I keep thinking about my upcoming duel as Cheshire and I walk through the black-and-neon landscape, following the lead of the burning compass. I also remanifest Cheshire while I think, using a scavenged sword since I’m running out of suitable selections.

I have hope that my plan will work, and that I’ll be able to kill Mahiri without having to fuse with Cheshire. But, if I fail… it’s my very soul at risk. I don’t entirely understand what that means in this world, but I can’t imagine it being pleasant–and besides, it’ll entail me dying first.

So I have to examine every possibility, even those that make me uncomfortable. Whatever Cheshire is planning, whatever hidden trap might lie within her offer of transformation, it can’t be worse than dying at my enemy’s hands. Maybe.

The uncertainty is driving me mad, but what can I do about it? I don’t have any way to… well, that’s not entirely true. I may have one way to end the uncertainty, but I’ve been avoiding thinking about it: an oath.

If Cheshire swore by the Weaver, and I felt the Weaver’s presence verify her words, then that could very well prove her intentions. From everything I’ve seen of this setting so far, from many different sources, the Weaver’s contracts are inviolate. So, unless I am to embrace radical doubt, I have to believe that a Weaver-bound oath could exonerate Cheshire of malevolence.

Or it could prove that malevolence, with my soul still shackled to hers–or however this demon-geist relationship works. And there’s the rub: asking her to swear that oath would mean collapsing the quantum wave function and producing a single undeniable answer, and I am afraid of what that answer might be.

But with my life and soul on the line, and the duel fast approaching, I guess I don’t have a choice anymore.

I clear my throat and ask, “Cheshire, would you be willing to swear by the Weaver that what you said about manifestation is true? That I’ll keep control of my body, if we were to share a form?”

“Yes,” she answers automatically, and for a moment my hopes soar, but then she grimaces and my heart plummets. “But, I don’t think it’ll work. Nyarlathotep warned me before our first encounter that I wouldn’t be able to take that ‘easy out.’” Cheshire quickly adds, “I’ll still try! Just, don’t be surprised if something goes wrong.”

That is extremely convenient for you, but also makes total sense from what little we know of the Demiurge. “Okay. Let’s try, then. Swear your truthfulness.”

We both stop walking. Cheshire takes a few steadying breaths, inches a few steps back, and lowers her head. “If you, Maven Alice, choose to manifest me, your geist, through the anchor of your body, then you will retain full control of your form and faculties. This and these–”

As Cheshire speaks, I feel the presence of Azathoth gather around us. I feel her infinite eyes watching me, loving me, dissecting me. I feel that alien, unknowable intelligence, something so far beyond me that I could never hope to understand it. I feel the pressure in the air and the prickling on my skin and the vanishing of everything that is not Cheshire, Azathoth, and me.

And then, as Cheshire begins to swear her truthfulness by the name of the Weaver, a horrible formless thing pours itself down my throat and slips inside my skin.

At once the presence of Azathoth vanishes, as if banished by this new entity, but the pressure only gets stronger. 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 try to vomit, to run, to claw my skin open and dig out the sludge, but my muscles are paralyzed, stone-like, inert. I want to cry, and this I am allowed; black ichor drips down ashen cheeks.

And somehow, through that sixth sense of the divine, I can feel that my impotent struggles make this new presence happy.

Gone is the love of a mother’s caress; now is the hand that plucks wings from a fly. Gone is the lens that would study the bug; now is the glass that burns ants under sun. Cruelty scours my veins as contempt calcifies my bones, and yet my face can’t help but smile, lips and cheeks twisted by the invader’s vicious glee.

All this happens in a frozen instant, the flow of time stilled on Cheshire’s next word. I am imprisoned within my own body between the flutter of a hummingbird’s wings, and when the second hand of the clock finally ticks forward, the name of my captor sears itself into my mind like a burning brand:

Nyarlathotep, the Lucid Demiurge, She Who Shapes Firmament From the Formless Sea; Crawling Chaos, Soul-Sculptor, Divine Architect, Star-Snuffer, Night Mother, Fate-Spinner, Toymaker; Nyara Albaoth Zereth Gremory Lazotep, the God of Death.

I lunge forward and wrap my hands around the changeling’s throat, cutting off whatever she was about to say. I slam her down into the snow, the red from her wounds staining the pristine white, the cold seeping in. I pin her there, grip tightening, choking the life from her while my knee digs into the gash across her abdomen. She pulls at my hands in vain, too weak to separate even a finger from her throat. I squeeze harder and laugh.

Her blue-and-yellow eyes are bloodshot and teary, gleaming with blind panic and mindless fear. Her mouth gapes, desperate for air, like a fish on dry land. I keep choking her, feeling her frantic pulse beneath my hands. What a wonderful feeling. Droplets of black ichor splatter against her face.

Strength fills my arms and I squeeze the changeling’s throat tighter, thumbs pressing into skin and puncturing, pushing through into vulnerable flesh. Her warm blood stains my fingers, such a comfort in the freezing cold. Not long now.

Her struggles weaken. Her arms fall to her sides. Her eyes turn glassy. The changeling’s body dies. And as she dies, I lower my head next to hers and whisper, “No spoilers. No shortcuts. Trust is a leap of faith.”

My strings are cut and I collapse. Control of my body returns in spurts and spasms, and I vomit black bile onto the neon ground. My hands, still only half-mine, clutch at a twisted piece of metal that must be whatever remains of the sword that I used to summon Cheshire.

When I stop heaving and finally regain full control of my limbs, I toss aside the useless blade and stare down at my hands. The blood is gone, and the snow, like it was never there, but I can still feel her insides, her vocal chords and vertebrae. I touch my face, and my cheeks are still sticky with black ichor.

Cheshire reforms in front of me, disheveled and rubbing her throat where I choked her to death. Her eyes are dark, haunted, and she rasps, “Yeah, that’s… that’s about what I thought might happen.”

I look up at her. “Why?” There’s something pleading about that question. “Why would she do that? Why do all of that instead of just telling us to stop, or banishing Azathoth and leaving it at that? What was the point of that? Why?”

Cheshire laughs darkly. “Why else? To entertain herself.”

I can’t think of anything to say to that. I sit there, just trying to grapple with the enormity of what I just experienced. The divine authority of this universe just poured herself down my throat and puppeted my body into murdering Cheshire’s. She overwhelmed me, and she made me feel like it was me, like I was the one laughing at Cheshire’s pain even as I cried black tears.

It is a sense of violation far worse than Azathoth’s nudges in ritual. I can’t bring myself to care even an iota about the Weaver putting words in my mouth after what the Demiurge just did to me. Night Mother, Toymaker, Soul-Sculptor. What a horrible, monstrous being.

I want to kill her. I want to bleed her to death. I want to take a knife to her soul and carve my name into it.

I slowly rise to my feet, still feeling unsteady and frail after the usurpation of my form. Cheshire watches me, expression somber, and when I have my balance I turn to her and tell her, “First the Beast, then Katoptris, then Nyara. I’ll settle for nothing less.”

The catgirl smiles sadly and says, “I hope you win. I really do.”

I summon the compass and remanifest my geist, and we trudge along in silence.

After a bit of walking we pass into a new area: a mess of steel beams and platforms suspended in the air like the rafters and catwalks of a theater. Spotlights shine from above, and far below I can make out the distant impression of a wooden stage and shadows dancing.

There are fewer paths here than the ribbon-bridge zone, and while they branch out at places they usually meet back up. In the distance, two brightly-lit signs point in opposite directions: one is labeled “Exit,” and the other is labeled “Backstage.”

This is much, much worse than the first two zones; on those bridges I could at least stay at a comfortable distance from any terrifying death-drop ledges (aside from the drop that killed me), but the catwalks are much thinner and I am surrounded by empty space and great heights. I clutch the metal railing tightly.

“Why did it have to be heights?” I hiss as I start to carefully walk forward. “I hate heights. I’m afraid of heights. Can’t this wretched Labyrinth take pity on a poor demon? No, of course it can’t, because the God of Death delights in seeing me suffer.”

Cheshire backwards-walks in front of me, unconcerned with the risk of falling. “Do you wish you could fly? We could see about working toward that, if it would help.”

“Hmmph. Maybe? I’m surprisingly fine with planes, but those aren’t, y’know, open to the rushing air. Might solve the problem, might be terrifying. Wings would be cool, though. Magic wings, obviously, since I have too much mass to be lifted by ordinary wings. Wait, could we adjust my mass?”

Cheshire chuckles, and I am thankful for the distraction to keep my mind off the dizzying heights below us, but then her demeanor shifts into serious mode and she points ahead. “Reaver. It’s the woman with a spear.”

I grimace. “This is the worst arena yet, but at least it’s not Mahiri. Alright, how best to kill this whelp…”

Cheshire’s expression darkness. “Shit. Mahiri’s also near. Farther out, but moving steadily.”

I hiss. “I hate the Labyrinth, I hate the Labyrinth, I hate the Labyrinth! Argh! Okay, go slow the boss, I’ll clear the trash mob.”

Cheshire nods and transforms into a crow. “Spear lady is waiting by the exit!”

The sign is big and obvious, and the compass points the same direction. We’re almost out of the woods. I pick up the pace, still nervous about falling but now faced with the equal-or-greater danger of Mahiri catching me.

The reaver comes into view quickly, lounging against the catwalk’s railing in a way that is just begging for it to come loose and send her falling into the vast depths below. I suppress a shiver and force myself not to clutch at the railing again, needing to project confidence in front of my opponent.

She has her spear out, but pointed at the ground, and she waves at me as I approach. “Evenin’, prey. Enjoy scurrying your way past hounds and hedges?”

I stop a good distance from the hunter and cross my arms. “What, no scurrying on your part? Have you been waiting here all this time?”

The reaver grins. “I’ve played this game before. Why chase the rat through the maze when you can lay a mousetrap at the cheese?”

Interesting. “These hunts are a regular event, then?” I don’t know why I’m talking to this woman instead of just killing her. Cheshire won’t be able to hold Mahiri for long, so this is just wasted breath.

There’s always a choice. Ah, I see. Damn moralists.

The huntress shrugs. “Regular enough. We try to recruit first, so these hunts really only get called when someone doesn’t wanna play nice. I guess I should thank you for that.” She raises her spear, still grinning.

“If you fight me, you’ll die,” I tell her calmly.

The reaver scoffs. “Weren’t you criticizing Cooper for arrogance just a few short hours ago?”

Cooper. Noted. “I’m nothing if not an inveterate hypocrite, but… Cooper’s dead. So is the woman with knives, and the man with a shield. They tried to kill me, and I killed them first.”

She narrows her eyes, and her grip tightens around her spear. “I see.”

“But please, don’t take that as a threat; it’s a warning. Averrich is the one who sent you to die. You’re a sacrifice, just like your friends.”

She scoffs. “I volunteered.”

“He knew you would. You’ve done it before,” I point out. “He knew you’d volunteer, just like he knew the others would volunteer. And he never intended for you to win. He doesn’t want you to win. So, please: just leave. Walk through that exit, and I’ll walk after you, and we can both walk away from this without blood on our hands. There is no prize at the end of this game, only death.”

“Bold words.” The reaver settles into a fighting stance. “But I can take you.”

Next to me, Cheshire coalesces from black mist. The hunter doesn’t react to her arrival. I grit my teeth. “She’ll be here soon,” Cheshire murmurs to me. “You’re running out of time.”

“Maybe,” I respond to the reaver. “But can you take Mahiri, too? You saw her new toy: a gift from Averrich himself. She has a spell from Imlashi, and a story at her back. She’s the one that Averrich wants to kill me, the only one he’ll allow to claim that prize. If you stand even a chance of taking me down, Mahiri will stop you. She’ll kill you, if she needs to.”

For the first time in our conversation, the reaver looks uneasy. “That… no, that’s against the spirit of the hunt. Averrich wouldn’t interfere like that.”

I laugh. “Oh, you poor fucker. You think he cares? All of you are just means to an end. He’ll sacrifice every one of you to get his hands on the Beast’s shard.”

Immediately she’s back in hostility mode, and internally I swear at myself. “So you do know about the big event.”

“Yes, but–”

“That shard is the only way that any of us can escape the Wolf Queen’s shackles! Don’t think the boss is the only one with cause to claim it. I won’t let you stand in the way of my freedom.”

I sigh. “Fine. The easy way it is.”

She lunges at me and I don’t try to dodge. I can heal whatever wound I take as long as I dish out a wound of my own, so I’ll just get in close and bite, then [Exsanguinate] until she’s dead and I’m whole.

Instead, the reaver takes a crossbow bolt to the eye. She crumples without ceremony, momentum carrying the tip of her spear to scrape against my chest but only barely draw blood. I blink a few times, then crouch down and tap her side. “[Prey Upon].”

The reaver finishes dying, and as I rise I start looking for Mahiri. She’s not hard to find, as she’s leaning against the railing of another catwalk not far away from the one I’m on. Her crossbow is loaded, and pointing at me. “Just you and me,” she says with lazy contempt.

Showtime. I roll my shoulders and crack my knuckles. “Guess it is. Gonna shoot me like you shot her, or do you want to make this more interesting?”

Mahiri raises an eyebrow. “I’m listening, dead girl.”

“Let’s make this more than just a hunt: I challenge you to a scion’s duel.” A wave of force immediately surges out from me, rocking both my catwalk and Mahiri’s. I grip the metal railing tightly and try to recover my composure. “My soul wagered against yours. Then we can see which of us is really the predator and which of us is the prey.”

“Heh.” Mahiri lifts her crossbow and scratches her chin, but doesn’t seem impressed. “Why should I make that wager, give you a chance to bring more power to bear against me, when I could kill you right now and claim the prize I was after from the start?”

Cheshire steps up beside me and I see Mahiri’s gaze flicker to the changeling. “That prize won’t get you out from under Averrich’s thumb,” my geist says. “You know he’s giving you this opportunity because he thinks he can control you. If you kill us now, he will. But if you can beat us in a scion’s duel, you’ll have the soul of a demon as leverage to escape your contract… and maybe more.”

Mahiri smirks cruelly and curls her lip. “And will you become my geist, cat?” I tense up, but let Cheshire answer.

“No. I belong to Maven Alice and no other soul. If you kill her, I go with her. But perhaps some other geist will take pity on you.”

The look on Mahiri’s face gets uglier. “No one pities me. And no one beats me, either. You’re on, bitch: I accept your scion’s duel.”

The air crackles with potential, I breathe deep, and then my soul becomes the world.