bronze sculptures in the shape of eagle claws. A pair of bronze bracers sized for a giant.

And sitting on top, hastily shoved in with the rest, a bottle gourd. It was perfectly ordinary except for the fact it had multiple necks, each plugged with a bronze stopper.

“Recall.”

Hydra Mist Bottle. F-Class // Treasured Artifact. Created by certain trees grown from poison soil, this calabash gourd contains a number of different toxic smokes and mists within a series of minor dimensional spaces.

So that’s what happened.

Tarquin had simply opened it, expecting nothing, and unleashed a cloud of poison. It could have happened to anyone who didn’t have Nic’s advantage.

“Sofia? How can we get Tarquin his own Sophont?” Nic asked.

Sofia was there instantly, flickering into view beside him. “Difficult to say. Sophonts aren’t assigned simply for power, so training him up is no guarantee. Still. You have our attention- you could bargain for him the next time you’re offered a quest from the Low Tomb…”

“I don’t…” Tarquin tried to say, but then he began to cough.

“Okay then. You-” Nic pointed to the doctor. “Make sure he stays in bed until the spiders have healed him.”

“There’s more.” Tarquin finally managed to gasp out. “Lots more. He had so much stuff, its obscene. Most of it I couldn’t even carry. Giant swords. Stone tablets…”

Nic nodded. He only wanted Tarquin to scout ahead…

His true plan was to lift the city up and go exploring properly.

“Tark. Just… Be patient for a bit. I’m sorry I sent you out alone.”

Tarquin rolled his eyes, glaring at Nic. “Yeah, like you don’t risk your life. If this stuff wasn’t…” Another cough. “Clogging up my regeneration… I’d already be back on my feet…”

“Don’t worry. I’ll get you some medicine.”

He paused for a moment, giving the doctor a suspicious look. But it wasn’t the man he’d encountered in Azmin Hale’s camp. Their doctor had been spreading some kind of corruption…

This man was quiet and thoughtful.

“Your job is to keep him in bed while the spiders work on him.”

Underneath his spectacles, the man glanced towards Tarquin. “That’ll be quite the job…”

“Sedate him if you have to.”

Nic left the grove feeling distinctly like the world would crash down around his shoulders if he looked away.

But as he walked, he relaxed a little. The city was shifting towards night, cookfires starting to burn on the lakefront, the smell of roasting fish filling the air. The rhythm of Winterhome was in the slosh of the waters against the piers, the hammer and saw of new houses going up, the percussive and stifled grunts of the Natives practicing along the mercenaries…

Bailiff, the old soldier, was hobbling between the trainees correcting forms and doling out orders in military barks. Tarquin had done well to find him.

As he walked, he saw Nylea speaking with Talnu’Mo, the toad-man who worked in runes of living skin and flesh. She smiled, waving, and after a moment more broke off to join him as he walked.

“It’s not easy, is it?” She said, without needing to ask why he looked so sour. Inkspur leapt from his shoulder onto her outstretched hand, purring as she petted him.

“Nope.” Nic said, almost laughing as a sigh hiccuped out of him. He grasped his slimy nose and pushed his hands back along the curve of his amphibian skull, brushing back the head fronds that sprouted from either side. “Tarquin almost died.”

“He is your brother, no?”

“Yeah, yeah he is.” Nic admitted. “But… Well… I used to have more brothers…”

“You were born to no family and yet have found yourself surrounded by them. I was born to a rich and prosperous one, but have no kinship at all.” She looked across at him, lips pursed. The motion made the delicate web of gray scar tissue on half of her face draw into focus, stretching the hair-thin cracks that ran across the desiccated skin. “I suppose I’m looking forward to this city, and to the chance to try things your way.”

Slowly, Nic smiled.