Monver’s foot touched cobblestone. He smiled; finally, some progress. He had been traveling with Antone for 2 days. The small man was beginning to grate on his patience.

‘Oh, finally!’ Antone said. ‘Solid ground.’ He extracted himself from the mud pool he had been pushing through and sat down. He fell onto his back, mud scattering off of him. Monver looked at the weakened Ascendant and softly licked his lips.

‘No time for rest, little ant. Port Royal is only a day's journey east,’ Monver said. Antone didn’t respond, but his breathing became strained at the thought of getting up. As Antone struggled to his feet, the sound of whistling entered earshot, followed by low “dum, dum, dumming”. Monver looked to his left and spotted a small cart rolling towards them. An old man sat at the front, holding the reins in one hand and a small pouch in the other. As he approached the two men, he lifted the pouch in greetings.

‘Hello, weary travelers,’ Liolil said, coming to a stop. His two donkeys shied away from Monver. ‘If you’re heading up to Withercap I don’t much mind giving you a lift.’

‘That’s very kind of you, sir,’ Antone began, but Monver held up his hand, forestalling him. Monver walked over to Liolil. He reached out and pet one of the donkeys, dragging his fingers through its coarse fur. Liolil frowned as Monver continued to scratch the donkey’s chin.

‘Can I help you with something, Ascendant sir?’ Liolil asked, taking off his eyeglasses and cleaning them nervously.

‘I’m sure you can,’ Monver said. ‘We are heading towards Port Royal,’ he patted the donkey's neck, eliciting a worried snort from the animal, ‘and a cart would do wonders to speed up our journey.’ Liolil let out a nervous laugh.

‘Old Saffy and Thorny won’t get you there much quicker than on foot,’ Liolil said. Monver smiled at him, a small, sweet smile, a smile that you would give a puppy that just rolled over.

‘Sir,’ Monver said, ‘for us, time matters in the minutes. So I’m sure that you will spare your cart for our purpose.’ Liolil laughed.

‘For enough queens, I can turn around,’ Liolil said. The puppy sweet smile dropped from Monver’s expression.

‘You would not pay a dog to bark,’ Monver said. ‘Why should I pay a mortal to serve?’ Liolil opened his mouth to respond, then noticed the worried, sideways glances Antone was giving Monver.

‘If this man creates so much fear amongst his companions,’ Liolil thought… He smiled brightly at Monver as if coming to a great revelation. ‘Of course, sir! A man of your stature is rarely found wandering the jungles of Doro. I at least expected an entourage! At the very least some finer companions.’ He belly laughed, having long since mastered the character of jovial merchant. ‘Hop in back and we’ll be off.’ Monver stared at him for a few pregnant moments… A crippling smile appeared. He wagged his finger at Liolil, chuckling. Liolil noticed a small nod of acknowledgment from Antone as the two men made their way to the back of the cart. Liolil patted Saffy’s rump and twitched the reins. The donkeys obediently started pulling the cart around.

Being a merchant came with a very specific skill set. An oft-forgotten tool, (forgotten from neglect) was identifying if you were speaking to a “godling”. There are as many different definitions as there are merchants. For Liolil, a godling is identified as an Ascendant so enamoured with their power that it is often better to appease them than oppose them. The names of the families that create these people are often greater threats than the people the names are attached to. But you get some bad ones. The ones that would tear down what you’ve built just because it’s blocking their view. Liolil gripped the reins tighter, pouring his stress into the action.

A hand grabbed him by the bicep, causing Liolil to flinch. Monver climbed into the front and sat beside him. The last person Liolil had allowed in the front of his cart was a young, patient woman that had dutifully listened to his stories, reminding him of his late daughter. He seriously doubted this Ascendant fellow would humor him a tale or two. Monver just sat beside him, staring outward as if trying to visualise their destination closer. Liolil chose to stay quiet and focus on his breathing.

‘You work for Withercap,’ Monver stated. ‘Which means you work for the Rolands.’ Liolil chuckled.

‘My life would be far more lavish if that were true, master Ascendant,’ Liolil said. ‘I’m just hired to transport some of the growths that they can’t yet identify. I’m more a pack mule than my donkeys, in truth.’ Monver didn’t laugh.

‘Growths?’ Monver said.

‘Oh yes. Red growths, green growths, purple growths. Growths that smell like bananas, mushrooms that move during the night,’ Liolil said, doing his best to entertain. Monver cocked his head.

‘And when were you planning on sharing that we were traveling in a cart with unknown “growths”,’ Monver said. Liolil felt the air leave his lungs as his entire body tensed up.

‘They’re all perfectly safe. I assure you. Packaged and sealed at Withercap, I barely touch them,’ Liolil said.

‘Barely,’ Monver intoned. Liolil fumbled his words for a few seconds before saying:

‘Well I help carry the packages to the cart if I think they look too heavy for the miners,’ Liolil stuttered out.

‘That means that you have a part in making sure they are securely fastened. No leaks. No cracks. No... wayward “growths”, correct?’ Monver said.

‘Correct, master Ascendant,’ Liolil automatically agreed.

‘Then please,’ Monver gestured to the back of the cart. ‘Show me these secured growths. I’ll admit to curiosity.’ Liolil pulled on the reins, causing Sappy and Thorn to come to a stop. He awkwardly squeezed passed Monver and began rifling through a box.

‘Why have we stopped?’ Antone asked, worriedly watching as Liolil scooped what looked like sawdust out of a box before carefully reaching in and extracting a jar.

‘The cart driver is proving his concern for our safety,’ Monver said, looking in from the front of the cart. Antone, disliking whatever test Monver had set out for the old cart driver, still reached out and took the jar from Liolil. He brought it up to his face, examining the shimmering green substance. Inside were the caps of small mushrooms, around 30, all closely packed and glistening wherever the candlelight touched them. Antone stared, hypnotised.

‘Is it sealed?’ Monver asked. Antone snapped out of his daze and ran his fingers around the capped rim of the jar. He nodded. Liolil had already extracted the next jar. He handed it to Antone. Inside was a black, flat cube. It didn’t even move when Antone shook the jar. He ran his finger around the rim.

‘Sealed,’ he said. He moved to hand Liolil back both jars only to find the man was shaking. He was about to ask if he was okay before remembering Monver’s aversion to mortals.

‘And that’s both,’ Liolil said, controlling his shaking. ‘Apart from that, I have the usual selection of mushrooms. I can open those up, we can have a fry—’ Monver’s hand once again rested lightly on his shoulder.

‘That’s an awfully big box for only two jars,’ Monver said.

‘Well, they’re mostly filled with wood chippings. The Rolands didn’t earn their good name through negligence.’ The grip on his shoulder tripled in pressure. Liolil arched his back in pain and instinctively fought against the grip, flailing. Antone heard a gruesome pop as something was wrenched out of place. Liolil stifled his scream and curled up beside Antone’s feet, cradling his shoulder.

‘The Rolands have not earned anything. All know that they do not follow the path to Trancendance, but instead, choose foundational stagnation,’ Monver spat out. He climbed into the cart and grabbed Liolil by the back of his head, then placed him in front of the open box. ‘Now, clear aside the sawdust. I believe that there is more inside that box.’ Liolil, gritting his teeth through the pain, used his good arm to slowly dig down through the sawdust, revealing the top of a jar. Monver reached in and pulled it out. It was long and thin, the inside only half-filled with mushrooms. The clasp of the jar was already undone, filling the already fungal scented cart with a thick scent of burnt leather. Antone immediately recognized the smell, but it was too late.

‘So, the dog proves to be a liar as well,’ Monver said. ‘Hiding poisoned shrooms, ey, child? Going to slip some in our drinks or on our tongues as we sleep?’ He slapped Liolil across the face. Monver’s monstrous strength caused the strike to knock two of Liolil’s teeth out.

‘They’re Rikshim shrooms!’ Liolil managed to shout out before choking on his blood. He started a coughing fit as Monver stared down at the man.

‘They are!’ Antone quickly interjected before Monver could continue. ‘We used to eat them during our name days. They’re harmless but expensive. He probably sells them underhand to some clan for a clean profit and gives a piece of that to the miners who find the stuff.’ Monver looked at the jar still in his hand, then let it drop to the floor. It shattered.

‘This isn’t about no fucking shrooms!’ Monver suddenly shouted. He pointed a finger at Liolil but turned to look at Antone. His gaze was direct, the whites of his eyes stark against the seething madness of his expression. ‘Dogs don’t get to lie to their masters.’ He looked away from Antone, then spat on Liolil. The spit landed on his hair. ‘If we don’t cull liars like him, they just breed more and—’

‘You just want an excuse,’ interrupted Liolil’s weak, slightly lisping voice. ‘I’m a fabulous liar, son. But I ain’t the biggest one in the room if you say you're killing me for any other reason than your own pleasure. So,’ he spat a thick wad of bloody spit on Monver’s chest, ‘come get your fix, you disgusting pig.’ Monver fell on him in a screeching fury. Antone, never willing to sacrifice a paycheck, quickly extracted himself from the cart before the blood had a chance to ruin his freshly cleaned leathers. He walked around the cart, ignoring the wet thumps of impact. He sighed and patted Thorny’s flank. The donkeys had started bleating in terror a few seconds after Monver’s furious screech. Antone looked towards the horizon and grimaced as a sudden thought of sympathy struck him.

‘Those 4 better hope that Monver never catches up to them,’ Liolil’s low grunts of pain finally stopped as a particularly hollow slam echoed out from the cart, causing the donkeys to once again start keening. ‘‘Cause they’re in for a lot worse than a beating.’

Monver strutted into the Consortium. One of the many young female attendants spotted him and rushed over.

‘How may I help you, sir?’ she asked. Monver already knew where he was going and walked passed her.

‘Get the bitch, Vivian, down into the vault—now!’ he ordered loudly, causing all the Ascendants in the main room to look towards him. He ignored them and made his way into a side room. The girl following him, after a brief, shocked response at his order, ran off to get Vivian—knowing that only Godlings and third-tier masters dared to act in that manner. Monver kicked the couch blocking the trap door aside. It slammed into the wall, denting it. He pressed his thumb against the release pin. His blood charged the device and he heard the tell-tale click of its opening. He wrenched it open and jumped in. Four lanterns flickered into life as he walked passed the six artefact pillars—showboating trash—and pressed his hand against the vault’s release pin. His blood caused the mechanism to shake, but not release. He swore.

Monver watched as Antone jumped down to join him. He was covered in sweat from the strain of following him. He limped over to him but didn’t ask any questions. Monver did not like the man but found him less and less annoying by the day. Antone was adept at picking up on what annoyed his masters and strove to avoid those behaviours and topics. Monver was starting to view him as a well-taught pet. A comparison that Antone did not mind, because few owners feel the need to kill their pets.

Vivian gracefully descended the ladder. She turned and smiled at Monver.

‘Monver,’ she said.

‘Get it open,’ Monver said, standing aside to give her access to the pin. She gave him a look you would give a drunkard that just declared he was king.

‘You have no access to—’ Vivian said.

‘They took the manual,’ Monver said and Vivian’s smile disappeared. Just from that small piece of information, her brow creased in a fashion that alluded to the fact she had already pieced everything together.

‘Covens,’ she said. Monver nodded.

‘And not just her. She’s enlisted the help of a few of my unfaithful dogs. Pravin, Cradow, and—’

‘Vaskir,’ she finished. Antone watched, drunk on her presence, as she lightly ran a finger across her lips after saying his name. Antone wished that it was his name that she had whispered so sultrily. She cast a glance at the vault door, weighing her options. She walked over and pressed her thumb against the pin. The vault twisted open.

Inside was a bare, white room. Monver walked in and stood in the centre. Only after following him and looking down did Antone notice a thin, purple circle surrounding them. Monver took out his knife and cut his hand open. The blood flowed liberally onto the floor, but could not cross the purple threshold of the circle.

‘I’ll see you back home, brother,’ Vivian said, and before Antone could look towards Monver in surprise his entire vision was flooded with a deep, hateful purple.