Carey felt like she was going to be sick. Frayed nerves and anxiety ran through her like carpenter ants gnawing through rotten wood, consuming her peace, cold sweat beaded on her skin since she’d awoken that morning.

She’d felt lightheaded during Watcher Hill’s briefing, and positively faint when her group had crossed paths with Cedric, Drestra, and Hart on the fae roads.

But now?

Now, standing in the Heroes’ camp, she found it was all she could do to keep her meagre breakfast down.

“Hey, are you okay?” Came the gruff voice of Tyris Goldtooth, a deep frown on her face. Those green eyes, just minutes before, had been sending the hungriest of looks the Champion of Uldar’s way.

The lava wizard seized Carey by the shoulder, giving it a shake. “Hey! Hey, you alright? If you’re gonna be sick, do it somewhere else, somewhere away from the fae gate.”

“I am quite alright,” Carey said quickly, trying to shake her nerves. “I’m quite, quite alright, I swear.”

“You sure?” Tyris frowned. “Every time I saw you this morning, you looked like you were about to keel over and die.”

“Just a little under the weather, I suppose,” Carey bit back the truth.

“Uhuh,” Tyris’ eyebrow rose. “Keep yourself focused, we’re heading right into danger and I don’t want you getting distracted and gutted.”

“I won’t, I swear,” Carey mumbled.

“I hope not.” Tyris shrugged, stepping back toward the fae gate.

‘Of course I can’t actually tell you that I’m terrified vicious monsters are going to come looking to kill me because I interfered with the weapons of my peoples’ greatest enemy. Or that I’m also currently having an ever so inconvenient crisis of faith because evidence has come to light that my god might have betrayed me—and all of his people—and now I have to face the greatest of his mortal representatives!’ The young woman's thoughts redoubled her fears. ‘Oh, what am I even doing here? By Saint Avelin, I must have taken leave of my senses. I should be back at the castle, my face buried in a mask! Not out here with all the dangers of flesh and soul! And—’

A roar erupted, shattering her thoughts.

Carey reacted by whirling and screaming.

An explosion of heat blasted through the air, announcing Vesuvius’ presence as he and Tyris rose from the fae gate, his enormous feet stomping through the snow. Beside him, Tyris watched Carey as though the younger woman had lost her mind.

An easy grin appeared on her face, her gold tooth glinting. “Well, I’m not sure whose cry frightened more Ravener-spawn: yours or his.”

Nervous snickering spread through the expeditionary force, while flaming crimson spread along Carey’s cheeks.

She glared at Tyris.

“You’re terrible! Absolutely dreadful!” She snapped.

“Maybe,” the other woman said. “But you look like you took a couple of steps away from death’s door. Not so nervous now, are you?”

Carey fought her anger, which made Goldtooth laugh all the harder.

“Guess not. So I’m going to call this a victory,” the redheaded woman turned to their comrades, several still wearing amused looks.

“Cut it, Goldtooh.” Watcher Hill strode up to Vesuvius. “Save the pranks for when we’re not in enemy territory. You’re spooking our allies.”

Carey glanced about, noting Thameish knights trying desperately to calm their rearing and whinnying mounts in response to the enormous tortoise. The Priests’ eyes were fixed on the enormous turtle in a mixture of trepidation and approval.

“Uldar be praised,” a young priest muttered. “Let the Ravener’s-spawn fight monsters for once.”

“Uldar be praised, indeed,” a high, clear voice cut through the murmuring. “We are glad to have such staunch allies by our side.”

Carey flinched, slowly turning; the voice had surprised her…and who it came from drove that surprise into the realm of panic. What little she knew of the Saint of Uldar was only by description and reputation, and even then, it wasn’t much.

The other Heroes had not spoken of Merzhin much during their times in Greymoor, and she’d only personally heard mention of him once. She’d been eavesdropping at the time, craving news about her homeland’s precious Heroes, but what little she’d learned was that he had a surprisingly youthful appearance—though he was the same age as the other Heroes—he looked far younger, according to Hart Redfletcher.

And the young man striding toward the expedition members—clad in the fine garments of a priest—looked no older than fifteen winters, yet all the Thameish folk around watched him with deference, lowering their heads.

He could be none other than the Saint of Uldar, and a rush of terror went through her. There had been a time when she would have been more than ecstatic to meet the holiest mortal in all of Thameland.

Now?

Her feelings roiled, sparks of guilt mixed with waves of anger went through her, coupled with an overwhelming desire to greet Merzhin with a demand for answers.

‘Why can we control dungeon cores?’ She wanted to cry. ‘Why? What has Uldar done to us, what is his plan?’’

Even as the urge fled in favour of rising fear, she was terrified that Merzhin would see right into her heart. That he would see her shaking faith and know that she was wavering and false. And was she false? For weeks, she’d wrestled with questions of faith, feelings of guilt and outrage.

All her prayers felt false.

…and all were answered with silence.

Always that silence.

Even the symbol of Uldar…in some ways wearing it felt like she did it only out of habit…or like donning a costume. The comfort it once gave her was now long gone, replaced only by shame and questions.

And the closest living thing to her god was coming nearer, with the same symbol hanging from his neck. Suddenly, fleeing back through the fae gate and away from peppering him with all the questions that disturbed her day and night seemed like the best idea.

But—before she could—the Saint looked directly at her.

His eyes met hers, and held them.

“Greetings,” he said. “And on the day of the fifth rain, Uldar looked and saw the land was wetted.”

She swallowed, the familiar scripture coming to her lips from years of repeating it. “And he said: ‘That is enough, oh, weeping sky, for the farmer’s crops have drunk their fill and the forest’s trees have drunk more still. Wipe away your tears today and quit your weeping, so that the traveller might walk with the sun on his head’.”

And Merzhin’s eyes lit up. “I didn’t expect one of you Generasians to be so versed in our scripture! Welcome, welcome, fellow child of Uldar.”

Carey beat down the urge to wince at the designation. “I’m er, actually from Wrexiff, holy Saint.”

“Oh, you are Thameish! Fantastic, I didn’t know some of us went to study in places so far afield,” he said. “Well, welcome to our camp. I hope that we work well together.”

“I do as well, ever so much,” she managed to say.

“I am sure you and I will have much to talk about,” he said, a note of eagerness in his voice. “Uldar’s connection is to his people, and the connection would be maintained, even among those who travel far from his land. I am glad you are here…Miss?”

“Carey. Carey London,” she introduced herself, bowing and drawing on all the etiquette lessons hammered into her throughout her young life.

“I am Saint Merzhin,” the Hero said, giving her another friendly nod and a smile before walking toward Watcher Hill. “We will speak more later, Carey.”

With a mighty effort, Carey resisted the urge to scream.

Could she keep her questions silent over how many nights and evenings she would spend so close to the Saint of Uldar. She was not so sure.

‘Ugh,’ she thought. ‘I feel like I’m in the hells. I wish I was back in Generasi.’

“So this a ‘classroom’, huh.” Hart swivelled about in his chair, hands drumming on the desk. “You all really sit in these rooms for like six hours a day?”

“Not in university,” Isolde said from behind her desk. “The longest time you sit in one particular class is just under three hours. Beyond that, the attention span will fray.”

“Mine might fray after five minutes in one of these places,” he said, standing and lifting up the desk to inspect it.

“Ah, come on, we’re t’be talkin’ about fightin’ ’demons. I think that’ll hold your attention just fine.” Cedric eyed the trophies lining the walls. “An’ this looks a hell of a lot less like a classroom and more like a hunter’s hall, to my eyes, at least.”

The ‘classroom’, as it was, was originally a large hall within the Research Castle: both a staging ground and a briefing room for survey and dungeon core harvesting teams. On the walls hung maps of Thameland and Greymoor, as well as maps of dungeons already conquered by the expedition’s combatants.

In between the maps; weapons, shields and armour hung—polished to mirror shine—framing trophies of slain Ravener-spawn, all stuffed and cured in perfect preservation of them in life. The reassembled skeleton of a behemoth dominated the back of the chamber, posed in a position of cringing fear.

Its empty eye sockets watched the group gathered for the expedition to the hells: Isolde, organising her research while throwing sidelong glances at Cedric. Khalik, feeding Najyah as she perched on the side of his desk. Thundar, thumbing his mace across his lap. Grimloch, picking his teeth. The three Heroes, Alex, Theresa and Brutus…and of course, Claygon, who was reading a book in the back of the room.

“A bloody frightenin’ hunter’s hall ya got here,” Cedric noted, eyeing the snarling face of a bone charger mounted on the wall beside the golem.

“That’s because it’s Baelin’s class,” Alex said as he arranged his notes. “To be honest, when he gets back, I’d be surprised if we stay here for too long. His pre-combat briefings tend to take place in more…”

He paused, looking for the right words.

“...practical locations?” Theresa suggested.

“Yeah, thanks! That’s perfect,” Alex said.

“Good,” Hart grunted. “I’m already feeling the need to stretch my legs.”

“We’ll be doing that soon.” Grimloch grinned, his arms crossed as he sat on the floor, leaning against the wall nearest Hart’s desk. His rows of triangular fangs gleamed. “And you’ll have all the demons you can eat.”

Hart glanced at Grimloch. “You mean that literally, don’t you?”

“Yep.”

“Badass.” Hart raised a hand toward the shark man.

Their high five was a thing of legends, as loud as a fireball spell going off, and it actually startled Drestra from her daze. She looked up from her close examination of Alex’s aeld staff to glare at Hart…but her eyes quickly returned to the staff.

“This…this is incredible work,” she murmured, the staff’s crystalline fruit bathing her face in multi-hued light. “It feelsso powerful.”

Alex felt it emit a wave of pride.

“Yeah, it turned out really well,” he grinned, turning to look at the staff fondly. “I’m super happy with you and can’t wait for us to wreak havoc on some demons together.”

It radiated a wave of pride and anxiety along with a quiet determination. It seemed it was already learning from Claygon.

“Your aeld staff seems so healthy,” Drestra commented. “Mother spoke of healthy aelds being better guardians.” She glanced at his ring. “Has it reacted to your ring at all?”

“I feel a tingle from it now and then when I hold the staff.” He lifted his hand, spinning the wooden ring on his finger. “But nothing obvious, or anything. It didn’t magically make me into a god or anything.”

“It wouldn’t do that, aelds don’t have that much power,” Drestra explained.

“Oh uh…that…er, that was a joke,” Alex said.

Silence followed.

“Are you sure about that?” Khalik asked. “Last I checked, jokes tended to be funny, did they not, Thundar?”

“Yeah.” The minotaur shrugged. “Unless they invented a new form of ‘not funny’ joke when I wasn’t looking.” He looked at Alex. “So yeah, I don’t think that was a joke. Y’know…on account of it not being funny and all—”

“I get it!” Alex said acidly. “I’m going to let the demons down there eat you.”

“Heh, yeah, they’d want a nice slab of beef, I guess. They’d avoid eating you because…” He looked critically at Alex’s beard. “You look like you carry disease.”

“I don’t look like I carry disease!” The young Thameish wizard insisted.

“Well, I wasn’t going to say it.” Hart shrugged.

“Well, er, I don’t think it’s lookin’ all that bad,” Cedric muttered diplomatically, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Alex didn’t need the Mark to know that the Chosen was lying through his teeth.

“I should point out that demons are immune to nearly all mortal diseases, by the way,” Isolde said to Cedric. “We learned through our research—and will cover this in our briefing—but I do believe it would be better not to spread false information now.”

“Really? That a fact?” Cedric cocked his head at Isolde. “Why don’ they get sick, then?”

“Erm, well,” she shifted in her seat as the Chosen’s eyes focused on her, moving her hair behind one ear and clearing her throat. “Well, I do not wish to bore you with unnecessary details.”

“I don’t think y’could ever bore me, to be honest,” Cedric said simply. “I like hearin’ y’talk.”

Isolde looked away immediately as she turned beet red.

‘Holy hells, he’s a natural,’ Alex thought.

“I agree with our young friend’s assessment,” Baelin said. “It is not an unnecessary detail. A Proper Wizard learns the whys of their foes' strengths and weaknesses.”

Gasps of surprise ran through the class as the chancellor suddenly appeared at the front of the chamber, clad in his suit of bronze armour and gripping his staff.

“Apologies for scaring you: I was under an invisibility spell,” he said, his voice booming through the room. “And I also disguised my scent to illustrate a point.”

He looked at the class gravely.

“When one is dealing with demons, one must be acutely prepared for the unexpected.”