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Once Upon a Time

For a long while, the duo knelt in silent vigil, eyes fixated on the golden effigy of the Paragon Primus Ravier but not meeting its gaze. It wore no armour and wielded only the broken haft of a halberd, as per the truth of the final chapter, with meticulous depiction directed to each laceration, each perforation, and the exposure of bone and dripping sinew.

The Paragon stood on a jagged bed of broken blades and corpses of friend and foe alike, and if—Cabarros reflected—the enemy had not declared a full retreat to utilize crossbows, he might have remained standing in that fateful hall for all eternity. If the effigy captured even a tenth of the likeness, he had enough determination in those eyes to take on the vanguard and the reinforcements.

"When you behold the weight of judgement in full without wavering, you will be ready for God."

The High Inquisitor Perimund himself had carved out the plaque that adorned the base, and it was a tradition and pastime for members of the order to steel their resolve in said fashion.

Of the journeymen rank, Cabarros the dragonborn and Orkhambul the hobgoblin held the highest score at approximately one and a half minutes. They regarded each other briefly then: Cabarros in his full plate of weathered silver steel, and Orkhambul in his spit-shined lamellar cuirass and hauberk. A grin was exchanged between polished fangs and gold-capped teeth, and then they both raised their heads together to the statue as they did each week.

Sweet smoke wafted from rows of candles and incense burners lining the barren stone walls and floor—one for each sacrifice honoured prior to the founding. It wasn't quite enough to conceal the smell of rain and damp in the far corners from Cabarros, or even the oils that the hobgoblin employed in his braids, but he managed with minimal twitching of the nostrils.

Paragon Ravier, he intoned in his head as the golden eyes gripped him, guide me.

"Guide me," intoned Orkhambul aloud from where he knelt. Never subtle, that one.

Let me never falter

"Though the way be narrow and strewn with thorns."

Inna vorii

Let me be the light

"That inspires others to raise their courage."

Inna voci

The golden eyes seemed to swirl before him, drowning out the damp and smells, and leaving a tightening in his throat as it usually did with the third stanza.

Let me be the sacrifice

"Whose blood purchases the continuity of the whole."

Inna vokani

The golden lenses, magnified in contrast between the candlelight and stark backdrop, pierced his.

Let me be the memory

"Of the one who chose truly to cause and confidence."

But- surfaced the treacherous thoughts -let me serve better with scars and experiences than matyrdom. There are enough dead paragons in the world as it is, and too few living heroes.

"Inna vhorkati."

The effigy glowered back with the weight of frozen disapproval. Cabarros squinted on, fighting back the growing dryness, and continued the line of thoughts that would have invited a flogging from the inquisitors if ever voiced aloud.

It wasn't fair, what they did to you. What they let you do to yourself.

Was the honour of the Order worth an end alone? It would have been regained in time, as with the stones of the stronghold, but not you.

"Of f-flawless service unburdened by selfishness. Inna velumi."

They immortalized your moment of death. But how much greater were you in life?

I wish I could speak to you. I wish there was someone whom I could share these thoughts with.

"Of roots... t-twice as strong as the tree and vaster in b-branches. Inna vekturi."

Cabarros clenched his teeth against a fit of choking, as did the hobgoblin, albeit for different reasons.

To leave a legacy instead of walking it. Was it worth it?

"Of- of- eternal faith against eternal encroachment of h-hearsay-"

"Heresy, not hearsay. Though they are close enough in certain circumstances."

The doors swung open, and with the rush of cool air and raindrops came the scent of mud on fresh laundry. Pattering feet announced the arrival of Doryani Pastal, hospitaller in training, with her typical gift for timing and propriety.

"I can't believe the both of you are still at this. You'll miss the star storm!"

"It's t-tradition," muttered Orkhambul.

"It's important," growled Cabarros, taking advantage of superior peripheral view to confirm that he was indeed winning this week's bout.

Like others, he had expressed skepticism when Orkhambul claimed to be a 'sensitive poet soul' charged with a warrior's mission. It was in times like these, when tears streaked freely from the hobgoblin's amber eyes and joined the snot from his flattened grey nose, that Cabarros acknowledged the possibility. Not that he was particularly poetic, himself.

Doryani, however...

She skipped over to where the dragonborn knelt and mused, rattling him by the shoulders with a strength than belied her elfin build, before doing the same to the hobgoblin.

"Day-dreaming doesn't count. You can try again when the storm is over, but I'm not letting two perfectly good vantage spots go to waste."

"But-"

Doryani sighed and shrugged her sodden robes, making squelching noises where the muddy ends impacted the floor.

"For crying out loud, I'll keep count the next time you two do your vigil. Is it too much to ask for company on an occasion like this?"

"You could join us instead." Cabarros kept his eyes fixed on the effigy, even with his lids beginning to itch and the solemnity of the moment fast fading.

"I can't even hold my own with the temple cats, much less Paragon Primus Ravier." She swept one foot out in front of the other—a gesture of discomfort, to his knowledge. "What do you have against stars anyway?"

Orkhambul grimaced, the golds of his teeth glinting as he maintained the competition. "I wish they'd be more selective about where they landed. Starmetal makes the tyrant, so to speak."

"Oh? I remember you arguing that the Order should be more proactive about-"

"I think they're overrated."

Cabarros surprised himself with his own vehemence, and Doryani lapsed into a rare moment of stunned silence. The effigy of The Paragon loomed before him—immaculate, and lifeless.

"If we spent less time chasing stars and more time enjoying what was granted to us by the Divines, we would be so much richer for it."

"Brother?" The hobgoblin turned his head, the grimace widening. "Is something wrong?"

Cabarros continued meeting the terrible gaze, unable and unwilling to tear himself away. A puff of steam accompanied his words.

"Paragon Primus Ravier was the brightest light once, was he not? He gave his life for the Order, and all we give in return is a weekly vigil. And not even that, if there's some other newer, shinier star to watch."

Doryani shut the doors, returning the room to relative silence and warmth, before settling next to him in a sodden approximation of a vigil. Her hair carried the scent of freshly plucked frangipani.

"It's life, Cabbaros. I spent seven years mourning my ma and pa and little else until I realized that I could do so for another seventy and it still wouldn't be nearly enough. So I jumped on the first recruitment wagon that offered hot food, and here I am."

Orkhambul took a place by his other side in a clinking of metal, and the contrast of oil and sweat.

"We mourn our own ancestors precisely once, brother. My grandsire personally promised to return and flog us all if we spent any more on his funeral than on our equipment, or if we ended up meeting him again too soon. I believe he'd hold to that promise, I do."

The dragonborn exhaled, tasting ash and smoke.

"I haven't the faintest inkling as to how my parents would prefer to be remembered, but I feel closer to the Paragon than to them, and I wish there was something more tangible that I could do for his memory and the martyrs before."

The novice hospitaller straightened up immediately.

"We could dedicate the star storm to their sacrifice by naming each one."

The hobgoblin nodded with another clink.

"It would do well to jog the memories of our fellow brothers and sisters. I'll arrange for a gathering at the courtyard."

Cabarros blinked, breaking the spell, and was momentarily blinded by the comparitive darkness of the room. The gaze of the effigy remained seared within his skull even as he stumbled to rise, and two sets of hands steadied him.

"Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because you're stiffer than the effigy—no offence, Paragon Primus."

Doryani's sparkling laughter was picked up by the rumbling tones of Orkhambul, as they helped him find his feet again.

"Never change, brother. Be the mountain."

"I'll be back soon," said Cabarros, even though it made little sense to say so to an effigy of a long-gone man. It sounded comforting, at least, in lieu of sight.

Then the doors opened, and rain greeted them all.

***

Lost Ember Zone, Day Two

On principle, Cabarros avoided rain. It added more rust to already stiff armour joints, and left him feeling like a fishbowl after particularly heavy showers, from which he emerged just as foul and filthy as ever.

He would still have preferred another shower to the weather that blanketed the city known as Ember Zone. There was precipitation, but to call it rain would have been excessively generous.

The earthern ceiling above the entombed city wept a brownish substance that accumulated over the decrepit buildings, and the dubiously demonic residents of the city produced shovels alongside umbrellas on a regular basis, Cabarros observed. It tasted strongly of iron and brimstone, and the smell blanketed the city even when the smog did not.

Caked in the pungent muck, he'd attempted conversation in various languages when it seemed that the locals were as unaffected by his personal hygiene and countenance as they were with their own surroundings.

"Where is this place?"

"Who is in charge here?"

"How did this come to be?"

"What do you know of Dr. Ametsuchi or her experiment?"

Those that did respond instead of plodding or hurrying on conducted themselves as ordinarily as any denizen of his homeworld, despite oddly shaped mouths, gutteral undertones or contorted faces. One horned critter had made some particularly... thoughtful remarks on his own set, even.

Complacency, uniformity, monotony, and thus normalcy. A gurgling chuckle escaped his throat.

It was a particularly intriguing proof that 'hellspawn' could be as average as any man given separation from the 'core of sin', as the Order put it.

If you can, why not they?

Cabarros' expression sobered, and he retreated beneath the eaves of a ruined metal structure to scrape himself off and inspect the contents of his rugsack for damages—the leather-bound journal of ex-Senior Astrologer Ludvick, in particular. He licked his claws clean and carefully flipped through the pages to the latest entry—a ragged scrawl that contrasted Ludvick's neatly-lined script. There, he continued writing.

Day Two:

The hunger-cursed known as Percy directed me to Lost Ember—a lost piece of the infernal realms. Ko Reko has apparently found a new impish friend to cavort with here and make things more difficult for the already beleaguered denizens. May Fate be willing, that I can convince Ko Reko to consider the Doctor a more befitting target.

The leaderless denizens here seem to be largely ignorant of the Doctor or her overall scheme, or even of their own plane of existance. I suspect the Doctor plucked and deposited this plane here as part of her experiments, which bears once again the question:

What does Dr. Ametsuchi intend to achieve against Fate by:

Forcefully conjoining five highly different planes of existance? Is there a theme within the dissonance? (Forest -> Nature? Sharpnel -> Technology? Ice -> Cold? Lost Ember -> Heat? Castle Wish -> Dreams?) Percy believes there might be a sixth.

Enlisting/abducting 32 equally disparate souls into a competition of collecting stars, some by name even? Assuming all play by her game and rules, that would constitute 5 bouts, corresponding to the zone numbers. I must learn more of the nature of the contestants.

Collaborating with 8 other 'assistants' of wildly different natures and professions, some of whom are clearly opposed to her apparent goals? I know where Percy stands on issues and capabilities, at least. I am more skeptical of the one called Kyuu.

Is this an attempt at organized randomness?

Cabarros' pen hovered above the page for a period of time, until a cough broke the silence.

"Oh, please continue, I do enjoy a good read."

It wasn't a polite cough, not at the proximity from which it emerged. The voice that accompanied it was feminine, but the mechanical body that housed it could have gone either way. An illusionary sash of icy blue and pink swirled around the hovering being, and nine equally intangible tails billowed out behind her. Or him.

Cabarros closed the book and flashed a not-quite grin. The whiff of dragonsbreath that accompanied the gesture did not appear to deter the newcomer in the slightest.

"Kyuu, I presume? Your fellow agent of Fate spoke of you."

"Only good things, I hope?" The self-proclaimed oracle leaned in even closer, tapping on the acid-pitted breastplate and tracing a path of rusted gashes through the muck. "You know, you could clean up very nicely if you put your mind to it. Strapping, knightly, shining-"

Cabarros grabbed the offending hand and firmly returned it to the android's side.

"Percy cast aspersions on your ability to predict the future. May I put that to the test?"

Kyuu smiled widely. "Why, cert-"

He remained perfectly still as the dragonborn's free hand closed the distance and embedded the jagged head of a spear into the wall, a scant inch from his neck.

"-ainly. Satisfied?" He continued smiling, disregarding the quivering metal.

"Could be slow reflexes." Cabarros withdrew the spear and shook off the concrete that followed it. "This time I'll aim for something essential."

Kyuu's smile faded as he gripped the end of the weapon.

"Good dodging, that's what you'll say next. Or 'a stroke of luck', or 'hand slipped'. But that all gets rather tedious rather quickly, so let me make this clear. I am your only other ally here."

The dragonborn tilted his chin. "Sounds like something-"

"-an enemy would say. Yes, yes." The android waved a manicured hand. "But think about it, will you. I too have a vested interest in keeping Fate as it is-"

"In your profitable fortune-telling hands."

"-and I have family here, whom—by the way—have you met yet?" He sighed dramatically, all tails swishing at once. "Pox is such a dear little cinnamon roll."

Cabarros blinked, his train of thoughts engaging a different set of rails. "You consider him edible?"

"Mmmmm."

The dragonborn's shrivelled innards convulsed, and the star on his cuirass dug in with all seven corners. A slow trickle of spittle dissolved the encrusting brown muck around his jaws.

"That's not helping your case, oracle."

"Oh no no no, not for me. Fate knows I'd have better luck with my time convincing the Doctor to take up embroidery, than to sway the mighty knighty." Kyuu clasped both hands to the red orb in his chest, at which Cabarros was staring. His bionic eyes took on a different sheen. "But I do understand that you hug to certain principles, hmm? I think you'll find that few of the good Doctor's assistants are quite as innocent as dear li'l Poxy, and it would so put my troubled mechanical heart at rest to know that he was in good, strong arms."

An oracle never tells you what you need to know, so much as what they want you to know that will result in an outcome favourable to them.

And if they thought or knew that they were being observed... Keep enemies closer, after all.

Cabarros kept his gaze on the android's chest, ignoring the accompanying remarks of indecency as he reached into his rugsack again.

Orkhambul's parting gift—a polished bronze mirror meant for grooming—remained as untarnished as it was unused. He employed it now, feeling a pang of guilt.

The word written through the grime of his breastplate was 'Help'.

He carefully replaced the mirror, suppressing another fit of wheezing.

In other words, the Doctor is holding Pox as leverage against Kyuu, her most likely primary antagonist. Or it is just as likely to be a convenient ploy for sympathy.

"You're wasting my time, Oracle. Even Percy gave me more concrete directions and information."

"And it only cost you someone's arm and a leg too." Kyuu twirled his sash in a mocking display. "What do you think Ko-Reko will demand for his assistance? Think, mighty knighty. I know the odds because I see them before they even happen. Place your bets properly."

"As you placed your son?"

Kyuu floated forward, meeting him face to face. The red eyes glowered in their metal sockets.

"I think you'll find, mighty knighty, that making an informed bet is a very minor infraction compared to rigging the entire game. How fortunate that we only know one person who would do such a terrible thing, hmm?"

Cabarros averted his gaze to the streets, where adult passers-by continued their lives with scarcely more than passing interest at the confrontation. A number of young demons splashed in the fresh puddles and flung mud balls at each other.

"I learned my lesson," he said. "Each day is a reminder."

"As it should be." The android rubbed his scales between the horns, all smiles and cheer again. "But don't worry, mighty knighty, you'll have plenty of opportunities to make amends, some sooner than others."

Kyuu winked, shot him a sultry gesture, and vanished before the dragonborn could formulate a response.

Then the screams began.

***

"This is fine," said Calimus. He stood alone even in the company of fellow demons—a scruffy-looking black-haired servant in a tweed cap—and watched from a corner of the busiest avenue in Lost Ember. Other less human-looking demons flowed past his vantage point in a sea of umbrellas, coattails, robes, uniforms and worker overalls.

"Oliver Twist," Percy had called him, and he still did not know why. It seemed a terribly small detail in consideration of all the rest of the information unceremoniously dumped onto him.

He readjusted the smile on his face, straining a few muscles in the process. "This is fine. All I have to do is beat everyone else that wants to choose their own destiny, then I can have my own."

A raven with an open collar and neat bow around her neck fluttered down from the shelter rafters to perch on a window sill. "Reconsidering, are you?" She preened her feathers, which were still offensively lustrous after the harrowing events of their arrival.

"Nothing's stopping you from leaving and finding a better mark, you know? And no."

He examined his hat for any remaining traces of the horrible goop that continued to drip down outside. There wasn't much that could be done for his favourite black shoes.

Not the greatest start, but whoever said that it would be easy, eh?

About this time now, Lady Se- the hag would have been settling down for a cup of tea, and there would have been a nice warm fire under the cauldron. And there would be the usual chat of daily business and affairs and humdrum.

A sigh escaped before he could stop it.

Emma, as she called herself, cocked her head instantly. There was an awful lot of smugness that could be conveyed with a beak, instead of a mouth.

"I'm sorely tempted, but where would you be without me? If I hadn't asked, do you think the cannibal hobo would have told you about the competition?"

"Uh huh. You were totally asking questions for my benefit."

"Better than keeping mum like a dumb servant."

There it was again, the contempt associated with the connotations. Calimus swatted at her, but she was quicker to find refuge amongst the rafters again.

"Do you even have a plan for taking on the competition?"

That stopped his incoming protest short, and replaced his indignance with the sinking revelation of the task's magnitude. The hag had taken out a large amount of potential unpleasantness from life by strategic location and concealment enchantments, and his incendiary and fulminating potions had sufficed for the trickier gardening pests and intrusions.

They had been a team—or as close to one as Master and Familiar might be, as much as it pained him to consider it.

And now it's just me again. Me and whoever the strange bird is.

"Do you have one?" He replaced his cap, anticipating another barrage of sarcasm.

"Well, of course." Emma ruffled her feathers. "You're a familiar without a contract, which means that you're practically screaming 'easy prey' to anything out there with half a mind and half an appetite for magic or just meat. The first thing you'll want to do is change that."

"That's not a plan! I'll be back right where I started."

"Not my problem. But if it helps, you could just settle for an alternative contract. There's loads of loopholes you can exploit if you're good at the wording."

"Wait, what?"

"Wording. W-o-r-d-i-n-g. Do you need me to repe-"

Calimus picked up a clod of earth, grimacing at the sodden texture. Emma immediately hopped out of sight.

"I heard you the first time. It doesn't make anymore sense than before."

The raven made an indignant squawking noise. "Wow, just wow. After all your griping about being a servant, you never tried to fix that at the source? That would be- that was the first thing I did."

Calimus blinked. Certain perspectives were clicking into place, and he did not like the direction that was emerging.

"You're a familiar? With an attitude like that I'm surprised the first Master didn't just-"

"Was. Pay attention, you moron." Emma's peeked over the rafters to acertain that a mudball wasn't readied. There was a triumphant glint in the set of her beak and eyes. "I pretended to be a good little familiar like someone else, and bided my time studying the contracts until I knew how I could break them. I didn't, I dunno, grab the first thing to fall out of the sky."

Calimusmade a quick trajectory calculation, and dropped the mudball instead.

"Oh yeah, how come you don't smell or feel anything like a familiar, then? You've got your magicky-ness-" he winced at his own articulation "-all screwed or balled up."

"Isn't that wonderful? I've got the freedom to do whatever I want."

He frowned. "That doesn't answer my question, or why you're still hanging around someone you obviously don't give a rat's or raven's ass about."

Emma cocked her head, and for a moment he fancied that he'd flustered her.

"Well, I'm supposed to help out fellow lost familiars who might want to break the system, but if you're happy to plod along then I guess I'll just find someone else. No sweat off my feathers. I don't know why I even bother with servants."

"Then why didn't you say any of this earlier?"

"I- I had to know that you weren't the kind of familiar to go running off to the Collectors, you know?" She was squawking again. "You didn't look like you had much brains to you, and frankly it's your fault for grabbing the Trash Angel's offer so quickly."

"Yeah, well, considering how helpful you were before-"

A loud explosion interrupted the argument, and then the world stood still.

I'm dead. One of the potions must have cracked, and now I'm stuck in Familiar hell with Emma forever.

Calimus opened his eyes again, only half-hopeful that it wasn't true, against the prospects of a battle for Fate.

He was still in the same isolated corner of the avenue. His heightened senses confirmed the smells of iron, sulphur, piss, and a crowd of other demons teethering on the same fight/flight conundrum with regards to 'what' and 'where'. Heads lifted, umbrellas were lowered, and many shapes of eyes blinked as if registering the city and their surroundings for the first time.

Shrill laughter from on high rose over the crowd murmurings, and Calimus glimpsed a purple figure in a jester's mask and costume cartwheeling through the air. A winged girl with horns that he identified vaguely as some kind of imp followed closely behind, giggling and twirling a stick around. When she pointed, rolling flames burst forth from the tip of the wood and immolated structures at random.

Fireballs, they're throwing friggin fireballs.

The hairs on his neck stood on end as a towering structure of metal and glass across the street shrieked its last gasp and began to descend in a shower of sparks, embers and twisted fragments. Then the screams begin.

"You've gotta be shitting me!"

'You must be joking,' came the mental correction, complete with Lady Ser- the hag's tut-tutting visage and waggling finger. It would be just like her to chastise profanity in the middle of a desperate situation.

Calimus shook his head clear of the memory, taking the sensible route to the roofs away from the panicking crowd. His hands found scrabbling purchase on the walls with the relative ease of his feline heritage, and sheer desperation propelled him the rest of the way up.

"You know-" began Emma, hovering just out of reach.

"Shut the hell up and point the way outta here!"

There must have been something in his eyes that reflected a rumbling stomach since the day before, for the raven complied with unnatural expediency.

Around them, Lost Ember glowed more incandescently than it had in decades. Skyscrapers surrendered to years of strain and rust with coaxing from the heat and sulphurous fumes, and replaced one rain for another. Smaller buildings huddled together in the shadows of surviving giants, and denizens fled rat-like through the streets. The jester and his accomplice vanished as mysteriously as they'd arrived, but the damage was spreading.

This is fine this is fine this is fine.

Calimus navigated his way through the roofscape, leaping and tumbling his way through the ashes and debris, stopping only when Emma did. The nausea in his chest made him glad for the lack of recent fare, and his limbs raised all manner of painful protests.

"Okay, serious question," she said, pointing with one wing and somehow still hovering. "The zone exit's that way, and there's people running that other way to safety. Pick one."

He looked up and across at a burning cityscape that stretched endlessly, and then looked at the retreating crowd two blocks away who were being herded into some sort of underground structure.

"If it's not a cult temple, a Collector's den, or a swimming pool, I'm in."

"And if it is?"

Calimus fixed his gaze on Emma. "Ladies first."

***

"In absence of actual leadership roles, just be firm and be loud."

It was far from ideal advice, but it had worked for Orkhambul, and now it was his turn to try.

"Citizens-" Cabarros raised his voice, trying not to look at the flames. "Follow me to safety."

It emerged as a choking gurgle as something dislodged itself from his throat. The subsequent command carried the sibilant tones of conspiracy instead.

Clarity and commanding presence, you have not.

Before him, the crowd was poised in that perfect calm before the storm, held back from a stampede only by collective indecision. They were demons with fangs, claws and barbs; they were people with needs, roles and families. They might not be anything soon.

Only pale substitutes.

Cabarros withdrew into his core and the cage of the thing, and released the third seal. His body spasmed within the armour as eldritch energy surged up and out, bleeding its inky substance from dark sockets and nostrils. It flowed over his tongue and teeth and spit, gilding already vile surfaces with something fouler. The process took scant seconds, but felt like another eternity.

Fear, not respect, is your constant companion.

The dragonborn extended a hand to the crowd, and manifested a weapon—a three-pronged spear as red and jagged as the cracks in the earth's molten shell. He raised his dripping eyes to the crowd and straightened his form with an imperiousness that he did not particularly feel.

"HEED AND OBEY," he intoned, in the Third Tongue of the Fallen and Unforgiven.

For a moment, he feared that the denizens of Lost Ember might have been lifted far beyond their demonic heritage. Then, as those in the front began to supplicate themselves to the unmistakable symbolism, he knew the familiarity of disillusion.

"But- my home!" cried one demon with an ostentatious amount of jewellery.

"My shop!" cried another demon, with two oblivious younglings strapped to its humped back.

"My babies!" cried a third, who had nothing.

There were no words in the Third Tongue for 'babies', 'sorry', or 'hope'.

"YOU MAY LEAVE," he pointed the spear at the third, who scampered off and was swallowed up by smoke and soot. "THE REST OF YOU WILL OBEY, OR PERISH IN FLAMES. NOW FOLLOW."

And thus, the lost shepard herds the damned.

Cabarros held his spear high and began a long, stiff march to the last known bunker.

Around him, the city burned, and he imagined himself burning with it.

***

There's no hell like hell on fire. And then there's Emma.

Calimus fixed the raven with a cautious eye. "Well?"

The frantic dash left him looking and feeling more like a chimney sweep now than a servant, with generous coatings of ash, sweat and congealing rain deposits. The stinking alley in which he propped himself for a second wind seemed positively hospitable, while chaos and brimstone reigned in the main streets just beyond. The flickering flames and intermittent crashing noises reminded him otherwise.

Emma plucked at her feathers—a habit that he was beginning to recognize as a prelude to careful phrasing of words.

"There's good news and bad news. Which-"

"Good news."

"It's an underground train station, and seems to be in working order. Not that you'd know from-"

"Bad news?"

Emma looked back at him. "The one calling the shots for now is a Contestant—tall, dark and as far from handsome as you have a chance of beating him straight up."

Calimus jerked upright into full attention, hairs standing on end once again since 'everything is on fire' became the baseline.

"Whoa, whoa, Emma, I'm not fighting anyone right now."

"Did I say you were? Pay attention, unless you want to skip this shelter and make for the zone exit?"

A nearby explosion rocked the alley from pavement to roofs, and sent smouldering chunks of what smelt like tannin and jerky raining down. Emma took off with a squawk and Calimus hit the ground in a quivering heap. There was a series of aftershocks that almost tempted him to assume a cat form with less to be singed and more possibilities of hiding places.

"The other good news-" screeched Emma, beating at him with her wings as he tried to will the world away, "-is that he speaks fluent Demon and even Greater Demon, so if you're ever going to play the good ol' demonic bonding card and mix in with this shithole of a populace like I suggested in the first place, this would be a good time. You've got your star hidden, right?"

He nodded miserably, placing a hand to his chest and all the additional filth that hid his prize from the world. There was no amount of laundering miracles that would salvage his outfit from a fiery disposal, assuming he could somehow get ahold of a hot bath.

"And the other bad news?"

"I'll swipe his star once I find it. You will have to make the opening that I need by getting close and chummy."

Calimus groaned. If anything, his own destiny seemed further away now than it had ever been.

This is fine...

He opened one eye. "Wait, how come you're helping me now? I thought you were against the whole trash angel business and servants?"

"Is this really the time?"

She has a point. That's the thing isn't it?

She always has a point. I just wish I knew where the dots were all connecting.

***

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Once Upon a Time

For a long while, the duo knelt in silent vigil, eyes fixated on the golden effigy of the Paragon Primus Ravier but not meeting its gaze. It wore no armour and wielded only the broken haft of a halberd, as per the truth of the final chapter, with meticulous depiction directed to each laceration, each perforation, and the exposure of bone and dripping sinew.

The Paragon stood on a jagged bed of broken blades and corpses of friend and foe alike, and if—Cabarros reflected—the enemy had not declared a full retreat to utilize crossbows, he might have remained standing in that fateful hall for all eternity. If the effigy captured even a tenth of the likeness, he had enough determination in those eyes to take on the vanguard and the reinforcements.

"When you behold the weight of judgement in full without wavering, you will be ready for God."

The High Inquisitor Perimund himself had carved out the plaque that adorned the base, and it was a tradition and pastime for members of the order to steel their resolve in said fashion.

Of the journeymen rank, Cabarros the dragonborn and Orkhambul the hobgoblin held the highest score at approximately one and a half minutes. They regarded each other briefly then: Cabarros in his full plate of weathered silver steel, and Orkhambul in his spit-shined lamellar cuirass and hauberk. A grin was exchanged between polished fangs and gold-capped teeth, and then they both raised their heads together to the statue as they did each week.

Sweet smoke wafted from rows of candles and incense burners lining the barren stone walls and floor—one for each sacrifice honoured prior to the founding. It wasn't quite enough to conceal the smell of rain and damp in the far corners from Cabarros, or even the oils that the hobgoblin employed in his braids, but he managed with minimal twitching of the nostrils.

Paragon Ravier, he intoned in his head as the golden eyes gripped him, guide me.

"Guide me," intoned Orkhambul aloud from where he knelt. Never subtle, that one.

Let me never falter

"Though the way be narrow and strewn with thorns."

Inna vorii

Let me be the light

"That inspires others to raise their courage."

Inna voci

The golden eyes seemed to swirl before him, drowning out the damp and smells, and leaving a tightening in his throat as it usually did with the third stanza.

Let me be the sacrifice

"Whose blood purchases the continuity of the whole."

Inna vokani

The golden lenses, magnified in contrast between the candlelight and stark backdrop, pierced his.

Let me be the memory

"Of the one who chose truly to cause and confidence."

But- surfaced the treacherous thoughts -let me serve better with scars and experiences than matyrdom. There are enough dead paragons in the world as it is, and too few living heroes.

"Inna vhorkati."

The effigy glowered back with the weight of frozen disapproval. Cabarros squinted on, fighting back the growing dryness, and continued the line of thoughts that would have invited a flogging from the inquisitors if ever voiced aloud.

It wasn't fair, what they did to you. What they let you do to yourself.

Was the honour of the Order worth an end alone? It would have been regained in time, as with the stones of the stronghold, but not you.

"Of f-flawless service unburdened by selfishness. Inna velumi."

They immortalized your moment of death. But how much greater were you in life?

I wish I could speak to you. I wish there was someone whom I could share these thoughts with.

"Of roots... t-twice as strong as the tree and vaster in b-branches. Inna vekturi."

Cabarros clenched his teeth against a fit of choking, as did the hobgoblin, albeit for different reasons.

To leave a legacy instead of walking it. Was it worth it?

"Of- of- eternal faith against eternal encroachment of h-hearsay-"

"Heresy, not hearsay. Though they are close enough in certain circumstances."

The doors swung open, and with the rush of cool air and raindrops came the scent of mud on fresh laundry. Pattering feet announced the arrival of Doryani Pastal, hospitaller in training, with her typical gift for timing and propriety.

"I can't believe the both of you are still at this. You'll miss the star storm!"

"It's t-tradition," muttered Orkhambul.

"It's important," growled Cabarros, taking advantage of superior peripheral view to confirm that he was indeed winning this week's bout.

Like others, he had expressed skepticism when Orkhambul claimed to be a 'sensitive poet soul' charged with a warrior's mission. It was in times like these, when tears streaked freely from the hobgoblin's amber eyes and joined the snot from his flattened grey nose, that Cabarros acknowledged the possibility. Not that he was particularly poetic, himself.

Doryani, however...

She skipped over to where the dragonborn knelt and mused, rattling him by the shoulders with a strength than belied her elfin build, before doing the same to the hobgoblin.

"Day-dreaming doesn't count. You can try again when the storm is over, but I'm not letting two perfectly good vantage spots go to waste."

"But-"

Doryani sighed and shrugged her sodden robes, making squelching noises where the muddy ends impacted the floor.

"For crying out loud, I'll keep count the next time you two do your vigil. Is it too much to ask for company on an occasion like this?"

"You could join us instead." Cabarros kept his eyes fixed on the effigy, even with his lids beginning to itch and the solemnity of the moment fast fading.

"I can't even hold my own with the temple cats, much less Paragon Primus Ravier." She swept one foot out in front of the other—a gesture of discomfort, to his knowledge. "What do you have against stars anyway?"

Orkhambul grimaced, the golds of his teeth glinting as he maintained the competition. "I wish they'd be more selective about where they landed. Starmetal makes the tyrant, so to speak."

"Oh? I remember you arguing that the Order should be more proactive about-"

"I think they're overrated."

Cabarros surprised himself with his own vehemence, and Doryani lapsed into a rare moment of stunned silence. The effigy of The Paragon loomed before him—immaculate, and lifeless.

"If we spent less time chasing stars and more time enjoying what was granted to us by the Divines, we would be so much richer for it."

"Brother?" The hobgoblin turned his head, the grimace widening. "Is something wrong?"

Cabarros continued meeting the terrible gaze, unable and unwilling to tear himself away. A puff of steam accompanied his words.

"Paragon Primus Ravier was the brightest light once, was he not? He gave his life for the Order, and all we give in return is a weekly vigil. And not even that, if there's some other newer, shinier star to watch."

Doryani shut the doors, returning the room to relative silence and warmth, before settling next to him in a sodden approximation of a vigil. Her hair carried the scent of freshly plucked frangipani.

"It's life, Cabbaros. I spent seven years mourning my ma and pa and little else until I realized that I could do so for another seventy and it still wouldn't be nearly enough. So I jumped on the first recruitment wagon that offered hot food, and here I am."

Orkhambul took a place by his other side in a clinking of metal, and the contrast of oil and sweat.

"We mourn our own ancestors precisely once, brother. My grandsire personally promised to return and flog us all if we spent any more on his funeral than on our equipment, or if we ended up meeting him again too soon. I believe he'd hold to that promise, I do."

The dragonborn exhaled, tasting ash and smoke.

"I haven't the faintest inkling as to how my parents would prefer to be remembered, but I feel closer to the Paragon than to them, and I wish there was something more tangible that I could do for his memory and the martyrs before."

The novice hospitaller straightened up immediately.

"We could dedicate the star storm to their sacrifice by naming each one."

The hobgoblin nodded with another clink.

"It would do well to jog the memories of our fellow brothers and sisters. I'll arrange for a gathering at the courtyard."

Cabarros blinked, breaking the spell, and was momentarily blinded by the comparitive darkness of the room. The gaze of the effigy remained seared within his skull even as he stumbled to rise, and two sets of hands steadied him.

"Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because you're stiffer than the effigy—no offence, Paragon Primus."

Doryani's sparkling laughter was picked up by the rumbling tones of Orkhambul, as they helped him find his feet again.

"Never change, brother. Be the mountain."

"I'll be back soon," said Cabarros, even though it made little sense to say so to an effigy of a long-gone man. It sounded comforting, at least, in lieu of sight.

Then the doors opened, and rain greeted them all.

***

Lost Ember Zone, Day Two

On principle, Cabarros avoided rain. It added more rust to already stiff armour joints, and left him feeling like a fishbowl after particularly heavy showers, from which he emerged just as foul and filthy as ever.

He would still have preferred another shower to the weather that blanketed the city known as Ember Zone. There was precipitation, but to call it rain would have been excessively generous.

The earthern ceiling above the entombed city wept a brownish substance that accumulated over the decrepit buildings, and the dubiously demonic residents of the city produced shovels alongside umbrellas on a regular basis, Cabarros observed. It tasted strongly of iron and brimstone, and the smell blanketed the city even when the smog did not.

Caked in the pungent muck, he'd attempted conversation in various languages when it seemed that the locals were as unaffected by his personal hygiene and countenance as they were with their own surroundings.

"Where is this place?"

"Who is in charge here?"

"How did this come to be?"

"What do you know of Dr. Ametsuchi or her experiment?"

Those that did respond instead of plodding or hurrying on conducted themselves as ordinarily as any denizen of his homeworld, despite oddly shaped mouths, gutteral undertones or contorted faces. One horned critter had made some particularly... thoughtful remarks on his own set, even.

Complacency, uniformity, monotony, and thus normalcy. A gurgling chuckle escaped his throat.

It was a particularly intriguing proof that 'hellspawn' could be as average as any man given separation from the 'core of sin', as the Order put it.

If you can, why not they?

Cabarros' expression sobered, and he retreated beneath the eaves of a ruined metal structure to scrape himself off and inspect the contents of his rugsack for damages—the leather-bound journal of ex-Senior Astrologer Ludvick, in particular. He licked his claws clean and carefully flipped through the pages to the latest entry—a ragged scrawl that contrasted Ludvick's neatly-lined script. There, he continued writing.

Day Two:

The hunger-cursed known as Percy directed me to Lost Ember—a lost piece of the infernal realms. Ko Reko has apparently found a new impish friend to cavort with here and make things more difficult for the already beleaguered denizens. May Fate be willing, that I can convince Ko Reko to consider the Doctor a more befitting target.

The leaderless denizens here seem to be largely ignorant of the Doctor or her overall scheme, or even of their own plane of existance. I suspect the Doctor plucked and deposited this plane here as part of her experiments, which bears once again the question:

What does Dr. Ametsuchi intend to achieve against Fate by:

Forcefully conjoining five highly different planes of existance? Is there a theme within the dissonance? (Forest -> Nature? Sharpnel -> Technology? Ice -> Cold? Lost Ember -> Heat? Castle Wish -> Dreams?) Percy believes there might be a sixth.

Enlisting/abducting 32 equally disparate souls into a competition of collecting stars, some by name even? Assuming all play by her game and rules, that would constitute 5 bouts, corresponding to the zone numbers. I must learn more of the nature of the contestants.

Collaborating with 8 other 'assistants' of wildly different natures and professions, some of whom are clearly opposed to her apparent goals? I know where Percy stands on issues and capabilities, at least. I am more skeptical of the one called Kyuu.

Is this an attempt at organized randomness?

Cabarros' pen hovered above the page for a period of time, until a cough broke the silence.

"Oh, please continue, I do enjoy a good read."

It wasn't a polite cough, not at the proximity from which it emerged. The voice that accompanied it was feminine, but the mechanical body that housed it could have gone either way. An illusionary sash of icy blue and pink swirled around the hovering being, and nine equally intangible tails billowed out behind her. Or him.

Cabarros closed the book and flashed a not-quite grin. The whiff of dragonsbreath that accompanied the gesture did not appear to deter the newcomer in the slightest.

"Kyuu, I presume? Your fellow agent of Fate spoke of you."

"Only good things, I hope?" The self-proclaimed oracle leaned in even closer, tapping on the acid-pitted breastplate and tracing a path of rusted gashes through the muck. "You know, you could clean up very nicely if you put your mind to it. Strapping, knightly, shining-"

Cabarros grabbed the offending hand and firmly returned it to the android's side.

"Percy cast aspersions on your ability to predict the future. May I put that to the test?"

Kyuu smiled widely. "Why, cert-"

He remained perfectly still as the dragonborn's free hand closed the distance and embedded the jagged head of a spear into the wall, a scant inch from his neck.

"-ainly. Satisfied?" He continued smiling, disregarding the quivering metal.

"Could be slow reflexes." Cabarros withdrew the spear and shook off the concrete that followed it. "This time I'll aim for something essential."

Kyuu's smile faded as he gripped the end of the weapon.

"Good dodging, that's what you'll say next. Or 'a stroke of luck', or 'hand slipped'. But that all gets rather tedious rather quickly, so let me make this clear. I am your only other ally here."

The dragonborn tilted his chin. "Sounds like something-"

"-an enemy would say. Yes, yes." The android waved a manicured hand. "But think about it, will you. I too have a vested interest in keeping Fate as it is-"

"In your profitable fortune-telling hands."

"-and I have family here, whom—by the way—have you met yet?" He sighed dramatically, all tails swishing at once. "Pox is such a dear little cinnamon roll."

Cabarros blinked, his train of thoughts engaging a different set of rails. "You consider him edible?"

"Mmmmm."

The dragonborn's shrivelled innards convulsed, and the star on his cuirass dug in with all seven corners. A slow trickle of spittle dissolved the encrusting brown muck around his jaws.

"That's not helping your case, oracle."

"Oh no no no, not for me. Fate knows I'd have better luck with my time convincing the Doctor to take up embroidery, than to sway the mighty knighty." Kyuu clasped both hands to the red orb in his chest, at which Cabarros was staring. His bionic eyes took on a different sheen. "But I do understand that you hug to certain principles, hmm? I think you'll find that few of the good Doctor's assistants are quite as innocent as dear li'l Poxy, and it would so put my troubled mechanical heart at rest to know that he was in good, strong arms."

An oracle never tells you what you need to know, so much as what they want you to know that will result in an outcome favourable to them.

And if they thought or knew that they were being observed... Keep enemies closer, after all.

Cabarros kept his gaze on the android's chest, ignoring the accompanying remarks of indecency as he reached into his rugsack again.

Orkhambul's parting gift—a polished bronze mirror meant for grooming—remained as untarnished as it was unused. He employed it now, feeling a pang of guilt.

The word written through the grime of his breastplate was 'Help'.

He carefully replaced the mirror, suppressing another fit of wheezing.

In other words, the Doctor is holding Pox as leverage against Kyuu, her most likely primary antagonist. Or it is just as likely to be a convenient ploy for sympathy.

"You're wasting my time, Oracle. Even Percy gave me more concrete directions and information."

"And it only cost you someone's arm and a leg too." Kyuu twirled his sash in a mocking display. "What do you think Ko-Reko will demand for his assistance? Think, mighty knighty. I know the odds because I see them before they even happen. Place your bets properly."

"As you placed your son?"

Kyuu floated forward, meeting him face to face. The red eyes glowered in their metal sockets.

"I think you'll find, mighty knighty, that making an informed bet is a very minor infraction compared to rigging the entire game. How fortunate that we only know one person who would do such a terrible thing, hmm?"

Cabarros averted his gaze to the streets, where adult passers-by continued their lives with scarcely more than passing interest at the confrontation. A number of young demons splashed in the fresh puddles and flung mud balls at each other.

"I learned my lesson," he said. "Each day is a reminder."

"As it should be." The android rubbed his scales between the horns, all smiles and cheer again. "But don't worry, mighty knighty, you'll have plenty of opportunities to make amends, some sooner than others."

Kyuu winked, shot him a sultry gesture, and vanished before the dragonborn could formulate a response.

Then the screams began.

***

"This is fine," said Calimus. He stood alone even in the company of fellow demons—a scruffy-looking black-haired servant in a tweed cap—and watched from a corner of the busiest avenue in Lost Ember. Other less human-looking demons flowed past his vantage point in a sea of umbrellas, coattails, robes, uniforms and worker overalls.

"Oliver Twist," Percy had called him, and he still did not know why. It seemed a terribly small detail in consideration of all the rest of the information unceremoniously dumped onto him.

He readjusted the smile on his face, straining a few muscles in the process. "This is fine. All I have to do is beat everyone else that wants to choose their own destiny, then I can have my own."

A raven with an open collar and neat bow around her neck fluttered down from the shelter rafters to perch on a window sill. "Reconsidering, are you?" She preened her feathers, which were still offensively lustrous after the harrowing events of their arrival.

"Nothing's stopping you from leaving and finding a better mark, you know? And no."

He examined his hat for any remaining traces of the horrible goop that continued to drip down outside. There wasn't much that could be done for his favourite black shoes.

Not the greatest start, but whoever said that it would be easy, eh?

About this time now, Lady Se- the hag would have been settling down for a cup of tea, and there would have been a nice warm fire under the cauldron. And there would be the usual chat of daily business and affairs and humdrum.

A sigh escaped before he could stop it.

Emma, as she called herself, cocked her head instantly. There was an awful lot of smugness that could be conveyed with a beak, instead of a mouth.

"I'm sorely tempted, but where would you be without me? If I hadn't asked, do you think the cannibal hobo would have told you about the competition?"

"Uh huh. You were totally asking questions for my benefit."

"Better than keeping mum like a dumb servant."

There it was again, the contempt associated with the connotations. Calimus swatted at her, but she was quicker to find refuge amongst the rafters again.

"Do you even have a plan for taking on the competition?"

That stopped his incoming protest short, and replaced his indignance with the sinking revelation of the task's magnitude. The hag had taken out a large amount of potential unpleasantness from life by strategic location and concealment enchantments, and his incendiary and fulminating potions had sufficed for the trickier gardening pests and intrusions.

They had been a team—or as close to one as Master and Familiar might be, as much as it pained him to consider it.

And now it's just me again. Me and whoever the strange bird is.

"Do you have one?" He replaced his cap, anticipating another barrage of sarcasm.

"Well, of course." Emma ruffled her feathers. "You're a familiar without a contract, which means that you're practically screaming 'easy prey' to anything out there with half a mind and half an appetite for magic or just meat. The first thing you'll want to do is change that."

"That's not a plan! I'll be back right where I started."

"Not my problem. But if it helps, you could just settle for an alternative contract. There's loads of loopholes you can exploit if you're good at the wording."

"Wait, what?"

"Wording. W-o-r-d-i-n-g. Do you need me to repe-"

Calimus picked up a clod of earth, grimacing at the sodden texture. Emma immediately hopped out of sight.

"I heard you the first time. It doesn't make anymore sense than before."

The raven made an indignant squawking noise. "Wow, just wow. After all your griping about being a servant, you never tried to fix that at the source? That would be- that was the first thing I did."

Calimus blinked. Certain perspectives were clicking into place, and he did not like the direction that was emerging.

"You're a familiar? With an attitude like that I'm surprised the first Master didn't just-"

"Was. Pay attention, you moron." Emma's peeked over the rafters to acertain that a mudball wasn't readied. There was a triumphant glint in the set of her beak and eyes. "I pretended to be a good little familiar like someone else, and bided my time studying the contracts until I knew how I could break them. I didn't, I dunno, grab the first thing to fall out of the sky."

Calimusmade a quick trajectory calculation, and dropped the mudball instead.

"Oh yeah, how come you don't smell or feel anything like a familiar, then? You've got your magicky-ness-" he winced at his own articulation "-all screwed or balled up."

"Isn't that wonderful? I've got the freedom to do whatever I want."

He frowned. "That doesn't answer my question, or why you're still hanging around someone you obviously don't give a rat's or raven's ass about."

Emma cocked her head, and for a moment he fancied that he'd flustered her.

"Well, I'm supposed to help out fellow lost familiars who might want to break the system, but if you're happy to plod along then I guess I'll just find someone else. No sweat off my feathers. I don't know why I even bother with servants."

"Then why didn't you say any of this earlier?"

"I- I had to know that you weren't the kind of familiar to go running off to the Collectors, you know?" She was squawking again. "You didn't look like you had much brains to you, and frankly it's your fault for grabbing the Trash Angel's offer so quickly."

"Yeah, well, considering how helpful you were before-"

A loud explosion interrupted the argument, and then the world stood still.

I'm dead. One of the potions must have cracked, and now I'm stuck in Familiar hell with Emma forever.

Calimus opened his eyes again, only half-hopeful that it wasn't true, against the prospects of a battle for Fate.

He was still in the same isolated corner of the avenue. His heightened senses confirmed the smells of iron, sulphur, piss, and a crowd of other demons teethering on the same fight/flight conundrum with regards to 'what' and 'where'. Heads lifted, umbrellas were lowered, and many shapes of eyes blinked as if registering the city and their surroundings for the first time.

Shrill laughter from on high rose over the crowd murmurings, and Calimus glimpsed a purple figure in a jester's mask and costume cartwheeling through the air. A winged girl with horns that he identified vaguely as some kind of imp followed closely behind, giggling and twirling a stick around. When she pointed, rolling flames burst forth from the tip of the wood and immolated structures at random.

Fireballs, they're throwing friggin fireballs.

The hairs on his neck stood on end as a towering structure of metal and glass across the street shrieked its last gasp and began to descend in a shower of sparks, embers and twisted fragments. Then the screams begin.

"You've gotta be shitting me!"

'You must be joking,' came the mental correction, complete with Lady Ser- the hag's tut-tutting visage and waggling finger. It would be just like her to chastise profanity in the middle of a desperate situation.

Calimus shook his head clear of the memory, taking the sensible route to the roofs away from the panicking crowd. His hands found scrabbling purchase on the walls with the relative ease of his feline heritage, and sheer desperation propelled him the rest of the way up.

"You know-" began Emma, hovering just out of reach.

"Shut the hell up and point the way outta here!"

There must have been something in his eyes that reflected a rumbling stomach since the day before, for the raven complied with unnatural expediency.

Around them, Lost Ember glowed more incandescently than it had in decades. Skyscrapers surrendered to years of strain and rust with coaxing from the heat and sulphurous fumes, and replaced one rain for another. Smaller buildings huddled together in the shadows of surviving giants, and denizens fled rat-like through the streets. The jester and his accomplice vanished as mysteriously as they'd arrived, but the damage was spreading.

This is fine this is fine this is fine.

Calimus navigated his way through the roofscape, leaping and tumbling his way through the ashes and debris, stopping only when Emma did. The nausea in his chest made him glad for the lack of recent fare, and his limbs raised all manner of painful protests.

"Okay, serious question," she said, pointing with one wing and somehow still hovering. "The zone exit's that way, and there's people running that other way to safety. Pick one."

He looked up and across at a burning cityscape that stretched endlessly, and then looked at the retreating crowd two blocks away who were being herded into some sort of underground structure.

"If it's not a cult temple, a Collector's den, or a swimming pool, I'm in."

"And if it is?"

Calimus fixed his gaze on Emma. "Ladies first."

***

"In absence of actual leadership roles, just be firm and be loud."

It was far from ideal advice, but it had worked for Orkhambul, and now it was his turn to try.

"Citizens-" Cabarros raised his voice, trying not to look at the flames. "Follow me to safety."

It emerged as a choking gurgle as something dislodged itself from his throat. The subsequent command carried the sibilant tones of conspiracy instead.

Clarity and commanding presence, you have not.

Before him, the crowd was poised in that perfect calm before the storm, held back from a stampede only by collective indecision. They were demons with fangs, claws and barbs; they were people with needs, roles and families. They might not be anything soon.

Only pale substitutes.

Cabarros withdrew into his core and the cage of the thing, and released the third seal. His body spasmed within the armour as eldritch energy surged up and out, bleeding its inky substance from dark sockets and nostrils. It flowed over his tongue and teeth and spit, gilding already vile surfaces with something fouler. The process took scant seconds, but felt like another eternity.

Fear, not respect, is your constant companion.

The dragonborn extended a hand to the crowd, and manifested a weapon—a three-pronged spear as red and jagged as the cracks in the earth's molten shell. He raised his dripping eyes to the crowd and straightened his form with an imperiousness that he did not particularly feel.

"HEED AND OBEY," he intoned, in the Third Tongue of the Fallen and Unforgiven.

For a moment, he feared that the denizens of Lost Ember might have been lifted far beyond their demonic heritage. Then, as those in the front began to supplicate themselves to the unmistakable symbolism, he knew the familiarity of disillusion.

"But- my home!" cried one demon with an ostentatious amount of jewellery.

"My shop!" cried another demon, with two oblivious younglings strapped to its humped back.

"My babies!" cried a third, who had nothing.

There were no words in the Third Tongue for 'babies', 'sorry', or 'hope'.

"YOU MAY LEAVE," he pointed the spear at the third, who scampered off and was swallowed up by smoke and soot. "THE REST OF YOU WILL OBEY, OR PERISH IN FLAMES. NOW FOLLOW."

And thus, the lost shepard herds the damned.

Cabarros held his spear high and began a long, stiff march to the last known bunker.

Around him, the city burned, and he imagined himself burning with it.

***

There's no hell like hell on fire. And then there's Emma.

Calimus fixed the raven with a cautious eye. "Well?"

The frantic dash left him looking and feeling more like a chimney sweep now than a servant, with generous coatings of ash, sweat and congealing rain deposits. The stinking alley in which he propped himself for a second wind seemed positively hospitable, while chaos and brimstone reigned in the main streets just beyond. The flickering flames and intermittent crashing noises reminded him otherwise.

Emma plucked at her feathers—a habit that he was beginning to recognize as a prelude to careful phrasing of words.

"There's good news and bad news. Which-"

"Good news."

"It's an underground train station, and seems to be in working order. Not that you'd know from-"

"Bad news?"

Emma looked back at him. "The one calling the shots for now is a Contestant—tall, dark and as far from handsome as you have a chance of beating him straight up."

Calimus jerked upright into full attention, hairs standing on end once again since 'everything is on fire' became the baseline.

"Whoa, whoa, Emma, I'm not fighting anyone right now."

"Did I say you were? Pay attention, unless you want to skip this shelter and make for the zone exit?"

A nearby explosion rocked the alley from pavement to roofs, and sent smouldering chunks of what smelt like tannin and jerky raining down. Emma took off with a squawk and Calimus hit the ground in a quivering heap. There was a series of aftershocks that almost tempted him to assume a cat form with less to be singed and more possibilities of hiding places.

"The other good news-" screeched Emma, beating at him with her wings as he tried to will the world away, "-is that he speaks fluent Demon and even Greater Demon, so if you're ever going to play the good ol' demonic bonding card and mix in with this shithole of a populace like I suggested in the first place, this would be a good time. You've got your star hidden, right?"

He nodded miserably, placing a hand to his chest and all the additional filth that hid his prize from the world. There was no amount of laundering miracles that would salvage his outfit from a fiery disposal, assuming he could somehow get ahold of a hot bath.

"And the other bad news?"

"I'll swipe his star once I find it. You will have to make the opening that I need by getting close and chummy."

Calimus groaned. If anything, his own destiny seemed further away now than it had ever been.

This is fine...

He opened one eye. "Wait, how come you're helping me now? I thought you were against the whole trash angel business and servants?"

"Is this really the time?"

She has a point. That's the thing isn't it?

She always has a point. I just wish I knew where the dots were all connecting.

***