Ratarrion sliced through the blight-beast's left foreleg at the knee, sending it toppling to the ground. He took the opportunity to step back and survey the battle. His party, veterans all, comported themselves well. Though they were but a dozen elves, they were fresh from a week's rest.

A quick chant sent a fan of luminous daggers arcing from Ratarrion's hand. Each found a weak spot in a different enemy, sinking into their rotting bodies, then bursting forth in a searing, soundless explosion that consumed their targets from within. He ensured the bear he downed earlier was one of them.

"Over here, Captain," Accarinde called out to him. Ratarrion glanced her way and saw a field of flash-frozen foes. He extended his hand towards the cluster of corruption and channeled his power. A moment later, a broad beam shot out and engulfed the blight-beasts in their icy prisons. Ratarrion focused on each monster one at a time, turning them into piles of purified ash.

It wasn't enough to kill these cursed creatures. No, even in death, they served their dark maker. Within minutes of dying, a blight-beast's body went through a rapid decomposition process. Its black blood would seep into the soil while foul miasma wafted upward into the canopy. A single uncleansed corpse could start a whole new infestation, and only magic could purify them. Mundane fire wouldn't even take root in a blight-beast's fetid flesh.

It took two hours of fighting before the final monster fell and burned. Another four followed, spent checking the battlefield for traces of corruption. Only when they confirmed the grove remained pure did Ratarrion allow himself to relax. Despite the near-endless opposition they faced, this would not be the time they had to take a step back. The infestation wouldn't spread today.

Not there, anyway. Ratarrion's party was only one of the six Oaken Nocturne Guild groups covering this part of the forest. The Guild, in turn, was one of the dozens of independent organizations assisting the crown. All told, hundreds of units like Ratarrion's waged a hopeless war within the Roottangle Forest.

The blighted legions were endless. Every day, hordes of monsters poured out of the forest's heart. Yfa Nalore, the great city which once housed the First Tree, fell five years ago. The blight besieged Thyan Athalas, the capital, on all sides and held out only thanks to the Son of the Sun's might. Soon, even he, a centuries-old hero of legends, would grow weary and make a mistake.

And out here, near the Mistvale Highlands, the defenders were stretched thin. The forest extended for close to a thousand miles, and there weren't enough elves to cover every inch. They did their best, but some packs slipped through the cracks to rampage in the foggy hills beyond. Right now, it only amounted to a trickle. How long would it be before the floods came?

"You're telling me that my children have been... what, sucked into a game?" Caitlin couldn't keep the skepticism out of her voice.

"I know it sounds crazy, Ma'am, Sir," the weedy-looking man with the thin goatee and crinkled jacket said. "I can hardly believe it myself. But that leaf you brought me? It doesn't match any plant on Earth. It doesn't even have the same DNA markers our plants do. I was half-tempted to dismiss your case as a hoax."

Caitlin swelled up, ready to give the young man a dressing-down, but Seamas's hand landed on her shoulder. She looked up at him, saw the concern in his dark eyes, and let it go with a sigh. "Why didn't you?" she asked instead.

"Because, with all due respect, Ma'am, if this is something you or someone you work with made," Horace waved a pale hand at the flecks of desiccated leaves in their vacuum-sealed containers, "then you'd have far better things to do with your time than playing a prank on me. That is an entirely alien life-form. If you made it, you'd have biotech firms knocking down your door."

"So you believe it's real?"

"Oh, yes. There's no doubt about that," the man assured Caitlin.

"I still don't see how you can expect me to believe your conclusion." Despite her husband's calming presence, Caitlin couldn't help the scowl tugging at her lips.

"It's either that or aliens abducted your children," the youngster said, spreading his hands. "Once I convinced myself these samples were the real deal, I looked into the case more. I have some alphabet soup contacts—" he saw the look on Caitlin's face and hurried to explain, "federal agencies. FBI, NSA, DEA, that kind of thing. Anyway, the case wasn't on their radars, but I called in a favor and had an acquaintance in the FBI give Atlanta PD a visit."

The reedy young man spun around in his chair and started typing at his computer. "He wouldn't tell me all the details, but I did find out that both of their PCs were in use after their last known appearances, and they both received a package from the same source a few days prior." A logo appeared on his monitor, then swirled and transformed into a video game trailer.

"This company. Distant Journeys. Their only project is a new IVR game called The Realms. Both of your children's IVR units showed signs of recent use." He spun back around to face Caitlin, his face growing more animated as he spoke. "And I looked into the company. No one's ever heard of them before this. None of their developers or programmers have any credits on any other piece of software I can find. The company itself is incorporated in one of those little Caribbean tax haven islands. No investors I could find."

Another spin, a flick of a mouse, and a new image on the computer screen. Caitlin leaned in despite herself as Horace waved at the image forming there. "And see, doesn't this look exactly like the crime scene photo of those leaves?"

"Hmm," Seamus rumbled from beside Caitlin, "yes. It does."

Indeed, accounting for the dryness of the samples, the screenshot looked like a perfect match. Caitlin looked up at Seamas again, her gaze a question. He nodded once.

"Okay, say we believe you," she told Horace. "What can we do about it?"

Brighid's hands shot to her neck to stem the tide of blood. Except she had no hands. Or neck. Or body. She looked around and saw nothing. Not the bedroom she shared with Aidan and his other fiancees, not the misty hills of her homeland, not even a featureless plain or a pitch-black emptiness. There was nothing at all other than herself.

Which was why the voice surprised her so much. "My/Our dear child," it said in a language Brighid couldn't understand—but did anyway—but recognized nevertheless. The language of the Gods. Which meant...

"Goddess!" Brighid tried to prostrate herself, but her current disembodied nature foiled her. She spun around, as much as that concept applied wherever she was, and saw a burning flame in the vague shape of a centaur.

"Be at peace, O daughter of My/Our heart. I/We come to thee, not for obeisance but to grant thee a boon of knowledge." The Brighaid's voice was impossible to define. They spoke in an ever-shifting dissonant harmony, each voice layered within and across the others.

"Knowledge?" Brighid didn't understand any of what was happening. The last she remembered was the terrible pain as someone—Aoife?—tore out her throat from behind. Now she was... wherever she was, speaking to her deity in a manner too direct to be possible.

"As thou hast surely guessed, thy life is over," the Brighaid said. Brighid felt non-existent tears well up in her non-existent eyes. Not for herself but for those she left behind. "Yet this need not be the end of thy story."

"Not the end?"

Despite lacking a face, the Brighaid smiled. "Didst thou think that binding thy soul to and mingling it with My/Our Champion's had no effect? Thou art not My/Our Chosen, dear Brighid, but thou may draw upon his power. On thy own, thou might yet lack the strength to pass back through Death's door. Even for the Chosen, such a task is not trivial."

"Pass back through... I can come back to life? Like Aidan does?" Hope surged in Brighid's chest.

"Perhaps, should thy will prove strong enough."

Brighid's elation vanished like mist at noon on Summer Solstice. "That is not my strong suit, Goddess." Thanks in part to your blessing, she thought but didn't add.

"Indeed, My/Our blessing lies heavy on thee, child." Brighid would have blushed crimson if she'd had any blood. Or a body.

"Still, with enough effort, thee might succeed," the deity continued. "If thou wishest, I/We will step aside and allow thee to spend thine limited time so before thy soul is swept away to be reincarnated."

"And... is there an alternative?"

"I/We cannot return the dead to life of My/Our own power. It is Forbidden. However, I/We can grant boons to My/Our priesthood, even here in Death's realm. All it takes is a heartfelt prayer." A hand-shaped blob of fire at the end of a blazing tendril stopped Brighid before she could respond.

"Speak not in haste, child. There are three things thou must consider before thou decidest." The fire-hand curled into a fist, then one burning tendril-finger emerged. "First, as thou sharest a soul with My/Our Chosen, so too dost thou share lives with him. If thou returnest in this manner, it is one fewer time Aidan himself may do so."

That rocked Brighid back on her metaphorical hooves. That was a hefty price indeed. For all she knew, Aidan only had one revival to spare and might need it to deal with whoever killed her.

"And the second?" Brighid asked to give her time to consider.

"Second, even now, Aidan knows of and prepares for a means to restore thee to life independent of his Chosen power. Should thee but wait, and should Aidan survive the coming days without thee by his side, he will revive thee."

Without her by his side. That phrase stuck in Brighid's mind. How long would it be? Aidan was nowhere close to Grandmaster level in Vivimancy. Even with his phenomenal ability to grow his skills, it would mean months or even years of grief and sorrow for him.

"I see," Brighid said. "What is the third consideration?"

"My/Our help comes with a price. What I/We must do verges on the Forbidden, even despite thy prayers. Should I/We help thee in this way, I/we must also take something from thee in return."

Brighid didn't like the sound of that. "And what is this price?"

"I/We will not say. To learn of it might tilt the scales. This must be thy decision, as free and clear as possible. Know only that I/We love thee and will support thee, no matter thy choice."

Brighid closed her eyes, then, when that proved useless, focused her thoughts inward. What should she do? This was no easy decision. Depriving Aidan of a revival was a serious cost without considering the Goddess's mysterious price. On the other hand, what would happen to Aidan if she waited for him to rescue her? Would he even be the same person she fell in love with after so much grief?

Thoughts chased themselves in circles around and around inside Brighid's mind until she grew dizzy. Eventually, her nature got the better of her. She never was very good with waiting or thinking through all the consequences. She acted with her heart.

Opening her metaphysical eyes again, Brighid did her best to adopt the mental posture of prayer. "O Goddess, I beg of thee a boon..."

As Brighid prayed, the Brighaid's fiery avatar drifted toward her through the non-space. One 'hand' reached out and touched her brow, then the other settled against her equine belly. As she continued to entreat her Goddess, burning determination suffused her.