Aclysia glared at both of the teachers in the room.

For Maltos, she continued to feel a level of disdain for the intensity of the tests he had put her darling through. It had decreased tremendously since she had the time to contemplate his actions and their ultimately favourable outcome. A tiny sense of betrayal would always remain, however. The metal fairy took her beloved’s security more seriously than anything else.

Then there was Pronthin. The bald, lanky man looked even more tired than usual. He had been called out to the Monk school on short notice and did not appreciate it. Out of respect for Maltos, he had come despite his misgivings.

The door opened and in walked Mai and Vulk. Mai was a short woman with moderate curves and purple hair that day, her ears long and pointy. The goliath had to bow his head to make it through the door, his physical presence turning the tiny chamber of the old monk into a truly cramped space. “So, what is this about?” the Warrior teacher asked immediately.

“I am terribly sorry to have called all of you on such short notice,” Maltos greeted them all. “However, there is a matter that must be discussed without further delay. We have a Deathhound inbound.”

Vulk was visibly taken aback, while Pronthin’s eyes widened. The unbeliever Priest snapped out of his shock first. “What do you mean, Maltos?” he asked, fear sneaking into his usually dispassionate display. “A Deathhound? Here? Why?” His eyes jumped to the four students. “What do they have to do with this?”

“Come on, Pronthin.” Mai leaned against a wall, arms crossed. “You’re cynical, not stupid. They’re being tracked.”

“Tracked by whom?!”

“Apotho.”

Pronthin’s eyes almost popped out of his skull, then he took a deep breath and forcefully shut the lids. Still standing in the entrance, Vulk showed a wry smile. “That sounds like an interesting tale, how about you tell us all about it?” he asked, looking primarily at Korith.

“Uhm, I just recently got caught up in it,” the kobold said, happy to have that excuse, and instead gestured towards Apexus. “He’s the best to ask.”

The humanoid chimera looked to his teacher, who nodded. Apexus then told the two people in the room not yet in the know everything, including what he was and that he did not know where he came from. Once he was done, there was silence in the room.

Maltos stroked his grey-white beard. His voice grabbed everyone around by the authority of respect. “I’ve pledged my help to these younglings. The Teacher’s Isle can stand up to a single Deathhound.”

“We can, but the risks involved…,” Pronthin sighed. “Maltos, you’re the strongest around here and even you, in your prime, would have been ill-advised to take a Tharnatos class demon by yourself, much less a personal hound of the Empress of Blood.”

“You have detailed knowledge of her?” Aclysia asked.

“There’s much to read for the bored mind, no longer bound to the study of scripture,” Pronthin responded. “Although even my knowledge on the Unreavs, the rulers of the Hellroots, is limited. They divulge their secrets to Warlocks they choose themselves.” He turned his gaze back to Maltos. “To mount a defense will be bloody, even if we come out victorious. That we have the theoretical means to kill the demon permanently is assuring,” he gave Apexus a quick glance, “…It will require careful coordination, however.”

“Which is why we were called here,” Mai told her fellow teachers. “Maltos entrusted this story to a few others when these three first came here. Rudimentary preparations have been made. Next, we need to bring this story to the people living here. We need everyone capable to help and everyone incapable to get out of harm’s way.”

“Do we have a rough idea when the Deathhound could arrive?” Pronthin asked, despite already knowing the answer.

Maltos shook his head. “Even I do not possess maps that would let us accurately measure the distance between the Leaves of the Long Way, provided I’d know all their names. We can only make an estimate. There is a chance its master has called it back, although I regard it as slim. I hoped you may be able to divine something.”

“Inquisitors divine,” Pronthin responded. “And I am as far from an Inquisitor as is possible.”

“…Then we will just have to be wary in perpetuity,” Maltos declared, pouring himself a cup of tea.

“Enter stage left!” A voice from the outside shouted. “If the players would step into the light of creation, the Great Actor would most certainly be pleased.”

There were confused faces all around, for varying reasons. Maltos wrinkled his forehead, having not invited further guests. Aclysia and Pronthin felt confusion at the title of Hashahin, her creator god, being used. Everyone else was subjected to a mixture of surprise and shock, especially Mai whose situational awareness would usually have prevented this.

Maltos grabbed his full tea cup and, without spilling a single drop, led the way outside. The rest of the room followed behind him, the crowd of eight soon standing in the clean, white courtyard of the temple.

A great curtain hung inexplicably in the air, hiding the speaker behind it until the sun peeked through the ever-present autumn clouds. As the red drapes were illuminated, the speaker continued, ever more dramatically. “Many questions must be on your tongue, but let me greet you with the most terrifying phrase that anyone could ever utter. Words of such import and weight, that they relieve and rob the mind of peace.”

The curtains flew open, revealing a man with his arms widely spread as if he had done so personally. He was effeminate, with long, slender limbs and a face that, with the right make-up, could have passed as either sex. His short brown hair and brown eyes appeared unimpressive. The attitude with which he stepped forwards, nonchalant and with a charismatic smile on his lips, was captivating. A number of little bells bound to the belt of his colourful fusion between robe and armour.

“I’m with the Church and I’m here to help,” he announced himself, stopped, and took a slow, theatrical bow. “Anohal Victor, Priest of the Great Actor, and assistant to Ecclesiarch Melawa.” Anohal basked in the stunned silence. He breathed in the atmosphere, the satisfying aroma of an act executed as planned. “Let me introduce my stagehands in this play. Lord Inquisitor Lars!”

The left curtain completely dissolved and the Lord Inquisitor took a hard step forward, as the force that had been holding him was released. A tall man in his early sixties, with short grey hair and eyes of dark green glass, sparkling with annoyance and stubbornness. “You and your games,” he growled, fixing his armour. Like that of all Inquisitors, the leather looked like the outer layer had been burned in cleansing fire.

“All plays require their dramatics, every play has its peaks and falls,” Anohal hummed, “and to present a great peak in drama, behold my second stage hand. The confused Priest, she who has the eyes of a fallen comrade, Mehily Heruslam!”

The second curtain dissolved. There stood, quietly, a woman with a single long, blonde braid. She wore a white robe, decorated with lines as icy blue as the orbs of glass that filled her eye sockets. Her shoulders were broader than that of most women, her face on the squarer side, but she was attractive regardless.

“Oh, thank the gods,” Aclysia whispered under her breath and hurried towards the blonde. Flying over, she stopped just short of embracing the woman. “My eternal apologies for how I left you that day.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Mehily assured her and, clenching the robe above her chest, started walking.

Reysha stared blankly at the approaching Priest. Although her expression was vacant, her body trembled all over. In the pale blue eyes, she saw memories of her fists crashing down again and again on the face of the Inquisitor that had possessed them previously. That terribly enticing feeling of thoughtless drive, she recalled it better than ever before, better than she had wanted to. Without question, the state Apotho’s potions had put her in had made her take her revenge. Exhilarating. Simple. Dangerous. Stupid.

Condemnable.

The tiger girl gulped. She did not avert her gaze. Not when Mehily hesitated for a moment, nor when Apexus took her hand. All Reysha did was wait.

“I’m sorry.”

Then she burst out laughing. “YOU’RE SORRY?!” she shouted, between panic and shame-induced cackling. “What the fuck are you sorry for… you tried to tell me the truth that day and you… you were willing to spare me after what I did.”

Mehily was taken aback. She had played this moment out in her mind over and over again. Obtuse, unwilling, or otherwise denying to acknowledge her part in all of this, that was the reaction Mehily had expected from the redhead. Instead, her piercing eyes beheld a person reconstructed from the shards of a previous one. All the parts were there, some new ones had been added, but what had been before was shattered. The old and the new were mending. A process that did not seem like it could ever be complete.

It took Mehily a long time to find new words. Some of what she wanted to say she could salvage, others she had to discard. For the better, for both of them. “Your sins are yours to deal with… and mine are mine,” she spoke softly. “I did wrong by you… all of you…” Mehily had to remind herself to turn her head and face the angel, then the humanoid slime. He had changed much since she had last seen her, but she had never seen him with these eyes anyway. “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh just… fuck you,” Reysha cussed and then suddenly hugged the Priest.

There were many misgivings between them, many issues they had with each other, but neither of them wanted the other to suffer like they all had. In a tearful reunion, two enemies became, although not friends, at least part of the same side.

The Lord Inquisitor eventually cleared his throat, loudly, not caring for all of this emotional wish-wash. “There is a divine mission at hand,” he reminded everyone. “The Lord of the Compass brought us here, to help contain the Apotho problem.” Lars clicked his tongue and unfocused his vision, beholding the world around him. “Even with a direction given, finding this faithless backwater took a long time. Where is the Warlock?”

“You do not know?” Maltos asked, sipping from his tea.

“Prophecies are a funny thing,” Anohal said, marching up and down in front of the teachers. He left behind him a path of flowers, which dispersed into illusory petals in a matter of seconds. “The gods may tell us what we need to know, but not all that we desire to know, as that is as far as they are willing to compromise the Divine Principles. We knew where and when to find you, but not what to expect.” The Priest of the Great Actor looked at the quartet. “Had I not sensed an angel of my Director here, I would not have even known you were around.”

“A summary of our situation then,” Maltos stepped forwards. “Apotho’s location, we have no idea about. One of his Deathhounds is chasing them. They narrowly escaped it using a divine teleportation network and it is currently busy visiting each of the worlds they touched. Eventually, it will arrive here.” Specifically, towards the Lord Inquisitor, the old monk added, “Can you help us find out when?”

“Which one of them is being tracked?” Lars asked.

“One of us,” Apexus answered, pointing at himself and then Aclysia. “Me more likely.”

“Then stand still and let me search whose compass aims for you,” Lars ordered and approached the taller humanoid.

Apexus did as demanded, even when the cold hands of the stern man intensely gripped his head. The deep green orbs began to glow, a golden outline appearing within. A golden compass, its needle spinning aimlessly, found no true goal. The Inquisitor kept concentrating, using the blessing of the god of the Where and When to sift through the remains of tracking magic.

There was a faded Hunter’s Mark, almost forgotten and long discontinued. Then there was a bit of the Deathhounds. Four of them. “A name,” the Lord Inquisitor demanded, needing something substantial to find which one specifically he had to aim his counterintelligence at. There was little more substantial, when it came to demons, then their names.

“I do not know,” Apexus confessed.

“…Turlesh,” Aclysia answered from the side, concentrating on her memories. It was seared into her mind. Jolene, that beautiful Empress with bright red hair, petting those monsters, naming them all like they were her puppies. To that name, the brilliant angel could put their features. Their mannerisms. “Its… his name is Turlesh.”

The Lord Inquisitor nodded. ‘Of course, it would be an angel who is the most useful,’ he thought and returned his attention to the ritual. “Turlesh,” he spat out the vile name, keeping it in his thoughts as he separated the four demons from one another. Then a vision. Clarity. A Deathhound sprinting through a waste, furious, growling, his path taking him to a demonic circle that would let him cut his paths down the endless branches of the Omniverse. Then the compass in his glass eyes came to standstill. The needle moved with the suddenness of a clock hand.

With the Where came the When.

“Four months,” Lars whispered, before stumbling back. Heaving heavily, he tried to gather himself. His veins burned, the magical circuits in his body were exhausted, and he collapsed from the burden of prophecy. “We have four months.”

“It will have to do,” Maltos nodded.