I have Karla comb the vault. She gives me a report of the total wealth among the Byrian Isles, about 70,000 gold, then breaks down expenses for Jor, For, and Reesh with Erson’s help. He sends me two new Warlords for For and Reesh – Herkja, a forest elf, and Northri, a half-devil. I have them over for dinner to get their measure. True to Erson’s word, they’re not half bad looking. They seem decent enough and agreeable to changes. I give them more gold to hire new people and get their raiders into other trades. They’re grateful to say the least.

  Two days after my return, the seashell vibrates on the desk beside me.

  I pick it up and lean back in the chair, swigging from my flask. The whiskey bites more than usual. I’m only halfway through the bottle. Three months ago, that might’ve lasted me a day. If it’s progress, it tastes like shit.

  We got a ship coming from Byra, Erson says. Looks like nobles.

  I sigh. It was a matter of time before they got curious about me. I stand. The room spins. I steady myself. “I'm on my way.”

  I shrug on my chain jacket and buckle my weapons. I wrap on a wool, otter fur-lined cloak of light, dull green. I sling my mandolin over it. I sit on the bed, rubbing my face. It’s numb. I feel like crying constantly. I can hardly look at the stickers on my flask. I’m surprised some didn’t go away. I’m a fucking idiot. I asked a god to help me quit drinking. I lost my magic for it. And now I’m drinking again.

  And I’ve told myself I’m capable of taking down the Guild in this state.

  But it’s the only way to make this bearable. Everything’s horribly familiar, like living in a nightmare I can’t shake. Sitting in the center chair in the hall during a feast is numbing, remembering the smell of ale in my hair and musty floorboards while songs are demanded of me. I can’t walk anywhere without feeling the need to keep my head down. I’d rather Deach slide a dagger between my ribs than visit the cellar. The only way I can stomach sleeping in this bed is by smacking myself with my oldest friend.

  But worse is the way people look at me. They’re not yet freed of Irminric’s influence, thinking the Warchief’s gonna snap and split someone for the tide. They’re wary when I show politeness, ready to scamper before I can ask how their morning is. Maybe it’s conditioning, or maybe they think I’m gonna take vengeance now that I’ve got an inch of power. It’s another reason to hate this island, all of us trapped with the company of our worst instincts.

  I take my mandolin and pick and sing dully, fumbling onto a connection.

  I’m not the sort to pray a wink

  But if you’re there, I need your aid

  Not a shield, plate, or blade

  Light Daddy, get rid of this drink

  Like the splash of a bucket of ice water, the whiskey’s ripped from me. I gasp, blinking. The world comes into sharp, uncomfortable focus. I reel. It's like stepping from a warm bath to a frigid ocean. If only Arriel could see me now. It guts me. I stand, putting myself together, and give a sharp whistle. The door batters open. Sven falls into place behind me.

  It’s cloudy, as with most days here. I head to the port where a Byrian ship is docking. It’s a ship, not a longship – inexplicably fey, from the swirling wood patterns to the arching branch of the flowering adornment on the prow. A tree sigil is stitched in gold on the billowing green sails. It's beautiful. I clasp my hands at the end of the dock and wait. Water laps, splashing over the constant roar of the ocean. Erson stands beside me, wearing a long wool coat over armor. His Vasterholmian shortsword is belted under his gut, handle wrapped with sturdy leather and its scabbard decorated with colorful glass beads.

  I glance over. A bluish half-devil is standing there, too. His deep purple hair is shaved on either side and braided down his back. He’s wearing a rather dapper leather coat with a high collar. Underneath is a crisp shirt and baggy pants, leg wraps tucked into knee-high boots. He’s got a whiff of magic about him. I’ve no idea who he is. Did Erson get himself an assistant? The half-devil catches me looking. He gives a short sigh.

  “Deach,” he mouths.

  I should’ve guessed that. I throw a middle finger at him. He does it back.

  He’s got a habit of lurking, and knowing there’s a shapeshifter around is disconcerting. Why he’s here, I’m not sure. Where he got a whole wardrobe, I’m not sure either. He’s armed with only a single dagger tucked into a holster under his coat. His black, infernal eyes linger, and I look away.

  A fey elf comes down the plank, like breathing in a warm summer's day. She’s tall and slender, wearing splendid scale armor in colors of earthy green and soil. A fiery, auburn cloak tumbles down her straight back. Her hair is curled and laced with the color of leaves in summer, the same as her slender, pointed brows. Her clay skin has the faint texture of tree bark. She’s flanked by a couple forest elves armed with curved longswords. They stop a few feet away. On the ship, deckhands are wrangling a literal elk. It’s wearing a bridle.

  “Welcome to Jor,” I say, giving a gracious gesture. “What a great honor having the noble houses on our rocky soil.”

  She smiles, curtseying with nonexistent skirts. "Likewise, it's a great honor to meet the new Warchief. You must be Chouncey." Her voice drifts like a breeze through branches. Her accent is rolling and blurry – Byrian. "I’ve heard so much about you, all these years later.”

  I pause. She’s saying that like we’ve met before. “I’m afraid you’ve got me at a disadvantage. I’ve only just returned. If you sent word you were coming, my second-in-command here didn’t pass it along.”

  “Sorry,” Erson says, clearing his throat. “This is Lady –”

  “Stow it. Who’ve I got the pleasure of meeting?” I ask her.

  Her eyes, the color of an autumn sunset, twinkle. “I’m Lady Luciavir Mesura. I’ve been elected by the noble houses to observe the transfer of power. We’ve heard of changes and want to ensure we can continue a mutually agreeable alliance.”

  “What an astounding pleasure to meet you, Lady Luciavir, and to have a well-seasoned taste of Byra here in the gloom,” I say. I take her hand, bowing over it with a kiss. I turn and gesture toward the long hall. “I’m sure you’ll be pleased to see ourprogress. Can I get you a drink? Something to eat?”

  She smiles again. It's genuine – pleasantly surprised. “That would be most welcome.”

  With Deach, Genk, Karla, and Sven around, we’re low on accommodations in the long hall. I kick Erson from his big house and give it to Luciavir and her people. In the long hall, the kitchens pull out dark ale, smoked herring, and creamy cheese on toasted bread. I get pleasantries out of the way, meeting her guards and household. Deach vanishes somewhere in the midst. Then, I show Luciavir around.

  I’ve been putting Erson to work. He contacted druids in Byra who came and examined our meager crops, using magic to boost their yield. Hopefully, that’ll offset what Irminric was bringing in through raiding. Erson also managed to coax some anglers with coin up front to move from Varona across the sea. We’ve got ships in abundance on the Isles, but not many who know how to bring in significant harvests. If we can get the right enchantments on our ships, we can trade fish with Port Nakanai or Woudhoven. I’ve also had him reroute much of our lumbering into the Isles themselves, repairing and refurbishing the settlements, so for the first time, it looks like a place people want to live.

  Luciavir is impressed, but agrees it’s not enough. Raiding made up so godsdamned much of the way of life around here that we desperately need something to replace it. I’ve been wracking my head for months, but with no luck. We’d make a decent price selling mercenaries, and it’d keep the raiders from killing each other. But I don’t want to do it longer than we have to.

  We chat, too. She’s lovely, true of the fey-descended from Byra. She listens eagerly about my time there and invites me back for the next Running of the Moon. I’m sorely tempted. She’s also brought some papaya and dragonfruit conserves and seasoned flatbread to share, all made at the peak of harvest season. It sends my mouth watering for better days. She explains that the Mesura family oversees all urban development in Byra, ensuring that the architecture’s built according to code and maintains its archaic aesthetic through the latent fey magic that gives Byra its fame as one of the most picturesque cities in the world. She’s got typical noble breeding, regaling me about her ancestors. She’s got a husband, too, who’s seeing to the Council back home. At the stables, she introduces me to Carrojack, her elk mount. She was trained by some of the most renowned cavaliers in Byra, she says. She’s won tournaments, even. I'd most certainly watch.

  Finally, I bring her to the empty slave pens.

  I cross my arms, stepping through the wooden palisade. Sven and two of Luciavir’s guards follow at a respectful distance. The huts have been thoroughly cleaned and emptied. The kitchen is abandoned. The firepits are cold, and the wells haven’t been touched in months. A single pole stands bare in the middle. It’s been a feat of strength, not burning it all.

  “Hopefully, this is proof enough,” I say, gesturing around. I’m holding together by my fingernails. The weight of my flask sags.

  She looks around, willowy hands clasped behind her back. “This… this is very good to see. Thank you." There’s something oddly genuine about her words. “It’s been generations since the Byrian Isles have had good and noble leadership.” She smiles. “I think relations will be much more comfortable for everyone involved. I only pray to the Wilderkeeper that it lasts.”

  That I don’t grow a knife from my neck while I’m sleeping is what she means.

  “Pardon me asking, but you talked earlier like we’ve met before.”

  “We have, in a manner.”

  I squint, but nothing comes to mind. I’d not forget a face like that. “Forgive me being frank, but I wasn't talking with your lower half, was I?”

  She laughs, rosiness like a spring blossom warming her cheeks. “No. Some of my colleagues and I came here a few years ago to meet with the Warchief.” Her smile fades, and her airy voice becomes somber. “Your face stayed with me. All these years later, now I can put a name to it.”

  It hits me like a hammer to the knee.

  I step away, turning. I cross my arms tighter. Inside, the water holds steady beneath the seal. But it still ripples. From the depths of the dark waters, a memory is wrenched into focus – a fey elf standing defiantly before Irminric in the long hall, talking of independence and ship deals with the Guild. I clench my jaw. My head swirls with draconic, fey. I see her leaving, a black, spiky face threatening to cut off pieces, and bestowing a slow death on an unlucky slave who isn’t me. My mouth is dry. I take a long drink from my flask.

  “I’m sorry to bring up anything difficult,” she says.

  I wrench myself back to present and turn. I can barely form the words. “Difficult? Do you know what he did after you left?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Why didn’t you do something?” I quaver. I’m shaking.

  Her full lips form a slight downward bow. “What could I have done? Byra knows what went on, and change is slow. We can only steer the Isles away from what they’ve done for decades, hoping we don’t arouse them to war. They don’t respect anything but strength and violence. And as for taking you with me, it would’ve brought about the same end.” She pauses, taking a deep breath. “I’m so sorry. It doesn’t undo the harm, but our hands were tied. If there’s anything within my power that can make it up to you, I’d be happy to help.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  I stop, looking at her.

  I need allies. Deach said the team we’ve got isn’t enough, and maybe having Byra on my side wouldn’t hurt. In fact, a Byrian cavalier could be invaluable.

  “Maybe you can tell me this,” I say. “Respectfully keeping my confidence here. I sort of… took someone from the Guild. One of their favorite prisoners. Would the Council have my back on that?”

  Her long, slender brows twitch upward. “It’s always possible. Things between Byrio and the Guild have been… strained. I’m sure the Council would be happy to see you have no plans to make friends with them, at least. Our evidence suggests they’ve been stoking the war between Hartland and Torgal for years, trying to profit from it. Even more recently, they’ve proposed building a Guild Hall in Byra. Irminric might have even been convinced to allow one here.”

  “And you think that’s a bad thing?”

  Her terracotta lips twist. “It’s never a good thing. You mentioned spending time in Horonai recently. You’ve seen the results.”

  I straighten, keeping myself together. “How’d you like doing something about it, then?”

  Her head tilts. She looks at me cautiously. “In what manner?”

  I step closer. “I’m putting together a team. I want to take them down, because these slaves –” I gesture at the pens around us “– have gone back there. The Guild’s gonna use them as an excuse to tighten down. You said change is slow. It doesn’t have to be. You did nothing last time. I’m doing something this time.”

  She’s quiet for a long moment, holding my gaze. Her eyes begin blazing with an inner autumn fire. “That’s a dangerous idea, Warchief. These types of changes don’t happen without people suffering.”

  I shake my head, seeing her face more clearly than ever in the pool of my mind. “Can you live with the suffering that happens when you do nothing?”

  She gives a sad smile. “Okay. I can stay a little longer, and we can discuss next steps.”

  I could cry with relief. I drop to a knee, taking her slender hand. Her fingers are long, like twigs. “Thank you, dearest Lady Luciavir. Your presence is the warm breeze I've been needing. Help me in this, and we’ll make a new age for Byra and the Isles.”

  She clasps my hand back, her smile broadening. “I’m convinced, but only because you’re so charming. And please, call me Lucy. My husband would like you.”

  I’m fairly certain I know what that means. Sven and the two guards look at each other.

  “Lucy,” I say, smiling. “What a pleasure to meet you again.”

  The next morning, I assemble the team in the long hall.

  Erson ensures it’s cleared out, then makes himself scarce. From the vault, Karla produces a magical item that blocks scrying on those around it, giving off a blank magical feel like my old nondetection spell. It’s a nondescript vase that looks awfully phallic. Fireweed is tucked in for a nice touch.

  Genk, Karla, Sven, and Lucy claim seats at the high table. Deach, I assume, is also there. He’s a dark-skinned human with a full head of braids and bright blue eyes. He’s wearing a new outfit, with impeccable shoes and a plush sweater tied around his shoulders. Breakfast is laid out - a spread of eggs, pork, bread, preserved pears, cheese, and porridge. I splash some whiskey into my pink coffee mug, then fill it to the brim. With my mandolin, I craft an illusion over the hall, playing soft piano music in the background - a slow, casino-chic version of The Biggest, Blackest Dragon. Everyone glances around for a moment, looking for the source.

  “Alright,” I say while we eat. This ‘topple the Guild’ thing will take some planning. I’m out of my element. “Let’s figure out our next step.”

  Deach speaks up. He plops a gooey egg and jelly on a slice of toasted bread. “I contacted my people. Warrants are out for the five of us. We won’t go to Horonai easily anytime soon.”

  I sit back, nursing my coffee. I’m pleasantly buzzed. I cross a leg. “Who’s the magistrate putting out those warrants?”

  He pulls a small notebook from a pocket, scribbling something on it. He pauses for a few moments, chewing. Then, new scribbling appears below. He grunts. “Kenal Trevelyan. That’s not good.”

  I sigh. Of course it’s Kenal. “Why?”

  He glances around sheepishly. “I impersonated them when the Guild caught a Secretary embezzling from the finance department. I wanted the position. Their wife didn’t like that.”

  I sputter a laugh. I set my coffee down. Everyone looks at me. “They’re married?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Let’s just say we did some roleplaying once where I was the wife. How opposed are you to blackmail?”

  He snorts. “How opposed are you? If you have something, that’s two birds in one bush.”

  “I think you mean, two birds with one stone.”

  “Whatever. Jackass,” he mutters. A faint flush appears on his cheeks. He scribbles in his pad. More lines appear.

  “What’s going on with the Guild?” I ask. “What have you learned?”

  “I’m still catching up. But if things haven’t changed, the Gala is in a few months.”

  “And that's notable?”

  “It only happens once a year. The stakeholders pat each other on the back. The Ministry is there, too. They do speeches and presentations.”

  I stop. The Gala could get us access to the Ministers. We could even make it a massive embarrassment for the Guild in front of their stakeholders. Nothing would topple them faster than being defunded.

  “And how does one get invited?” I ask.

  “By being rich,” Sven says around a mouthful of porridge.

  Karla glances up. She’s taking minutes. “Sometimes, invitations go out to key adventurers for the year, too. Like if a particularly notable haul is recovered.”

  I sip coffee and grab more eggs with my arcane hand. I’ve got riches, now. Would the Guild believe a former slave trying to grease his way into their circle? New money – that’s a part I could play well.

  Lucy shifts in her chair. She’s wearing a haltered Byrian gown of deep emerald - a fine lamb leather corset wraps her waist, revealing surprisingly muscular arms and an ample chest. “I went two years ago. They were pushing for a Guild Hall in Byra, so they invited some of the noble families as guests of honor. They theme the Gala around whatever guest they’re trying to impress.”

  “We’ll wave our proverbial cock in their face, then,” I say. It’ll be a tall order if they know I nabbed their least favorite prisoner.

  “You may not have to,” Lucy says. “With Irminric gone, they’ll try to bring you into the Guild. Show that you’re receptive, and they might forgive.”

  I tap my lips. “And what’s my story when they ask why I wanted Chromedome here?”

  “Quit calling me that,” Deach snaps. “You know my name.”

  “And you’re a real Peach about it,” I throw back.

  He throws a middle finger at me. My arcane hand returns the favor, hovering in front of his face. He swats it away.

  “What would the Guild offer us here?” I ask, turning back.

  “Adventurers,” Genk rumbles. Sven and Karla sit on either side, several feet apart to accommodate his shoulders. “They find new dungeons and stashes to bring into circulation. I used to be one.” He nods toward Deach. “He did, too.”

  “What was that like?”

  Genk shrugs. The table screeches with it. “It’s unreliable income. You take jobs without many breaks, using your own gear. You get a cut of the loot, but you turn around and sell it for a fraction of what it goes for on auction. You don’t get any benefits. There’s no contract - you’re just freelance. And the licensing is a real bitch.”

  Deach speaks up. “Unless you have a party you trust, they’ll put you with whoever. And gods know what happens once the loot comes within sight.”

  “We’ll say I’m putting together a party, then. I’ve always wanted to try adventuring. You know, playboy stuff,” I say.

  Deach’s brow twitches upward. “That’s smart.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I wouldn’t be if you weren’t so fucking drunk all the time,” he snaps back.

  It hits me like a fist. Across the waters deep inside me, a ripple stirs. Suddenly, it's the clench of a black, clawed fist around my throat, the feel of this table beneath my back. I look away, sipping more coffee. There’s a familiar, comforting burn on the back of it. My blood roils. I can’t stay here.

  I stand, gathering my things. “I’ll think more on how to get the Guild slobbering on us.”

  I give a sharp whistle, and the double doors slam open, letting in the cold. Sven hustles to catch up, mouth still full of breakfast. And I step outside.

  I cross my arms and tuck myself together, walking. People are beginning to bustle with the day, going about tasks. I follow a familiar path through the settlement. I soon leave the buildings and shacks behind, following a trail through the woods. I reach the edge of a sheer, sharp cliff. Black water roars and breaks below, foaming and white against a shelf of rock. It’s a painfully familiar picture, altogether too clear and sharp.

  I wrap my cloak tightly and sink against a tree. The bark on one side is worn down and smoothed. I slip my flask out and take a drink. It tastes like ash. Or maybe it’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.

  I spend the day thinking of ways to dangle the Byrian Isles in front of the Guild. I also catch up on the last three months. It’s terribly familiar, seeing the stack of correspondence waiting on the desk or checking the progress on the granaries. There’s a squabble between two jarls, both of them claiming different things about fucking the other’s wife. I tell them to fuck each other by the Warchief’s orders. They do, and seem to like that solution, or so Erson tells me later.

  I chuck down more whiskey before bed and crash into uneasy sleep. I dream of being in the necklace with Weekes and Arriel. I wake in the darkness with my chest aching and my pillow wet, alcohol sweating from my pores. I stare at the gray dawn through the window, droning waves in the background of my thoughts.

  I eat breakfast and sit at my desk, boots propped, trying to create ways to make the Isles somewhere people want to go. But I can only look at the chair across from me and think that I shouldn't have come back here.

  There’s a knock on the door.

  I whistle sharply. It clatters open. A djinnian stands in the doorway, fist still raised. Sven is behind him, guarding the hallway.

  “Can I come in?” the djinnian asks. He’s got breezy blue skin and white hair in a topknot. He pauses. “It’s me.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t let you in here with that edge you’re carrying up your ass.”

  Sven gives a faint smile. Deach sighs. “Can we talk?”

  I can’t think of worse company right now. “What do you want?”

  He closes the door and sits across from me. Suddenly, he becomes fuzzy. Inky patterns bleed on his skin, and he melds into a familiar half-orc. His clothes change, too. With a blur, he’s wearing a prim shirt and a patterned brocade waistcoat of deep, warm gray with tight pants and polished leather shoes. A dagger is holstered at his side.

  He sighs and then pauses. “I’m sorry for what I said yesterday. About you drinking. I, um… talked to some people around here. About you. I didn’t know you were…”

  “A slave?”

  “Yeah. That. From the way you were talking with Sven, I assumed you’re from here.”

  I snort, slugging from my flask.

  He continues. “And the drinking? I mean… I get it. I respect what you’re doing here, especially after hearing that. It’s admirable.”

  “I don’t give a gnoll's bloody ballsack –” I stop. I look at the greatsword pegged on the wall, the almost-empty bottle of whiskey on the table.

  Don’t let anyone judge to be failure what you know as progress.

  “I’m trying to quit,” I crack. It slips out before I can stop it. “It’s better than it was.”

  I’m not sure why I’m saying it. Maybe I want someone to know it was far worse three months ago. That’s a good thing, right? Otherwise, I can’t do the one thing Arriel asked me to do.

  “I shouldn’t have said anything,” Deach says. He pauses again, not looking at me. “I’ve been going through shit, too, and I’m sorry for taking it out on you. I owe you for helping me, but I don’t know how to deal with this.”

  I look at my flask. Suddenly, I think I know exactly what he’s going through. “Do you remember any of it?”

  He shakes his head. “No. They just… stuck me in a cell and shoved a bird at me. Then, there you were. I guess I’m… thirty-one, now. I don’t feel like it. And Karla said weird things happen when you’re in petrification for that long… I can barely land a dagger anymore. I’m tired all the time. I’m nothing like I was.”

  The words resound in my bones. “I heard you tried killing a Minister.”

  “We were in an adventuring party together before he got the position. It didn’t go well. I tried getting revenge, but… that didn’t go well, either. Anyway. Here.” From seemingly nowhere, he slides a key across the desk. “This was my husband’s, but you should have it for now. It pings whenever I’m around. So you know it’s me without making an ass of yourself.”

  I pick it up. In my head, I hear a faint sound like a chime. Then, it fades.

  “Can we just…” he hesitates. “Can we try being friends? Otherwise, this will be miserable.”

  He’s right about that. And maybe the fact he’s here talking to me is a sign he really means it. “Alright,” I say. “We’ll give it a shot.”

  He nods, glancing at the papers on my desk. “Do you need help with anything?”

  I lean back, sipping from my flask. “I still have no idea how to get the Guild’s attention.”

  He reclines, too, crossing a leg. With a dagger, he cleans under his short fingernails. They’re painted black. I wish it wasn't so fetching on him. He shrugs. “Throw a bunch of money around. They love that.”

  “That money’s been hoarded in a vault for generations, stolen from poor people or gotten from the Guild with the blood of slaves. It’s going back to the Isles.”

  “Great,” he says. “You can still throw a bunch of money around.”

  That’s a good point. A massive renovation project? Or a new construction? A party? I pause, looking at the greatsword on the wall. If I don’t want to be here, why would anyone else? How can I make it a place I want to go?

  A shiver creeps up my spine. Maybe I do have an idea.

  I stand, shrugging on my chain jacket and weapons. I grab my mandolin from its stand.

  “Where are you going?” he asks, watching.

  “I think I’ve got something.”

  His dagger whispers into its sheath. He stands, too, becoming inky again. He shifts into the djinnian he was before. His clothes blur into the leather-and-fur armor of a raider. We head outside, Sven falling in behind us. I quicken my pace. An idea swirls in my head.

  We reach the Pit.

  I go through the ground entrance, heaving open the iron gate on the near side. I step onto the packed dirt floor. The seats are empty. I shudder. Last time I was here, I was certain I’d die to raucous applause.

  Deach appears beside me. “This is where you learned how to fight?”

  “It wasn’t a cute little montage, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I say, looking at the seats. It’s already got magical amplification. “We can make something else of it, though.”

  “How?”

  “Twice a year, Byra does the Running of the Moon, and it’s the biggest party in the world. Do you think all those Byrians wouldn’t jump at the chance for something new? Or anywhere else, for that matter.” In my mind, I see the vaulted, star-painted ceiling of the Moon Scythe Theater in Carthesia. “We’ve got three islands, three arenas. We throw a stage in each one. We get every band and musician we can and put them here for a weekend. We get some artists, too. We sell everyone as much food, spirits, and art as they can stand. And we open the Isles for everyone to see we’re taking a whole new direction. No more raiding, no more slaves. Just music and light.”

  He looks at me for a long moment, a slight smile curling his lips. “Some kind of… festival of music?”

  “A music festival.”

  I cross my arms. Sven wanders over, standing beside us. “What will we call it?”

  I look at the spot on the ground where Irminric knelt at my feet, pure terror etched across his spiky, black face as I channeled the most power any mortal being can grasp – a miracle.

  I smile. “We’ll call it Drowning Man.”