Gora stood outside the fancy, mahogany door of her childhood home. She’d frozen, hand on the fancy brass door knocker.

She was a grown woman. She’d made her own way in life. Her mother didn’t scare her.

She repeated the mantra in her head several more times as she worked up her courage. Finally, she steeled herself, took a big breath, and slammed the brass knocker down. Its dull boom echoed through the house, but for several moments nothing happened.

Then there was a click and the door slowly swung open.

“Ah. You.”

The face that greeted her in the doorway was male, but delicately so, with a perfectly chiseled nose and elegant lips. He was dressed in a refined and perfectly pressed and fitted suit that just oozed class and style.

He also had bright red skin and two kinked, swept back horns.

For a moment, a look of disgust curled the Pleasure Devil’s lips before he smoothed his expression back into a look of perfect placidity.

“Shall I inform the Mistress that her itinerant daughter has wandered by? Perhaps to further aggravate the emotional mutilation that she had inflicted upon her last visit?” he asked, his voice perfectly even.

“Shut it, Veevz. Just let me in so I can see Mom,” Gora grumbled, her fist tightening by her side.

The ‘slip’ in his expression didn’t fool her for a moment. Her mother’s stupid butler was far too old and canny to reveal any emotions on his face that had not planned to. If she’d seen disgust, it was because he’d wanted her to. He was purposefully trying to rile her up, just like always. Asshole.

“I am afraid the Mistress is currently indisposed to unwanted visitors. May I take a message for you?” he replied coldly, making Gora grit her teeth.

According to Veevz's contract, he was not allowed to lie, but he’d figured out all sorts of ways around that. Gora had lived alongside him long enough to be wise to his tricks, though. He’d neither stated that she was an unwanted visitor, nor had he indicated that any message he took would actually be delivered. Luckily, Gora knew just how to deal with his acerbic tongue and byzantine contractual obligations.

“Get out of my way, before I rip off your head,” she growled, “again.”

“Because the last time was a great personal success for you, yes,” he remarked dryly, but stepped aside nonetheless.

She’d been seventeen at the time, and she’d been forced to clean up the resultant mess. Just to add insult to injury, he’d walked back in the front door a few hours later, just as she finished.

Gora stomped past Veevz, managing to shoulder check him into the wall on her way past, gently enough not to break anything. She was pretty sure it still hurt, though.

She could feel the hateful gaze on her back as she went up the stairs, knowing full well that if she spun around she would see nothing but a peaceful, faintly amused stare. Oh how he infuriated her. He was almost the reason she left the house in the first place.

“Oh Sweetie! You’re home!” an older woman’s voice called from the second story drawing room. “What wonderful timing! I had a new painting delivered from the Half-Moon Gallery and it is a little bigger than I anticipated. Would you be a dear and use those big, strong arms of yours to hang it on the wall for me?”

Almost. No, her mother had beat him to the punch.

Gora sighed and mentally girded her loins for the coming verbal battle. She would have preferred to face the stupid Inquisitor again.

Patrus was trying to be inconspicuous.

So far, he’d been the target of two attempted pickpocketings, three attempted muggings and possibly one attempted murder. He wasn’t sure. There might have been a perfectly innocent explanation for why the man was approaching him from behind in the alley, holding a knife. Unfortinately, it was unlikely that he would ever know, as he’d elected to strike first and leave the questions to Mitla.

All in all, he figured he was doing fairly well. Clearly the denizens of this Misbegotten Pit of Wickedness believed him to be one of them, the way they were attempting to prey on him as they did their own. All was going according to plan.

Mitla’s plan, obviously. A plan so cunning and so intricate that it was far above his humble understanding. Which was to say, that if he had not been absolutely certain that Mitla had a plan which was going flawlessly, he would have likely been reasonably sure that there was no plan and nothing was going right.

Which just went to show how incredibly farsighted and adroit his god was, that even the twelve indecent proposals he’d received, seven from vile demons along the road, four from harlots occupying the corners of the seedier streets and one from a strange man wearing far too many feathers, were all part of Mitla’s plan.

The fools, they were playing right into Mitla’s hands.

“What can I get’cha?” the barkeep asked. He was behind the counter that Patrus was leaning on, casually cleaning a mug.

“Water,” he stated calmly, causing the innkeeper to raise a questioning eyebrow, before trodding off to fetch him a glass, shaking his head.

He’d entered Grailmane not really knowing where to go or what to do. Trusting in Mitla to guide his steps had taken him on a long, meandering route through the city that eventually led him to a cheap inn in what he assumed was the rougher part of town, based on the quality of, well, everything. Or possibly one of the rougher parts of town, given Grailmane’s size.

While he’d arrived with nothing, Mitla had provided. As distasteful as it was to loot the dead, the first group of would-be muggers had possessed a decently made dagger and enough coin to pay for a few nights' accommodation.

And now he was hoping that Mitla would provide again.

No, he was certain Mitla would help. What he hoped was that Mitla would help through the particular individual who’d just walked through the doors, because if he had to deal with another seedy smuggler who was just trying to con him with a worthless fake, he might just snap and put every single person in the tavern to the sword.

Or to the dagger, in his case.

A chubby man, running to bald, with only a few stray hairs decorating his scalp, looked around before spotting Patrus and waddling over. Patrus already didn’t like the look of him. He looked especially sleazy, like a man who valued everything by what others were willing to pay for it.

“Hey, Innkeep! You got any beer that doesn’t taste like piss?” he called at the man behind the counter. “Nevermind, don’t answer that. Just gimme whatever crap you got on tap.” Then he turned to Patrus and grinned up at him. “You the guy that’s been expecting me?”

Patrus snorted. As much as he hated dealing with such… distasteful individuals, it was likely the only way he could find what he was looking for at short notice. When the authorities criminalized who you were, you unfortunately had to deal with criminals.

“Perhaps. It depends on whether you have brought what I asked for.”

At this, the man’s grin widened and he carefully lifted one side of his coat, just enough that Patrus could see the glint of a gold in the inside pocket.

“Solid gold, forged in the sacred Mitlan holy fires of Esteroy, blessed by the Divine Archpope himself…” he whispered, as if imparting a great secret.

“And how much for this holy relic?” Patrus interrupted.

The man pretended to look affronted. “Oh! Sir! I could never sell such a valuable relic! Church would have my head! Completely illegal is what it is!” the man exclaimed, before dropping his voice back to a whisper. “But, if you leave, say, three hundred silvers in a place where a man such as myself would stumble upon said funds, completely by accident, of course, why, the shock of such a finding might just have me misplace certain valuable artifacts, if you know what I’m saying?”

Patrus eyed the man dubiously. “’Misplace’?”

“Oh yeah, things get misplaced all the time. Little things. Who knows where they go to? Certainly not me. I’m just a humble connection maker. Connectin’ people to the things they want, yeah?”

It was all bullshit, of course. There was no such thing as a Divine Archpope in Mitlan theology, Esteroy was a small, sleepy agrarian village near the capital without even a proper church building and Patrus didn’t need the faint divine connection he felt to the small statuette to be able to tell that it was just gold paint over carved wood.

The wood however… that was the real deal. And this idiot probably didn’t even know.

“I’ll give you ten silver for the obviously fake focus,” Patrus said flatly.

“’Obviously fake…!?’” the man sputtered, blowing himself up in mock indignity. “How dare you impugn my honour like that, Sir? I am deeply affronted that you would insinuate that I have treated you with anything less than complete forthrightness…”

Patrus sighed. He’d offered the man ten times what the piece of highly dubious art in his pocket was worth. And now, despite all his protesting, he was not walking away. This was all part of the game. And it was one that Patrus detested.

As the man ran his mouth, going on about the apparent indignities that he was being subjecting to, Patrus focused on his tenuous connection to his god.

This far from all of the religious symbology and institutionalized faith of his homeland, it felt faint and distant. It was bereft of any conduits to transport even the minuscule trickle of power Patrus was calling on.

Except for one.

“… and if my mother would hear someone besmirch… YOW!” the greasy thief yelped, yanking the little gold-painted statuette out of his pocket and throwing it to the floor as if it was a red-hot iron.

Several pairs of eyes all around them immediately darted towards the glint of gold rolling across the wooden floorboards. The greasy, fat con artist, glancing around at all of the hungry glares he was suddenly getting, dove down to recover his precious fake, only for his hands to sizzle and burn the moment they made contact with it. With another pained yelp, he sent the statuette clattering across the floor, until it came to rest against Patrus’s boot.

Patrus bent down and picked up the little gold-painted statuette, casually rolling it between his fingers. It was cool to the touch.

“Looks like it prefers to be with me,” he said calmly. “I suppose I should take it then.”

The disgusting, little man licked his lips nervously. “Ah, I see. Well, if you could just hand over the payment you promised…?” he asked.

“I said, I’ll take it. Now leave,” Patrus said, glaring at him, before returning his attention to the little golden idol in his hand.

Underneath all the false shine, it was nothing but a rough carving. Yet there was a connection to Mitla. It had clearly been done by one of the faithful. Honest work from honest labour in the faith.

It wasn’t consecrated or anything, and he wouldn’t be able to get much out of it. Perhaps only one or two of the weakest Blessings. But it was something.

“You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” the fat, little thief snarled, all of his charm suddenly gone. “You might think you’re a badass, but what about your family? Are they badasses too? You think you can always protect them? We’ll find them. And when we do, oh, they’re going to scream.”

His threat delivered, the odious little man ran out the door like the demons of the abyss themselves were after him.

Patrus just calmly watched him go.

Such empty threats. The closest thing he still had to family was his charge, Junior Inquisitor Tomaas, all the way back in Mitlan. There, he was surrounded by an entire chapter of Mitlan warriors and powerful inquisitors and protected by his faith.

Honestly, as long as he stayed there, he’d probably be fine against a few jumped-up smugglers.

“Are you sure it was him?”

“Jonahan, I was leaning right over him,” Tomaas replied patiently. “It was him. I am absolutely certain.”

Jonahan frowned thoughtfully as he and Tomaas worked to pack the ration packages he’d brought into Tomaas’s backpack.

They were in his small dorm room in the Inquisition barracks. Back when they’d been trainees together, both getting picked on by that jerk, Davaad, they’d shared a room, but all proper Inquisitors had their own rooms, even junior ones. It wasn’t particularly big, but it was comfy enough with a couple of pieces of furniture and an armour stand in the corner, currently holding Tomaas’s suit of blessed Inquisitor Armour.

“But you told me your brother had died,” Jonahan asked, confused, as he made himself comfortable on Tomaas’s bed.

“That’s what my parents told me,” Tomaas replied, shaking his head. “Clearly, they were wrong.”

Jonahan himself had joined the Inquisition because his father had been in the Inquisition, and his father before him, and so on and so forth all the way back for seven generations. When you had a legacy like that, saying ‘no thank you, I think I’d rather like being a tailor, honestly’ just wasn’t an option.

Tomaas on the other hand had confided in him a far more personal reason for joining: his brother. From what he’d told him, evil, dark powers had stolen his brother from his family home and slain him, in cold, brutal fashion.

As an Inquisitor, Tomaas wanted to find that darkness and excise it.

“Perhaps he was one of those undead abominations…” Jonahan tried.

“Jonahan!” Tomaas snapped. “I healed him! I channeled Mitla’s Blessing of Health through his body and saw it heal his wounds. An undead abomination would have been destroyed utterly.”

“Oh. Then your parents must have been relieved to hear…”

“They told me to forget about it. That I was not to pursue the matter any further.”

Jonahan stared open-mouthed at Tomaas as he took his backpack and started packing some clothes on top of the ration packs.

“But… why?” he finally asked.

“That is what I am going to find out,” Tomaas replied firmly, cinching the bag shut.

“I thought you already went to your parents?” Jonahan asked, making Tomaas roll his eyes.

“I did. And that’s not where I’m going. I’m going to the source.”

Jonahan bolted upright. “Wait, you’re going there?” he asked. “I thought you were just going on a pilgrimage to clear your head!”

Tomaas shook his head. “It’s where my brother is. And for all I know, he might still be gravely injured. He might need me.”

“At least take your armour, then!” Jonahan insisted, gesturing towards the stand in the corner. “I mean, I know you’re not supposed to take it for private use, but this is practically a quest from Mitla himself! I’m sure the Masters would understand…”

“I’m not taking my armour, Jonahan.”

“But… without your armour, you will barely be able to hold any of Mitla’s Blessings…” Jonahan tried to protest, but Tomaas cut him off.

“The only Blessing I will be taking is the Blessing of Wings,” he said. “And only until I reach the outpost where I saw him last.”

“What if he’s not there? What if he’s already gone back to… that place?” Jonahan whispered.

“Then I will be very glad I am not wearing anything that would mark me as an Inquisitor, won’t I?” Tomaas replied, giving his friend a smile.

“So you’re going to the City of Sin itself without protection? No armour, no Blessings, nothing?”

Tomaas put his hand on Jonahan’s shoulder. “Not without protection, my friend. Mitla will be watching over me. Not as directly as we have gotten used to, perhaps, but I have faith that he will guide me, even there.”

Jonahan rubbed his face. “It shames me to say this, Tomaas, but your faith is stronger than mine.”

Tomaas chuckled lightly as he thought back to the girl who’d been with his brother when he’d arrived. The look of absolute shock on her face when his Faith and her magic had briefly, yet gently, touched inside his brother’s body while they’d both been struggling together to save his life.

Right… faith.

Was it sinful of him to hope to see her again?

Ava’s old, scuffed luggage chest made an ugly scraping sound as she dragged it over the threshold, through the gates of the Academy. She dropped it with an angry thump and glared at all the robed figures staring at her.

The chest held all of her belongings, everything she owned in this world, and nobody was helping her with it. They all just stared, drinking in her humiliation as her face burned with embarrassment.

Fuck the Academy. Fuck its useless, slow-witted students. Fuck its greedy, selfish, incompetent professors. And fuck the Dean in particular, that smarmy, conceited, in-bred offspring of a swamp troll’s left testicle!

With a final, wordless huff, Ava turned her back and picked up her chest as best she was able again, before marching off to the rickety wooden carriage waiting for her.

They’d kicked her out. Her. Their fucking ‘prodigy’. The highest scoring student in her group, three years running, despite being two years younger than everyone else. And they did it for the most bullshit reason imaginable.

Technically, she hadn’t been kicked out. She’d just been ‘suspended, pending repayment of monies due’. But given the fucking mountain of cash she was going to have to cough up to pay what they’d decided she owed them for the destroyed carriage, there was no practical difference to kicking her out.

Yes, that was right. The Dean had, in his infinite fucking wisdom, decided that since she had been both present and technically part of Proxton’s post-graduate team, she was equally as liable for the loss of the extremely rare and expensive Paralysis-spell-array carriage as the only two other brain-dead nitwits who’d survived that complete and utter cluster-fuck on the road. Never mind that said nitwits had been trying to kill her at the time!

The entire fucking mess had been promptly pinned on Professor Proxton and, since he was now dead, on his students by extension. It was a fucking stitch-up, though only the gods know why they bothered. The artifact itself had been irreplacable. It wasn’t like they were going to recover any significant portion of its cost by squeezing a couple of almost-broke students.

With her luggage properly secured on its rack, Ava climbed aboard and settled in for what was probably going to be her least ever anticipated journey.

The Academy had frozen all of her student accounts. Every cent that she’d accumulated - which, admittedly, hadn’t been all that much as she’d mostly been relying on her bursary - was gone. Swallowed by the bureaucratic mess that was the Forbidden A.

She’d had to use her own money to pay the deposit for her ill-fated expedition into the Nightmare, which, of course, she couldn’t get back thanks to that bitch, Gora. After paying for the shitty carriage to pick her up at the dorms, she was, quite literally, completely broke.

Which left the rather awkward question of where the carriage should take her to.

The noise of the city outside the carriage dropped just a bit as it passed into the Pious District, the greater open space making it less echoey than the closely built structures of the city proper.

Ava stared silently out of the window at the large, majestic temple buildings that adorned the plain. She’d always liked the temples. The architecture was so intricate, and no two temples had the same style. You could stare at them for hours and still spot some obscure detail that you hadn’t noticed before.

Then she noticed something that made her do a double take.

“Stop! Stop the carriage! I said, stop the carriage!” she commanded, slamming her open palm against the wall behind the driver.

The carriage slowly rolled to a halt.

All the while, Ava kept staring at the sight of an eight-legged spider-thing running across the temple plain, dodging and weaving around pedestrians. A smaller figure ran behind it, smacking it’s abdomen with what appeared to be a wooden sword whenever it slowed.

“Yeh, what’s it?” the driver asked, leaning around the side of the carriage. “Yeh wanna get off here?”

“No, just… just hold on a moment, will you?” she snapped.

“Holdin’s gonna cost ya extra,” the driver drawled.

Ava momentarily ground her teeth in frustration. She couldn’t afford for the journey to cost any extra.

“Fine,” she snapped. “Let’s get going then. But slowly.” She cast another glance at the strange sight outside her window.

Her eyes narrowed.

It was Rita. Of that she was certain. And it looked like it was Samual chasing her. But what in the gods names’ were they doing this time?

“Please! I can’t anymore! I need a break!” she heard Rita’s complaining echo across the open square.

“One more lap!” Samual’s voice echoed back. There was the faint crack of a wooden sword smacking flesh. “Come on! You can do it!”

“Ow! Stop hitting me!”

“Then run faster!”

Ava’s fingers clenched on the windowsill.

This was all their fault.

Magic flickered in the palm of her other hand, a small ball of crackling, necrotic death aching for a living body to bury itself in…

Getting kicked out of the Academy, everything she’d lost, her future ruined… all of it! If they hadn’t… if they hadn’t…!

Ava sighed and slumped her shoulders as she stared at the tiny ball of death in her hand, letting the magic dissipate. In the distance Rita and Samual disappeared around the corner of one of the temple complexes.

Who was she kidding? That little ball of energy wasn’t going to kill anyone. At worst it could maybe injure one of them, but it wasn’t their fault. Not really. If she were being brutally, painfully honest – and she prided herself on being honest with herself – there was only one person to blame for this mess.

Herself.

Ava leaned back in her seat, resting her head in her hands as the carriage slipped out the other side of the Pious District.

She wasn’t really angry, either. She was terrified.

Terrified of what was coming. Terrified of the memories. Terrified of going back to the one place she swore up and down she would rather die than ever go back to again.

Home.