The girl imagined palaces of splendor where fires roared through winter and dinner was eaten every day. Dresses and jewelry pervaded, of course, but finery was hard to contemplate when dressed in rags and crouched beneath rubble for cover at night: any clothing at all seemed a luxury in the depths of such discomfort, when linen melted into skin and both peeled off like a reptile’s scales come rainfall.

She looked up at the Archon’s fortress in those moments and saw through its walls. The people, the courtiers and the knights and the lords and patricians and slaves and visiting magicians and functionaries of the Cult—she didn’t know what they looked like, but still in her mind she visualized them, and she felt clarity.

She knew. She was certain. She belonged with them.

The life of an urchin was a passing trial. Someday Eris would be a princess, in a great castle all her own. She would sit by the roaring fire. She would eat dinner every day. She would be draped in more exquisite attire than could be afforded by ten thousand plebians. The courtiers would answer to her. She would be more than nothing. All she needed was a prince to come and save her.

At the same time she gazed upward at the Archon’s palace, there was a boy enjoying just the life she dreamed of not far off. Little did she know ten years hence they would meet in a far away place and return together, and thus, in a way she never might have considered, all her dreams would come true. She would find her prince after all.

How silly she was. In Castle Korakos the fires burned in summer as well as winter. Three meals were served daily, and should she desire to eat more there were countless scullions desperate to fatten her. In costume she had access to the finest in the world; comfort was past her considerations. If the people knew the luxury rich aristocrats enjoyed they would not tolerate their stations for long. As a child she had no notion of how easy, pampered, and comfortable life would be in the court of a duke. Her imagination had been wholly insufficient.

Much had transpired over the course of the decade between those wet nights on Kathar streets and her ascendance to station. She had become a magician, and in so earning that power developed parallel interests to those of temporal authority and comfort. She discovered ambitions available only to those with command over mana. She learned what it meant to have true power, and to lust after the secrets of the Old Kingdom and the Aether. Yet she never lost her certainty that, one day, she belonged at the head of a great realm. She still knew court life was for her. Throughout her life as an adventurer she had cultivated a corresponding taste for fine things, and fine things suited her well—for she knew herself to be the finest thing of them all. Where else did she belong, except draped in purple, surrounded by the rich, worshipped and admired, with resources untappable at her command? Like the Regizars of old, she could have knowledge, magic, and power all at once.

Then she would be happy. She would be safe. She would never need return to the streets again—and she would never need rely on another for as long as she lived. That was always the intention.

But plans rarely survived the course of life. Now all her girlish dreams came alive. She had a man feverish to make her his wife and give her all the things that girl on the streets had wanted. She had wealth and status. Indeed for the first week she drank copiously while bathing often, beating slaves, screaming at servants, wasting Rook’s money as prodigiously as possible, and for a week she was happy.

For a week.

Life in Keep Korakos did suit her, in so far as she enjoyed luxury. She also enjoyed being leered at by high status men, especially when they all knew she was taken and so never harassed her further, and she enjoyed attention from servants. But after just seven days her mind began to crack. She felt a tingling in her brain. A heaviness in her eyelids. A tension in her heart.

She was bored.

There was nothing to do. Nothing even on the horizon but waiting for disaster to strike. She felt her youth wasting away like some spell was cast over her, the days blurring into each other, night falling earlier and earlier, and when she considered what it was she had done yesterday, she had no idea. The answer was usually nothing. Rook was some distraction, and on the night after the assault they celebrated together most delightfully, ecstatically, for hours and hours, in passion and pleasure Eris hardly knew possible. Yet after that he became always busy, and she…

Tasted the life of the noble lady. It was just as she had feared. Some part of her had hoped she might enjoy being imprisoned within the keep’s walls, but she knew herself better than that.

There were secrets to discover. Spells to write. Magical artifacts to plunder. Her curiosity was a ravenous force and she would stop at nothing to sate it. And while she could justify idleness as she spent time waiting for this illness to pass, the illness which still afflicted her, she had no major injuries, and she knew it would not be long before lingering here drove her to utter madness.

She could not stay put. She needed to travel. She needed to scheme. She needed to pursue her own desires.

And that served only to make her furious at herself. She was the one who wanted to come to Katharos. She was the one who convinced Rook to embark on this lunatic plan to take back his family’s title. And now she was the one who would have to leave, after giving in to his idiocy regarding ‘love,’ and there was nothing in the world she wanted less than that.

The bill was due for love. The price was to be paid. Her freedom, all her ambitions and her happiness, or her heart; she could not have them both. If she had only listened to her common sense and rejected him this never would have happened. If she had only had better control of her lust this never would have happened. If she had only been more rational—but it was very hard to regret what she and him had shared. Rook was the only friend she had ever had. The only man she had ever felt comfortable around. The only person whose presence relaxed, rather than tensed, her. She did not want to give that up.

She was such an idiot little girl. Weak and emotional. Prone to crying. It was much worse over the last months, especially the last weeks, and she didn’t know why; she felt hopelessly weak, fragile, stupid, and foolish. The woman she wanted to be did not cry over men, but she couldn’t help it. Slowly, as the days passed, she began to loath herself in a way she never had before. She began to feel uncomfortable in her own body. And her conviction grew that she could not stay with Rook. He had ruined her, and she needed to leave at all costs.

She couldn’t stand the thought of telling him. She wanted to delay it as much as possible. So she fell back on old tricks: she avoided him for as long as she could.

“We’ll name him after his father, of course,” said Diana. She had a hand on her stomach. An overbright sun blared in through east-facing windows. “What boy wouldn’t want to be named after a vampire slayer?”

“That is the tradition,” said Basilia, a whale whose saggy, pallid breasts threatened to burst from her dress like a swelling dam.

“I know it’s the tradition,” said Cressida, a skeleton whose bones were so visible through her skin that they would likely cut any man who touched her, “but I think we should honor the Duke, shouldn’t we? I should like to name my first son after Korax.”

“It isn’t really our decision, is it?” said Despina, an apple with hair that matched the parlor’s carpet. “Our husbands will decide. Why, I didn’t have any hand in naming my sons, and that’s how it should be.”

“If you don’t follow the tradition,” Basilia bellowed, “then communications are likely to become highly complicated. There is a reason for our culture, Lady Cressida.”

“There are always the younger sons for honoring family friends,” Diana said.

“I just feel it’s so exciting,” Cressida said. “There are so many great men—and women, too—alive today. After the Tournament—”

“What about a daughter?” Despina said. “My husband let me name my daughter. What if it’s a girl, Lady Diana?”

Diana smiled. “I thought I would name her after you, Eris.”

Eris did her best not to listen to this imbecilic drivel. Her head ached and her stomach churned and the light blinded her, and she had done a poor job preparing her appearance that day, so that she knew she looked like the witch of Moronos as she looked up at Diana with a glare. Even so she made the other women look like toads (but then so too did most toads).

“I would be so honored,” she sneered.

These idiots did not catch the intended irony, for they burst out clapping. The gossiping continued. ‘You are so lovely, Eris,’ this, and, ‘I should love a daughter like you,’ that, and sometimes questions about magic, and it was all enough to make her want to throw up. In fact she did throw up; whether it was her headache or the droning on of the women she remained uncertain.

She didn’t know how she found herself in the company of these cretins. There was simply nothing else to do. Even Aletheia would have been preferable, for at least Aletheia wasn’t stupid. Irritating, yes. Obnoxious, juvenile, depressed, annoying, unattractive—but not stupid. Cressida, Despina, and Basilia were all as bad as Aletheia in the usual respects, but worst of all, Eris spoke to them and found them simply dumb. She enjoyed feeling smart at first, but quickly realized that this was a small compensation for the cost of conversation.

She hated these ladies. She hated all noble ladies. She didn’t like noblemen either, but the ladies were far worse.

“Of course you’ll name your eldest after Rook,” Despina said to Eris. “But what about your other children? Have you thought about what you’ll name them?”

She glared at the round mass before her. “Ask me that question again and I will set your hair on fire.” Here all the ladies turned to her, shocked, and Eris lost her temper completely. She had managed to keep herself composed mostly through lack of attention, but now she became emotional. “All of you. You are insufferable, ugly, inbred idiots. If you were to combust tomorrow, ‘twould be your only positive contribution to this city; your fat may at least burn long enough to provide light in place of the keep’s torches for a day. Perhaps then your incessant eating may prove to have done some good.”

“Eris—” Diana tried.

“You are little better, actress,” Eris said. “Do not think we are friends simply because you have pretended to wear my skin on stage.”

She had a cup of wine in her hands and, not knowing what else to do with it, tossed it to the ground. The ladies gasped. Eris stormed off.

Over the following hours she felt much better, having no regrets whatsoever and thinking very little about what she had said. Her only reflection on the event was the newfound resolution that there was no point in entertaining company at Keep Korakos. The only companion she needed was Rook; and if not Rook, for it could not be him any longer, then it would be herself—and no one else.

She took long walks at night. There was no other way to be alone. The courtiers were everywhere, more and more by the day, and only through absconding outside could she feel herself again.

It was more than just solitude she craved. Keep Korakos was huge and labyrinthine, but within days she knew all its secrets. But using Blink from the walls down to Crowsbrook, Eris found herself in a place full of mystery. A place she did not know or understand. She was not likely to discover any secrets of magic here, but there was some food for her curiosity.

So she walked. Through the woods about the river, around Crowsbrook, watching the common people where she found them and wandering the fields. A farmer took her for a crop thief and set his dogs on her, and for a few minutes she humored them with a chase, using Aethereal Voice as a distraction and covering her tracks with Blink. Eventually she was found; she let out a stream of green flame at the hounds to scare them away, and they and their master ran screaming back home again.

That was some amusement. But even then exploration lost its luster day after day, and she found herself once again left only with discontentment.

The time had come. She needed to tell Rook how she truly felt. And maybe, like the girl waiting to be rescued by a prince, he would be able to save her from herself—maybe he would know what to do.

Antinaz’s hand shook. He stood beyond the Evocation Chamber, the key around his neck, his arm outstretched toward the sealed door, and he watched the trembling. It was worse than it used to be. He remembered every hour of every day of every century for over a thousand years; the withdrawals were never so pronounced. Immortality was not, it seemed, forever. The hand clenched over into a fist.

In one of his robe’s pockets was a bead of Manastone. He retrieved it. Savoring the sweet sensation of warm, delicious aether against his skin. No meal could compare. When his eyes closed he tapped the stone, drawing every ounce of energy into his Essence, keeping it intact until—it turned to dust around his fingers.

His nerves calmed. His fist ceased its shaking. Clarity returned to his mind.

It was a temporary fix. Antinaz was an addict, like every elf, and he risked calamity if he went too long without a Manastone supply. Living on the upper reaches of the Tower did much to help sustain him—he hadn’t left in decades, and never would again—but ambient mana from the air was not enough. Not anymore. He needed a more savory source to sustain his habit.

For now the single stone would do. Later he would pay a visit to the torturers and feast on an elf; that would be enough for the rest of the week. There were few better sources of raw mana, except elementals, but they were so hard to come by, even for one such as him—

He was daydreaming now. The hunger consumed his thoughts. A taste of mana could do that to him. It was sustenance and an aphrodisiac, a drug and feast all in one.

But that was for later. For now, business. He tapped the door. The key around his neck pulsed. It slid open.

Down a dark corridor lit by manalights. Past four Arcane Protectors. Through another door, then into the chamber itself. There Hesychia waited for him. Cross-legged, meditating, before an array of enchanted runes in a circle on the ground. In the middle of the circle stood Lukon.

The withered old revenant hung her head to hear him enter. The echo of her voice seemed to come from behind his head as each word pulsated with mana.

“Take a seat across from me,” she said.

If he lived another thousand years—and he intended to—Antinaz would never fail to find the cadaverous seeress of their Council eerie. She was a human who had ascended past the limits of the flesh—a revenant who now sustained its body only by mana, with no need for any food or water, much like an elf. Of course elves did eat and did drink, because it was fun, and he found that Hesychia was trying much too hard to maintain the enigma of her lofty station. Having her mouth sewn shut was going too far.

Still, as he flanked around the circle and gazed down at her, as he saw the mana burning beneath the flaking-off shell of what remained of her skin, he had to admit. It was an effective display.

Antinaz turned his attention toward the Evocation Chamber’s premises. It was dark and domed; the only light came from across the walls, where red machines bearing enchantments hummed and enchanted scrawlings glowed on every surface. A blue crystal hung just above Lukon’s head, perhaps ten feet up.

“I haven’t come in here in decades,” he mused.

“Sit,” echoed Hesychia’s voice.

“Do you know the last Council that issued a Mark of Death?”

“The practice was common in the Old Kingdom.”

“It hasn’t been used in place of a Seeker since Grandmaster Vakariz. I remember the target; he was a rogue Magister who declared himself king of the Isle of Skane. They said the Kynigos slew three armies to get to its mark, but in the end…the job was done. Of course I was just a Magister at the time—but even I knew it wasn’t a very subtle trick.”

“Eris and Rook have no armies.”

“No. But they’ve slain their share of demons. I just hope you know how to keep your hound on its leash, Hesychia.”

“The Hunter will slay those who get in its way, but it will follow my commands. Sit, Grandmaster.”

Antinaz took a final glance around the chamber. One final look at Lukon. Then he complied, sitting down across from Hesychia—and he watched as she performed the ritual of a Warlock.

To a mundane human it would have looked like nothing. She sat in silence, in deep focus. But Antinaz knew better. He felt every twist and pulsation in the aether between their bodies. He felt the mana tapped from the air, and he felt the runes at their feet empowered as the machines around them activated. He was very sensitive to these things. He could smell every shift. He knew a summoning was taking place.

Such a ritual could only happen here, in this room, in this Tower. Hesychia used an ancient spell to activate the Old Kingdom devices in the walls and she sent out a signal that lit a beacon at the top of the tower, calling forth Kynigoi demons their way. Now they needed only to wait. And then…

From the blue crystal over Lukon’s head a violet mist descended. It reached to the edge of the runes, probing at the border of the circle, but it could not pass beyond the wards. As the minutes passed more and more descended, a miasma of crackling deep purple, until Lukon was cloaked entirely in aethereal stormclouds.

He showed no concern. He did not move. He did not blink. He had been commanded to stand still and accept his fate, and so he would.

The mist’s inflow ceased. It hung still in the air, as if the wind had gone from hurricane to utter stillness in a single heartbeat.

“Within this body you will find the traces of one known as Eris, a girl,” Hesychia said. “She has been Marked for Death. You will find no soul within the Servitor offered as your sacrifice, but a taste of her; and with that taste, all you require to seek her out. I bind you to her; to a form that will reflect no attention on the Gray Council, that will allow you to move freely through this mortal world; you will kill her and her lover, Rook Korakos, and as your payment, you may take their souls before they die. The souls of two powerful adventurers—yours, before you return to the Aether. You will keep casualties to a minimum, but vanquish all those who stand in your way. You may claim any souls you desire to accomplish your purpose. When Eris is slain, this binding will be broken; you will be returned to your home until we next need your services. That is the deal I bind you to.”

The violet miasma slithered like a cloud of snakes across Lukon’s body. Antinaz felt nothing of the demon through the wards set out between it and him, but it clearly listened to Hesychia’s commands.

“Take your sacrifice.”

A moment. The fog stilled again in the air. And then…it jolted. Again like a snake it smothered every inch of Lukon’s exposed skin, sealing him within a tomb of enraged air, and it tightened around his body, contracting, strangling him. He made no reaction but simply stood lifeless like a mannequin, until he finally fell to his knees, then to a fetal position, trapped within the confines of the circle. Soon he looked nothing more than a ball of glowing energy, a sphere of crackling purple lightning, but as the seconds passed the color faded. The motion in the clouds slowed. The lightning stopped.

A paleness emerged in its place. Then dark hair. Arms and legs. The violet cloud receded into the skin of an elf, tall and muscular, until there was nothing left at all but the unassuming, mundane shape of a normal female elf.

She stood. And there was nothing at all peculiar about her. She was truly an elf. Antinaz smiled. The Mark of Death might just work after all.