The soft gloaming had descended on their camp, its encroaching shadows blanketing the assortment of misshapen shelters and humble structures. The cool dusk lent a measure of quiet to the usually bustling settlement. Despite the impending darkness, a pool of flickering light stubbornly held court at the outskirt of their community, within the tattered remnants of what would not infrequently be the war tent, casting playful shadows on the canvas walls.

Inside, under the steady gaze of a single conjured orb of light, an assembly of ragtag adventurers sat gathered around a rudimentary table. Their faces, all markedly different in appearance, carried the same expression: tense focus. The room was heavy with anticipation.

“This is the culmination of our entire endeavor,” Veruca said, hardly daring to breath lest it ruin all that they had worked so hard for the last hour. “Draw your focus upon this task, sir, and perform it most dutifully. But, please, do it now. I cannot bear the thought of dragging this out any further.”

Dragoon’s stern features were set, his brows knit in an intense frown as he stared at the object of their mutual focus.

"Don't…rush me," he muttered to Veruca, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple.

The vittra nonchalantly leaned back in her chair, an image of serene tranquility amidst the apparent crisis. Her fingers rhythmically drummed on the tabletop.

"Time is a luxury we do not have, Dragoon," she noted, her voice dry. “The hour is critical, our chances remaining for failure are non-existent, and we’ve already exhausted all other options. We must do it this way, and act now.”

Across the table, Edwig harumphed, his amorphous eyes gleaming with ill-suppressed mirth.

"Pah! Dramatic, aren't you?" He shot back at Veruca. “Just do it, already, human! Fail…succeed—anything is better than this suspense!”

Rua's nervous energy was palpable. She stood pacing at the edge of the table, wringing her hands, her gaze darting from one face to another.

"Edwig, don't distract him!" she scolded, her voice pinched.

Saban merely raised an eyebrow at the exchange.

"This is intense. Even more so than our last encounter with the gryphs," he said, his quiet pitch adding gravitas to the understatement.

"Gryphs, Saban? Really? Have some perspective, will you?" Matt said, shaking his head. “This is it. If they fail, they fail, and it’ll all have been for nothing. That’s what you’re thinking, right, Rua?”

Rua bit her lip.

“I wish you guys would be quiet so he can concentrate,” she said sourly. “It seems rude to—”

Their conversation was cut short by a harsh gust of wind which caused the tent's entrance to flap vigorously. In walked Loon, covered in dirt, looking as though he'd spent a day in battle, though he had been immersed, quite literally, in a different type of trench. He’d been digging. Again. Rexen floated next to him, seeming, for the lack of a better word, exhausted.

"Wait! What the fuck is going on!?” Loon demanded.

In the middle of the table, a monument of their collective effort stood precariously—a towering arrangement of wooden sticks that defied gravity's insistence. Loon’s eyes fell on the group gathered around the table and the precarious tower of twigs.

“You motherfuckers started without me," he accused.

The entire group gathered around the hunk of wood balancing precariously on a stump they were calling a table looked up at him, and they all, as one, hissed out a shush. Loon was incensed.

“Don’t shush me, you Benedict Assholes! I asked you guys to wait—I even did it politely—but, well, goddamn, it looks like you’re almost done!”

They shushed him again.

“Don’t do that,” he warned. “I fuckin’ hate being shushed.”

“My glorious pupil is angered!” Rexen piped. “I would not be surprised if he ended your miserable—ooh! Hi, Matt!”

The specter waved at the man hunched over in boredom. Matt returned the wave, seeming to brighten at the appearance of the Dreadnaught Lord. The two had become fast friends once Rexen discovered that, like himself, Matt had a sweet tooth. Not only that, but the human also delighted in informing the spirit about the wide variety of treats available in his old world.

“We are nearly done,” Veruca said, matter-of-factly. “Once Dragoon completes this pass, our team’s victory is in hand.”

“Not a chance,” Saban said. “He’s going to fail, and you’re going to take over cooking tomorrow for me.”

Dragoon, his hand hovering over the space in the pile, turned his head sharply at the group.

“Stop. Talking.”

Before anyone could reply, a joyful chaos ensued. Bouncing with gleeful abandon, Jumpy, Clucky, Slappy, and Mortimer tumbled into the tent. The roe hurtled towards the table, their enthusiasm upending the plank, sending the entire tower crashing down. Sticks spilled in every direction and there was a collective shout of disapproval. Immediately, the pink egg creatures froze, realizing that their horseplay had once again, had a negative consequence.

“Seriously?” Rua exclaimed. “We were so close!”

“Blast it all,” Veruca said, pointing a claw at Slappy. “You have ruined everything you—”

“Nope!” Loon shouted, sweeping forward and standing between the outstretched digit and the now cowering egg. “Don’t even think about raising your voice at my little homies. It was an accident! Plus, that’s what y’all get for bein’ dicks!”

“You tell ‘em, disciple,” Rexen said. “Everyone deserves a swift and brutal rebuke. Flay them with your words—or with your flaying instruments! Such is the high cost of disobedience!”

“Huh?” Saban wondered. “What’s with the Vlad the Impaler vibe, Rexen? It seems unnecessary.”

“Ah, don’t mind him,” Loon said. “He’s just missing his buddy Tartarus. Ain’t that right, Arjee?”

Rexen scowled. Loon’s ditch digging had wound around near where the former history teacher had been stretched out, reading a book on trains. This meant that, for the duration, the Thaumaturge had been subjected to his interest.

“That ogre is a bore!” Rexen announced. “Blech! I can’t stand him! Always asking questions. Wanting a bunch of information. None of the good stuff, either!”

“Arjee,” Loon said. “What did I say about being nice?”

“My apprentice asks too much,” the ghost continued. “I would request that we make pains to avoid the ogre’s general radius at all costs! My time is precious, pupil. I’d rather spend it on other pursuits.”

“Yeah, like chatting with Matty-boy about Charleston Chews?”

“What is Charlestown Chew?” Rexen wondered, turning to Matt with interest.

“Oh, Rex…” Matt said excitedly. “I’m about to blow your mind.”

—

I glanced around the tent, watching my fellow settlers engage in various levels of tomfoolery. The roe were already bouncing around again like tiny terrors, Veruca, Matt, and Rua were trying a different game using the twigs that was like a variation of Pick-Up Sticks, while Edwig was busy looking over something in his menu and tutting every few moments as if he was very unimpressed. Dragoon was giving the lot of them a pointedly concerned look, as if that could somehow undo the chaos.

The laughs and joking carried on for what felt like hours, helping to lift some of the mental grime from my latest round of backbreaking manual labor. Some. Not all. Despite the joking and ease, I couldn't shake the sense of something looming over us. And I wasn't the only one.

Saban was leaning back in his chair, looking every bit as nonchalant as Veruca had earlier. But I knew him well enough to see the tightness in his eyes, the rigidity of his posture. He had this habit of running his fingers over the corner of his brow when he was stuck on something. Like he was trying to smooth out the wrinkles in his mind by pinching the brow fat. Sitting there in the warm light, his eyes had a concerned look about them.

I had noticed the change in his demeanor early on. My former best friend was usually all smiles and charm. Right now, he was wearing his ‘I’m concerned about something but I don’t want to ruin the mood’ face. I squinted at him, curiosity piqued.

"Alright, m’man, spit it out. You're killing the vibe here with your brooding."

He glanced at me, looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

"I...It's nothing, really. Just...thinking."

"Sure, sure. And Edwig’s foolin’ everybody with that sweater vest. Spill the beans, matey."

“What?!” Edwig demanded grumpily from his spot near the tent flap.

Saban heaved a sigh, the weight of the world apparently resting on his broad shoulders.

"It's...Alright, well, I don’t want to ruin the mood…”

Fuckin’ told ya so.

“But,” he continued. “Winter.”

“Winter?” Rua asked, turning from where she was dangling one of the sticks over an incredibly interested Mortimer.

“Yeah,” Saban said, inclining his head. “I’m concerned about it. We need a plan. I mean, a solid, foolproof plan. I’m losing sleep over it."

My eyebrow quirked up at his words. Of course. It made sense. Eventually, everything would freeze over, and we’d probably find ourselves scrounging around for any measly old flame we could to warm ourselves. Saban, who seemed to think it was his sole duty to protect our whole handsome horde from devastation at all times would obviously be thinking months ahead on that front. It was why, I think, most people sort of saw him as the shadow mayor of the camp. You know, the one actually running stuff in New Home—which, as an aside, had unfortunately caught on as the name of this puke heap. Goddamn I hated that fucking name. Everybody shoulda listened to me when I was coming up with my brilliant suggestions. But, I guess nobody was really feelin’ Skulltopia. I’ll be honest, if they’d been down to clown with a fuckin’ banger of a moniker like that, I’d have considered trying to stick around, rather than convince everyone to leave.

But back to Saban. I mean, I’ll give the man some credit, he was trying to ensure we didn't freeze our asses off in the upcoming months. But damn, he knew how to ruin a perfectly good evening.

"So what?” I said, shrugging. “We make a bunch of blankets and all sleep in the same big tent. Problem solved. There—back to relaxin!’”

Saban gave me a strained smile.

“If only it were that easy, Loon.”

I sighed.

“Man, I would’ve thought you'd worked out a survival plan for every scenario, I mean, remember our zombie apocalypse prep? Fuckin’ legendary organization."

Back in the day, we—like everyone else on the planet that had been around during the heavily-undead-focused entertainment times—had developed quite the arsenal of strategies that we were planning to deploy once the extremely likely and definitely possible walking dead end-of-the-world event happened. Saban’s plans had been unending, almost obsessive, as he mapped out various routes to the nearest places, including our plans on where to meet and who else would be allowed to join our new world army. We even kept a map of key locations in his garage and would periodically ride our bikes to check how long it would take us to get there. Little did we know we’d be placed in a scenario that would be similar enough to warrant my own sense of disbelief at his lack of doomsday arrangements.

Saban lowered his voice, clearly worried about being overheard by someone outside of the confines of the tent.

"Yeah, I mean…I can plan, sure. That’s easy. But…I’m not really getting through to…certain people. And, besides, we really don’t know what to expect, do we? None of us have experienced winter here before.”

“I have!” Rexen announced cheerily. “Many, many, many cold, blustery ones! Mean ol’ winter, strutting about with his thumbs tucked into his waistband like a cock-of-the-walk. Acting like he owns the place.

“Well…you’re definitely an unreliable source,” I said, holding my hand up to indicate he should be quiet. “Plus, you don’t even feel temperatures like hot or cold.”

“Incorrect,” he said, turning his face up like he was offended. “I have the frozen fire of cold fury in me at all times.”

Everyone was paying attention now, the atmosphere well and truly tanked. It was rare for Saban to be such a Downer Debbie, but, I guess that probably lent some weight to how serious he found it.

“I just wish…” he continued, letting clear frustration bleed into his words, “that in a world like this, there were more clear signs on what we needed to do to actually survive something other than a fight. Honestly, it’s got me twisted.”

It was pin-drop silent in the joint, which was pretty impressive. I’d always known Saban wasn’t only irresistibly positive in his personal mode of charismatic presentation. Still, it seemed that no matter what emotion he was trying to relay, he really knew how to command a room.

"Well, Saban,” I said. “That's quite the conundrum. You've got us all worked up over...central heating?"

"I'm serious, Loon," he shot back, looking a touch annoyed. "It's not just the cold. I've seen how paranoid Alpha's getting. He's... not handling the pressure well."

And that was another concern. The guy technically running this outfit was an absolute fucking moron—and quite possibly the dumbest person I’d ever encountered in my goddamn life. I’d noticed the shift though. He used to be just an irredeemable fuck socket—now, though, it seemed he’d used the…I dunno, fuckin’ Pokemon persecution evolution stone and evolved into a bonafide megalomaniacal fuck wrench. The mere mention of Alpha's name added another layer to the tent-tension with all the subtlety of tossing a cinder block into a spider web.

"Yeah, he's gotten worse," I replied, nodding sagely. "But what else is new? The guy's always been a few nuggets short of a Happy Meal. At a certain point, him getting more unbearable is like pointing out a sunken ship is taking on more water—it’s already down at the bottom of the ocean."

Saban just stared at me for a moment, probably trying to process my casual take on our impending doom. Heaving a sigh, he shook his head.

"You're…”

“A genius? Handsome? All-that-is-man? The world’s strongest, funniest sex symbol?”

“...right,” he finished. “You’re right on the money.”

“I am?” I asked, confused.

“I’d forgotten how good your insights are, sometimes,” he continued. “Spot on.”

“It is?” I asked. I was not used to receiving compliments. Especially not for ‘brain stuff.’

“I mean—yeah! I’m like almost always hittin’ the bullseye on the perfect solution to all the woes that make up the world’s issues. The Robin Hood of problem solving.”

“Pah!” Edwig scoffed. “That’s an interesting take on your own insanity, orc.”

“Not now, Viggo,” I said dismissively. “I’m not going to listen to anything a pariah has to say. I’m being lauded for my brilliance.”

“Pah! Who’s a pariah?”

“You, ya dumb-dumb,” I retorted, turning to face the illisinaf. “Aren’t you, like, on the lam from Yosper Hall?”

This was just an assumption on my part, because we hadn’t actually discussed it, but when we first met, Edwig had been imprisoned for something—until I broke he and Rua out, that is. Then, before we’d left Tallrock, he’d stopped into the Mages Order at Yosper Hall and got outta there real quick like. Considering that, It wasn’t a leap to assume there was some sort of legal bad blood involved. I didn’t really care though, save for in this precise instance where it would allow me to get him to shut up.

Edwig paused, considering my words.

“Eh…alright. Point taken,” he said softly. “Carry on with your outlandish evaluation of your own abilities, then.”

“Don’t mind if I do!” I said.

“So…” Rua said, nudging Saban out of his reverie. “Even if we assume there’s a nasty winter on its way, there’s a lot of basic stuff we can do to protect from the elements. You know? Like gathering and preserving food, winterizing our shelters, stocking up on firewood, making warm clothes...that sort of thing. We could even have a go at creating some medicinal supplies, if anyone’s proficient in that? And, um, we should probably have some emergency plans in place, just in case."

She gave a little shrug, as though she'd merely suggested we rearrange our sock drawers rather than prepare for a potential life-threatening Ice Age

"Well, then, uh, Veruca...what are we looking at in terms of supplies?" Matt asked, turning to our resident supply master with a hopeful grin, like a student asking a teacher if they were going to have homework over the holidays.

Veruca, as usual, took a moment before responding, looking for all the fucking world like she was contemplating the meaning of life. She had a habit of doing that. From what I could tell, she spent a lot of time devising what she was going to say before she said it, as if every word was a precious gemstone that she had to carefully select and polish before presenting. Which was the polar opposite of my approach to things that came out of my mouth. Then, when it seemed like she had her thoughts together, she started speaking in that long, overly complicated way she had.

"Considering our prevailing circumstances," she began, "it is readily apparent that our existing resources are woefully inadequate. Our subsistence provisions are demonstrably insufficient and manifestly disproportionate to our projected requirements. With a limited number of individuals proficient in the requisite skills of hunting or foraging—present company excluded of course, Rua—our potential for amassing necessary sustenance remains critically constrained."

As Veruca dropped her bombshell in the most long-winded way possible, everyone got pretty quiet, not saying anything.

“What?” I demanded. “Dumb it down for me, will you? Simplest terms possible would be preferable. Supply good or supply bad?”

Veruca rolled her eyes.

“Supply bad,” she said, imitating me.

“Ah, shit, that’s what I was afraid you meant,” I said. “Ain’t nothin’ like bein’ in resource poverty. Fortunately for you lot, I grew up super poor, so I know how to stretch a pizza roll or two. Might have to cut our blankets in half, too...”

While I contemplated that, Saban pushed forward with a tired sigh.

"I don’t want to pile on with additional complications—for one, I think the way you organize your mind like that is pretty impressive, Rua. But, as far as the shelters go, it's not like we've had an easy time building basic huts, let alone something that would withstand the brunt of a stiff cold front. Between the relentless attacks and a severe lack of architectural knowledge, we're barely scraping by."

He pinched the corner of his eyebrow again before continuing.

"And then there's Alpha. That mother—guy, won't let us deviate from his grand plan until the walls are completed. At this point, if nothing changes, it might not matter if we come up with the perfect solution. Our hands might be tied."

There was a silence that hung in the room, as cold and uncomfortable as the weather we were ill-prepared for. The fun and games we were enjoying moments ago now seemed absurdly distant.

I scowled.

“I don’t like that,” I said quietly.

“None of us do,” Saban agreed. “But what can be done? Like it or not, he’s got us sorta locked down because of the Settlement Stone.”

“What is the deal with that thing anyway?” I asked. “I mean, I picked up a little from the little bit that I learned when I came back. Basically, any travel outside the established boundaries of…New Home, without the express written consent of Major League Slimeball, is prohibited. What happens if we try? Does anyone know?”

“I was out hunting with Dragoon and León a few days ago,” Rua said. “Our territory is actually pretty big out here. Like, way bigger than you’d think, really. But, I guess I must’ve stepped out too far from the boundary or something, because I suddenly felt, like, a jolt of electricity shoot up my spine. I didn’t know that’s what it was, so I pushed forward and then I got a message that I’d violated the terms of our ‘Settlement Leader’s’ contract and I was zapped back here.”

“Yeah, we thought she’d gotten lost—which seemed out of character,” Dragoon agreed. “It really inconvenienced us because we wasted time looking around for her.”

“I apologized, already,” Rua said sheepishly.

“I’m not saying you need to,” Dragoon said. “My irritation isn’t with you, Rua—rest easy. It’s on the stupid fucking rules that Alpha has in place.”

“So, we’re all in agreement that he sucks?” Matt asked, shifting his position excitedly. “Finally! I felt like I was the only one who couldn’t stand him!”

“Easy,” Saban said, glancing from Matt to the flap of the tent. “Let’s not go that far.”

He’d jerked his head in time with the last three words for emphasis, implying clear mistrust for who might overhear.

“Oh, shit, right,” Matt said, then louder he said. “I’m just kidding of course! We love Alpha. He’s the best!”

“That’ll throw someone off the trail,” I murmured.

“You think so?” Matt whispered back.

“Definitely,” I said, then louder I said. “Fuck Alpha!”

Everyone glared at me.

“What?” I asked, looking around at the group. “The least believable thing would be if I suddenly started being sweet on him. Man, y’all are terrible at cloak and dagger.”

“If I could have the floor for a moment,” Rexen suddenly said, floating into the center of the tent so that everyone could see him clearly.

“Arjee, what are you—ah, there he goes…” I said, then threw a hand up in defeat. “Do your thing, I guess.”

“What’s up, Rex?” Matt asked.

“For those of you unfamiliar,” he began. “I am Rexen Noodlemancer Gravetongue, the Dreadnaught Lord and—”

“Yeah, we all know who you are,” I said. “Move it along, Arjee.”

Rexen scowled at me.

“I will apologize for my pupil, he’s—as we sometimes say—a bit of a rudey-poodey puddle pants. It is not his fault, however, as he is touched in the head—”

“If you don’t get to the point I’m going to gift the effigy to Tartarus, then you’ll be stuck with him.”

Rexen’s eyes grew wide.

“My disciple would never—”

“Your disciple would,” I said. “Now fuckin’ spit it out.”

He sighed.

“I was only meaning to set the stage, naughty apprentice o’ mine—but, but,” he started, seeing me preparing to stand. “I shall make a valiant effort at bein’ quick about it—to not tarnish my wonderful pupil’s generous mood.”

He cleared his throat—a pointless gesture, but, hey, I guess I could let him have it.

“I can help with your situation,” he said simply.

“And which situation would that be?” I wondered. “The Alpha one? Or the coming cold front?”

“Yep!” He said.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Gravetongue,” Dragoon said. “But, you’re going to have to be a little more clear—your incoherent way of speaking is pretty vague. I don’t know about everyone else, but I’m going to need something other than what you’ve offered so far. Details, not declarations.”

I chuckled at Dragoon’s directness. Rexen looked offended. The spirit’s mouth fell open, and he looked at me as if hoping I would defend him. I just shrugged. It wasn’t anything I hadn’t said to him a million times, but for some reason, when the no-nonsense human had confronted him about his communication style, it dug into him.

Good.

“What do you know about the—” Rexen began, but Dragoon interrupted him again.

“Nope. None of that. You know we’re unfamiliar with nearly everything here. Just tell us how you can help or sit down.”

Rexen turned back to me again.

“Pupil, I do not like this human,” he said. “He is despicable—and does not respect the powerful and elderly.”

“You’re talkin’ to the wrong guy, Arjee,” I said, laughing. “I’m warming up to him more and more as this conversation goes on.”

Rexen made a sound like he was grumbling with a throat full of glass, but then turned back to the expectant eyes in the tent.

“Prosperity Conduit,” Rexen said simply.

“And what exactly is that?” Veruca asked.

“Well, why don’t you ask your disrespectful chum here, eh?” Rexen muttered grumpily. “Boy with all the answers…”

“How about you stop bein’ a little baby and tell us yourself, Arjee?” I said.

“Pah!” Edwig exclaimed. “I can tell you what a Prosperity Conduit is. And, as an added bonus, I’m not going to try and get you to guess anything.”

Everyone in the tent whooped and cheered at that comment, leaving Rexen looking even more dejected than he already was.

“Out with it,” I said. “Before Arjee decides to recover from this minor setback and launch into a long story about fighting a flaming turtle demon or something.”

“Prosperity Conduits are a myth,” Edwig said, matter-of-factly.

Everyone stopped celebrating immediately. The air went out of the place.

“Aw, man,” Matt said. “Really? That’s a let down.”

“You really know how to murder the team spirit, Edwig,” Rua said, shaking her head.

“Pah! It’s not my fault!” the illisinaf said defensively. “The ghost was the one who—”

“Yeah, but you really should have just told us it was a myth before the suspense, now you just look like you were doing the same thing Rexen was,” Saban said.

“Great goin,’ Jigglepuss,” I said. “Now the party’s over.”

“...they’re not myths…”

The statement was said so quietly it was hard to hear. Still, it had an effect on the inside of the tent enough to quiet everyone.

“Whadja say, Arjee?” I asked.

“I said…” he began, sticking his chest out as he continued lording over the whole assembly. “They’re. Not. Myths.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Dragoon said, and stood, walking toward the tent flap. But when Rexen raised his hand, he stopped.

“I’m. Not. Done. Speaking.”

Each word was delivered with a venomous intensity, and I couldn’t be sure, but I’m nearly positive I saw a flutter of air move around the room, ruffling people’s hair and clothing. However, when all was quiet, Rexen’s typical lackadaisical air returned.

“If you want to kill two dantaloth with a single pedjibork tooth, then listen up, insolents,” he said. “I’m going to parcel out some juicy knowledge to you, so be attentive to the glorious words tumbling from my cutie pie mouth.”

I cringed.

“Just say what you’re going to say, Arjee, and save your…anatomical description for a different audience.”

“Ah, pupil, ever impatient,” he said, tutting again. “Very well. Where were we? Ah! Yes! Prosperity Conduit. They are very real entities. However, to fully appreciate their nature, you must first grasp their concept."

"Pah!" Edwig interjected, rolling his eyes. "They’re myths, as I said! Listen to him prattle on, not saying anything substantial. Shameless."

Rexen chose to ignore the comment and carried on.

"In our realm, the Prosperity Conduit can be best described as a... sanctuary catalyst, a talisman of growin’ big and strong."

"Sanctuary catalyst?" Veruca echoed, her brows furrowing. "You're saying it's…an arcane item that improves a settlement?"

When it came to flowery, enigmatic words, she was the resident expert.

"Precisely! What a whip you are! I should have chosen you as my disciple!” Rexen gloated, his spectral eyes twinkling with delight. "The Prosperity Conduit, once activated, imbues a settlement with an overwhelming aura of protection and prosperity. It fosters growth and wards off disaster, a... prosperity amplifier. I love that term! Wow. I’m great at this."

A murmur of intrigue rose among the group. The concept was indeed enticing—a single object that could solve all our problems of food scarcity and harsh winters.

"Okay,” Dragoon said, skepticism etched onto his face. “So, supposing this is real. How does it work? And don’t just say ‘Arcana.’

"Well, sonny boy," Rexen began, "It has the power to energize! Supersize! Catalyze bountiful harvests, warming the land to shield against the biting cold, and even thwart off lower-level nasty predators and pests. It is a boon to any little patch of land fortunate enough to possess it. Yep, yep, yep!"

He paused for effect, allowing the group to digest this revelation. Eyes darted to one another, whispers were shared, and even Dragoon seemed less skeptical.

"An amplifier of prosperity, huh," Saban murmured, his gaze distant. "The crops could benefit, and no more freezing in the winter...sounds like a dream."

"Sounds like a fuckin’ hassle, is what it does,” I said. “And what's the catch? Need to sell our kidneys or something? Maybe loan out our souls?”

There was always a catch.

“What do you mean, Loon?” Rua asked.

"Well..such a perfect, fuckin’ miraculous little bauble wouldn't just be lying around for any ol’ dickhead to pick up, would it?” I continued. “Let me guess, it's guarded by some mystical, terrifying...what...dragon? Demon? Multi-headed hydra with botulism spikes and dicks for teeth?"

"No, no, no, silly," Rexen replied. “Indeed, my astute, remarkable pupil, you've hit the nail on the head—probably. But in the wrong direction. The Prosperity Conduit is, at this moment, possessed by an ancient sect."

"Ancient sect?" Rua asked, her voice a whisper. "You mean like a temple or something?"

Rexen nodded.

"Yep! The Conduit is guarded by the stupid, zealous followers of a slumbering god—some tough customers! In an icky little dirt-cave temple buried deep within the Archon’s Fingers."

I snorted.

"So we need to play Indiana Jones, but instead of Nazis, we're up against a bunch of fuckin’ wizard priests? Fabulous."

“What’s the Archon’s Fi—” Rua began to ask, but Edwig interrupted.

“A mountain range. All the way on the eastern side of Arlo. Second largest, only losing out to the Leviathan's Spine.”

“The eastern side?” I asked. “But that’s…like, really far away,”

“Pah! That’s an understatement, orc! It would take weeks to get there!”

The room fell silent as the implications of his words sank in. This wasn't just some hidden treasure; it was a guarded relic, sacred to an ancient god and his followers. Fucking sweet. And one on the other side of a super marathon to get to? Forget about it.

“Forget about it,” I said. “That’s just not a possibility. Assuming we were able to get there—which we couldn’t—if this thing is so well protected, how are a bunch of low-Level nobodies going to bypass an entire cult and…what? Steal this out from underneath them?”

“Pah! Speak for yourself, orc!” Edwig exclaimed. “I’m not low Level!”

I didn’t have time for this.

“Shut up, Edwig,” I said. “Even if you’re not—everyone else here is, and—wait a fucking second! What Level are you?”

It was weird that he hadn’t revealed that information to me yet. Especially if it was true.

“Twenty-six!”

“Wait…seriously?”

“Seriously, orc,” Edwig said.

“Wow!” Rua said. “Edwig, that’s amazing!”

“Oh…” he said, nearly bashfully. “It’s, er, well, it’s not nothing, but it’s nothing to be impressed over.”

“It’s also not not low Level,” I said, then, seeing his immediate need to rebuttal, hurriedly added, “insofar as this group is concerned, man. Jeez, calm your jiggly tits. That still won’t be enough to fight off a whole host of fanatics under a mountain. We’ll be chopped into granola the moment we try to enter.”

“No we won’t,” Rexen said, smirking.

I sighed.

“Alright,” I said defeatedly. “I walked into that then, I suppose. What’s your ingenious plan, Arjee?”

“I know of an oversight,” he continued. “A way in that circumvents the usual rules—a back door. We won’t have anything to worry about, perfectly safe!”

“The Catholic loophole…” Matt said.

Veruca wrinkled her brow.

“That is a disgusting response to what the venerable Lord Rexen has just discussed.”

“It is?” Rexen asked, his eyes wide with interest. “Explain why, please!”

“Nobody fucking say anything about that,” I said. “Arjee.”

I leveled my gaze at the spirit.

“You think this is something we can actually do?”

“Yes, apprentice, I do,” he said, his cheery tone replaced by…was that conviction?

“Seems like a lot of work for something that’s just going to keep our tootsies toasty in the frigid depths of winter.”

“That is not its only function,” Rexen said with a shrug. “But it is a function that would resolve your issue.”

“Okay,” I said, then turned to the others. “You heard him. We need to figure out a way to get there. To the…”

“Archon’s Fingers,” Rua assisted.

“That’s the one,” I said. “Man, how can anyone keep track of any of this stuff?”

“What about Alpha?” Matt asked. “He’s not going to let anyone go anywhere until his stupid fence is built.”

“Let me worry about Alpha,” Saban said. “I like this idea. It’s exciting. And, if nothing else, it beats the usual monotony we’ve been experiencing.”

“What’s the god’s name?” Dragoon asked suddenly.

“Huh? Who gives a shit?” I said.

“I do,” he said, giving me a stern look.

I shrugged and turned to Rexen. But the little witch ghost was staring back at Dragoon with a strange intensity. I looked back and forth between the two, trying to figure out what was going on.

“Well?” Dragoon said, raising an eyebrow at Rexen. “Name him, Dreadnaught Lord.”

Rexen sighed.

“Shadranath.”

“I’m coming,” Dragoon said instantly.

“Wait…what did I miss?” I asked, still looking back and forth.

“Nothing, pup—” Rexen started, but Dragoon cut him off.

“What this little stink starter has failed to tell any of us is that we are going to have to kill this slumbering god.”

My blood pressure spiked right there.

“Wait, what? Kill a god? How could you know that?!”

But before I got an answer, Dragoon had swept out of the tent. The remaining members of this little adventure entourage just stared at Rexen expectantly. He watched Dragoon leave and then faced the room, a bright smile blossoming.

“Yep!” He said. “Shadranath must die! Going to have to end his life good! How fun!”