The owl spoke to me in Strix’s dreaming, lackadaisical voice, but for once there was something serious to her words. “Dungeon, do you remember me? I hope you do. Or at least remember this little fellow, since you almost pulled his wings off.

“I had a prophecy about you. Speaking plainly is not the way of oracles, but since you have such a short temper, I’ll try to be as clear as I can. Suffi Halfhand will be the end of Caltern. If she ever gains an Attunement, what she brings will cause the gods to rain down fire and death upon the city.

“Whatever you choose, whatever allies you take, stay away from her. She is convinced of her own righteousness. Someone like that should never gain power.”

The owl said its peace and fluttered away, leaving me to contemplate the goblet.

Suffi was bad news. I had known that to begin with. But now I knew that she would do something to anger the gods, and that pleased me greatly.

Was I willing to make her a stone I hurled at the gods? Was Caltern’s demise a price worth paying to get my revenge.

Her blood slowly cooled in the goblet, losing its magical strength by the moment.

Decisions, decisions.

I worked on something almost idly, lifting a gazebo of glass in the center of the gardens. In addition to my new Law, I could create two Vaults, special chambers with their own rules. I already had a brilliant idea for one of them.

Suffi’s cup would play a part, and I would need a few more. I summoned Cabochon. It was time we put his skills as a jeweler to the test.

A platoon of rats scuttled through the silent market.

It was quieter than ever, without the scrape of shoes or the billowing of long cloaks, without the clink of coins trading hands. What remained was the garbage and the bloodstains and a few ragged tents, from those unlucky enough to live in this little avenue of stone by the river. Patterns of light from the crests of the little waves breaking in the river danced atop the stone ceiling, veining it with illusionary gold. The glamour and theatre of the market had packed up and left behind the grubby reality of poverty, crime, and filth.

The rats were the kings and queens here, bold enough to hiss and puff up in defense of their territory when a human walked by, and Argent, Argent was ruler among rulers in the court of vermin.

Her loyal footsoldiers marched in formation, defending in their middle a tiny jeweled spider. It was the color of a ruby, rich and dark, with black fangs that dripped a special venom of my own concoction. Today, we tested a theory.

The guards were still here, Immer’s barge moored silently to the riverside along a few other vessels, all bearing his flag; a wheel of nine rats joined at the tail.

It went like this. The rats would scuttle past with a golden ring clutched in their teeth. As the guard turned to chase, the spider would leap from a hiding place high upon a tent and sink its fangs into their back.

The first victim landed on the floor with his limbs shaking and twisting, a foam spilling from his mouth. In moments he was so still he could have been dead. The flock scattered into the shadows and waited, one rat remaining behind.

As the guard’s companions gathered around his body, hoisting him up between them, the rat followed.

They took him to a small and lonely ship, near the edge of the flotilla. The rat perched on a porthole and gazed through the wooden slats as a one-armed doctor with a dismal patch of graying stubble on his weasley face inspected the sick man. Our victim twitched slightly, barely in the realm of the living. The doctor coughed, covering his mouth and quickly plugging a flask to it, swilling down generous chugs of alcohol as he ground down herbs for a cure with mortar and pestle.

A second guard was hauled in before the cure was done, with the same symptoms as the first. Then a third. Two rats joined the first in clinging on to the ship’s side.

Our team was working like an oiled machine, and we had confirmed something vital. There was only one doctor in Immer’s employ. The ship where he worked now became our target. In minutes there were rats in every dark space, hidden in every shadow, waiting to carry out the plan.

There were two days left to go. The spider slowly spun a web for itself, and one by one, the bitten guards miraculously recovered. In hours they went from the very line of life and death back to perfect health.

One even claimed it had cured his acne.

Vaulder Claith shivered as he came out of the trapdoor, back into the light of his shop. He’d damned the expense and never let the lanterns go out since the day he’d first been pulled under into the strange world of the Dungeon. He slept surrounded by light and terrified of the little shadows.

And he was indignant, completely indignant to the idea that made him a coward. He was dealing with an incomprehensible evil living under his store, one that he could tell no-one about and never disobey. Spiders came in the night to fetch him.

There were two responses to that. Insane or terrified.

At the front of the store, someone was ringing the little bell. Vaulder needed a little bell because he tended to disappear into his own books.

Leaning over his counter, reading a book and occasionally reaching out to flick the bell with one finger, was a familiar face. Familiarity didn’t quite dull the shock of Mhurr looking up, revealing, from a rather promising and noble upper half, a split lip that reached all the way to his nose and set it crooked on his face. He grinned, oblivious to the wide-eyed, sweat-covered state of his favorite bookseller.

Vaulder just stared.

“Vaulder, I thought you might be somewhere. All the lights are on.” Vaulder just stared. “You know, I think this might be the bloodiest book in your library, and it’s a bunch of children’s stories. Witches getting impaled and whatnot.”

Vaulder just stared.

Squinting, Mhurr determined something might be wrong with his friend. “What’s that in your arms, then?”

Letting the golden fruits spill from his hands onto the countertop, Vaulder screamed. Except without the screaming. His mouth hung briefly open, his eyes bugged, and when he was done not-screaming he let out a weak, whispery, “Just some fruit.”

“Just some fruit? Vaulder, these are gold.” Lifting one, Mhurr bent his fingers in a quick spellpattern and stared through the circle of his thumb and forefinger, a little lens of golden diagrams spinning in front of his eyes. “And… Gods, Vaulder, magic too. There’s more Mana in one of these than in half the mages walking around Caltern.”

“Oh. Good.” The poor frazzled noble boy who’d been shipped halfway across the world, all but exiled by his parents, and told to mind a little bookshop for the rest of his life was done. This was the last straw. “I’m going to sell them and start a tavern.”

“A tavern? You? Serving beer?”

“Just what I’ve always dreamed of.” Vaulder couldn’t say what was wrong. He could only hope that if he acted strange enough, Mhurr would notice. “Ever since I was a child.”

Pausing, and letting the magical lens dissipate, the harelipped scholar paused to lick his lips. “I can’t help but notice you’re a bit off today. I get that you don’t want to talk about something, Vaulder, but if you ever do…”

Vaulder could easily have gone for a second not-scream.

“I’m here for you.” Reaching across the counter, Mhurr clapped his friend on the shoulder.

“Thanks.”

“Oh!” The scholar dug into his pocket, bringing up a flask. “Here, you have to try this. It’ll put you right again.”

Vaulder took it hesitantly, never knowing Mhurr to have been a drinker. The smell that rose as he opened the cap wasn’t of alcohol. It was a spicy, gingery sweetness, tinged with metal like the taste of the damp air before a thunderstorm.

He swilled it back, and his eyes went wide. “This is fantastic. I feel- I feel good.” It surprised him more than anyone. The stuff hit his belly like a brined star, lighting him up from within. He felt ready to run and never stop.

“Isn’t it? An alchemist friend of mine made it, says it’s going to be the next big thing. Kathe’s vitality elixir.” Mhurr grinned big.

“No, this is fantastic.” Vaulder repeated.

“Isn’t it?”

“How much can your friend make, Mhurr?” His brain was humming now, and he saw the potential. What adventurers needed wasn’t to get sloppy drunk. What they needed was focus, was energy, was this. “I need enough to serve a city.”

“Oof. Maybe give that back Vaulder, it’s a bit strong. I nearly started a petting zoo the first time I tried it.”

“I’m serious, though. Your friend needs somewhere to sell this, yes? And I need to start a tavern without throwing out all my books and mopping ale off the floor every night. So we won’t serve ale. We’ll serve…” He paused “What am I drinking?”

“Kathe’s vitality elixir. Maybe we’ll water it down, a little?” Mhurr winced. Somedays, Vaulder was a very strange duck indeed.

“A little, yes.”