The four of them walk up the street, rising around the bend of the giant tree as they head along the crooked path towards the castle, which sits upon the massive roots of the world-tree. Fresh lets her hand run along the wood of the giant thing as they walk alongside it. She lifts her eyes, staring up towards its crown, which hangs monumentally high above their heads.

It’s dying, huh?

The girl frowns, lowering her gaze as they keep on walking. Somehow, this is… sad. Well, obviously it’s sad. But it’s sad in a more numbing way than the other times that she’s been sad before.

Her flying broom is slung over her shoulder, her hat dangling off of the end of it. No point in pretending anymore, after all.

For how long has this thing, the world-tree, been growing here? Centuries. Eras. It was a beautiful, natural symbol of hope and strength for the world and its peoples and, just like that, in her pursuit of personal happiness, the horrible witch has taken this from them too.

According to Muldrich, most people don’t know. But the casters who had been atop the tree, during winter, weren’t actually there to drop snow and rain on the world. That was just a cover, to explain their presence up high on the tree to the people of the city. In reality, they were studying it, looking at every branch and twig in the hopes of finding out not only what ails it, but also to find out what might make it better again.

But it seems that, after weeks of study by the best minds in the entire city, the only result that has come of it is one tending towards hopelessness. The tree is a lost cause. It’s only a matter of time until spring comes in full bloom and the people begin to realize why it isn’t blooming in vibrant green hues once again, like it had done for the springs of so many generations now come to pass.

Something bumps into her shoulder. Fresh looks, lifting her eyes from the road to see Shamrock, his fist pressing lightly against her from the side. He nods. Fresh does her best to smile back at him as they keep walking.

Everything was calculated for this purpose. Their presence in the cities was to kill off the roots, stretching all across the continent. It was never about the other cities or their people. The only real way to kill the tree is to destroy the roots, otherwise its powerful magic would have sustained it through just about any attack, even from a pseudo deity like Perchta, the fountain. The central-city would have been untouchable.

They walk past a large, very expensive looking side-street. At the end of it is a grand, walled complex, that Fresh recognizes as the orichalcum forge.

The fact that she had arrived in this world during spring, even. It wasn’t just a kindness from the fountain or a coincidence. It was planned exactly so that by the time the poison started working, the black-water, by the time the leaves and branches started to wither and rot, nobody would notice quick enough because it was set up to happen at the same exact time as the fall of winter.

It was all a set-up from the very start. “Market saturation, huh?” mutters Fresh beneath her breath, recalling the words that the fountain had once spoken to her, back in the north.

She should have known better. But this changes nothing.

Fresh straightens herself upright, pulling her shoulders back as they walk into the courtyard of the castle, the one she had flown above during her arrival here to curse the hero. Her priority is still to survive together with her friends, no matter what the cost.

She’s sad about the tree, just like she’s sad about all of the people who had to pay the final price for their survival. But she’s still going to continue to choose her friends and she’s still going to continue to do so, no matter who, or what else, has to go.

Outside of the castle gate are several ornately armored guardsman with pikes who block the way.

Seeing them approaching, they first continue to stand there, but then, after staring for a moment, disperse again in an orderly fashion, standing to the sides of the path as they walk through without a word.

Fresh turns her head, looking at one who is the same stature and size as Shamrock. The guardsman stiffens up like a statue. She blinks, scratching her cheek with her free hand as they keep walking. “They seem a bit jumpy,” she remarks.

“Wow. I wonder why?” asks Jubilee sarcastically. “Dumb-ass.”

She looks at them for a moment and then nods. “Mm.”

The castle courtyard is just like she remembered, except for one section of wall to her left, which looks like it had to be rebuilt. They walk up the small staircase, walking over the platform where the hero once stood, so many nights ago, and enter into the large pair of ornate doors.

Fresh only has a moment’s time to look at the lonely, empty tower, jutting out of the left side of the castle, before they head inside.

She floats behind them, sitting sideways on her broom. “This place sure is big,” notes Fresh.

“It's a castle,” says Basil, as if that were the answer to her statement. Which, in fact, it is. Fresh nods, supposing that it makes sense for a castle to be big. The hall that they’re in is ornate and large and Fresh honestly isn’t even sure what it’s for. It looks like a giant ballroom, but there’s just nothing here. It’s just one big empty room with a ceiling higher than most houses that she’s seen. The regal curtains, covering the stained glass windows, could be draped over entire ships. At the end of the room is another door, larger, as ornate as the many windows and the decorations of the palace that they seem to find themselves inside of.

“They’re waiting for you inside,” says Muldrich, stepping to the side and standing by the door. In an odd moment of déjà-vu, Fresh can’t help but think that he looks exactly like he does when he’s standing outside of their front door.

“Thank you, Muldrich,” says Fresh, turning to look at the giant door. Shamrock grabs the handle, pushing it open. The hinges creak as the massive construction swings open, revealing what looks like some kind of throne-room on the other end.

“Fucking politics,” sighs Jubilee, seeing the room. They lift a hand, shaking their fist. “Get the fuck down from there, you ego driven shit-heads!” they bark as the very first thing, to greet the nobility of the land.

It’s an ornate chamber with a set of stairs leading up to an elevated platform. There, sitting on several different chairs, that one could call ‘thrones’, given their position and pageantry, are five different people, looking down their way. Most of them Fresh doesn’t recognize immediately, but that one there, the second from the left, she notices is the orc from the orichalcum forge. The one who had ordered the heating element.

In the middle right is someone too, some elven man. She feels like she’s seen him before, but she can’t really place where… “AH!” yelps Fresh, realizing. “You’re the rare-wood staff guy!” she exclaims, pointing at him.

Basil grabs her hand, lowering it back down. “It’s rude to point,” she whispers.

The man, sitting on the elevated platform, waves. Fresh remembers him. He asked them to repair his rare-wood staff once, back in the west. Of the five people there, she definitely knows two at least. No, wait…

Another man lifts a hand in a listless wave. She recognizes him. He’s vaguely familiar. He has a very fancy mustache and well-kept, black hair. But… Fresh narrows her eyes, trying to recall who he is and then screams. “BOB!” she yells in shock, surprised that she could even remember his name.

“Stop pointing,” whispers Basil, pulling her arm down again.

“…Bob?” asks Jubilee. “Wait.” They look back to the man. “From fucking ‘Bits and Bob’s’?” they ask, turning back to him. “FUCK!” they exclaim, realizing something.

“Welcome. Perchta,” greets the man. He’s the shopkeeper who Fresh had sold her very first mushroom cap to, back in the north. “Thank you for finding the time to see us. That’s not my real name. You understand.”

“We got fucking played,” hisses Jubilee. “Shamrock.” Shamrock steps forward, pushing Fresh and Basil to the side as he stands next to Jubilee, blocking anyone from the stairs from coming down towards them, as they warily look around the room. His hand rests on his sword.

“It’s okay. Everything is fine,” assures a familiar voice. “We’re not trying to start a fight.”

Jubilee tenses up and so does Fresh, the hairs on her neck standing on end as she lifts her eyes to look at the woman sitting in the middle of the group, lowering her hood, revealing long streaks of dusty blonde hair that fall down, covering the patchwork burn scars over her face.

The barkeeper from the north.

Jubilee’s loud swears echo around the room.

“Welcome,” she says. “Fresh, Jubilee, Basil, Shamrock,” she says. “We have a lot to talk about.”

Fresh stares. It was all a set-up from the very start. Not just from the fountain’s side, not just from the thieves’ guilds’ side, but even from the people of this world themselves. Literally everyone had a hand in the game, somehow.

“Did anyone not fucking know about us?!” barks Jubilee.

“I didn’t,” replies Shamrock, his chest heaving.

“Get fucked, Shamrock!” snaps Jubilee. “You and your fucking jokes…” They turn back to the people on the thrones. “You snobby fucks get down from there this instant, or we’re leaving!”

Fresh blinks, leaning downward. “Jubilee? Are we really?”

“Yes,” replies Jubilee. “We’re merchants, remember?” they ask. “We do our deals eye to eye.” They shake their head. “Never give someone free power over you.” They return their gazes up to the five people, sitting there, who are all looking at each other.

The barkeeper sighs, getting up first as she slowly walks down the staircase. Fresh yelps, lifting a hand to point a third time in surprise. But this time, at the elf’s round, growing stomach.

Basil grabs her hand, pulling it back down and lecturing her about pointing a third time. It’s rude, after all.