Tyron stared up at his father in shock. For his part, Magnin continued to smile down on his child, eyes sparkling with mischief. It was such a familiar expression, it took Tyron a moment to notice that not all was well with his overpowered parent.

Magnin looked pale, his cheeks were sunken in and there were dark bags under his eyes, as if the man hadn’t slept in a month. Tyron had never seen him like this. What had happened?

“F-father -” he began, but the greatest swordsman of the western province held up a hand to cut him off.

“Don’t strain yourself, lad, wait for your mother. She’s a bit slow.”

“I heard that,” Beory stated as she walked around the corner of the rock cover.

In one hand, she held Brun’s head, which she tossed contemptuously to the ground. With the other, she manipulated a coffin of ice through the air. Inside, he could see Laurel, frozen, an expression of slight confusion on her face, as if she hadn’t even had time to realise what was happening before she’d become encased.

Tyron sighed.

Even now, what had proved impossible for him to achieve was so trivially simple for his famous parents. He tried to sit up, but the pain in his shoulder flared and he collapsed back down with an agonised groan.

Beory was by his side in a second.

“Oh, my poor boy. Hold on a second, I have something for you.” She rummaged in her cloak for a moment before she pulled out a small package wrapped in a wax. She quickly opened it and pressed it into his palm. “Place this under your tongue. Quickly now.”

“Yes, mother,” his reply was so automatic it came without him thinking about it. She met his eyes and they both smiled before he did as she said.

As expected, the medicine tasted like fried garbage, but he didn’t doubt it would be effective. There was little reason for the Steelarms to carry anything but the best. He tried not to think about what it meant for his parents to be here. That he may have been saved from one terrible end, but the end had arrived just the same.

He felt tears sting the corners of his eyes.

“None of that now, lad,” Magnin said as he squatted down next to his son. “Just relax, let that foul tasting mixture your mother made do its work.”

Beory slapped him on the shoulder.

“The taste isn’t important, only the efficacy,” she sniffed.

“Same approach to medicine making as to cooking, I see,” he joked.

She slapped him again, harder this time.

The familiar back and forth warmed Tyron’s heart as the foul mixture in his mouth began to dissolve and slide down his throat. As it did so, he felt it begin to take effect, a faint itching sensation igniting around his wounds, growing stronger each passing second.

His parents continued their good natured bickering for a minute as he let the salve do its work. Though it was still painful, he managed to sit up and lean back against the rock.

His father scratched his cheek awkwardly.

“Uh, this is a little late, and I’m sorry about that, really. But, happy Awakening day!” he declared, pulling a sheathed sword from his belt and offering it to Tyron.

The Necromancer stared at his father. Beory sighed and slipped a staff from where she had it strapped to her back before she offered that to him as well.

“It took longer than expected to get these made,” she explained, “we wanted you to have the best.”

As he looked at the two gifts, Tyron couldn’t hold the tears back any longer. He reached up to wipe them away and awkwardly reached out to take the two weapons.

“I’d rather you’d just been there,” he mumbled.

He could feel the power thrumming from the gifts. They’d brought him something only a gold-ranked slayer could use properly. And they’d given him two. It was so typical of them.

“We know,” Magnin admitted. “We planned to be there, but, as usual, our timing didn’t work out. I’m sorry.”

An apology he’d heard a hundred times before. Tyron just nodded. He looked to his mother and noticed that she too appeared more haggard than he’d ever seen her before. As if she’d fought a week-long battle through a rift, she looked exhausted.

“I-is everything alright?” he asked.

She laughed, and leaned forward to embrace him.

“I’m not so weak I need my son to worry about me,” she said.

“Hey, let me get in on that action,” Magnin eagerly hopped forward and enfolded the both of them in his arms.

They remained like that for a long moment, enjoying the feeling of being together again, until Tyron shrugged uncomfortably.

“I think I can stand up now,” he said.

His parents released him and gave a little space.

“Don’t push yourself,” she warned him, concern in her eyes. “I can’t believe you were still fighting, given how injured you were.”

“He’s tough, like his old man,” Magnin boasted, slapping himself on the chest. “We Steelarms are too stupid to know when to quit.”

“That’s true for you, at least. My Tyron isn’t as thick as you and Worthy.”

“I think it’s the constitution I get from being a Necromancer,” Tyron admitted. “I can push through a lot.”

“That might help your body hold up, son, but not your mind. You’re hard as nails, I guarantee it.”

Magnin beamed down at him with obvious pride and Tyron ducked his head as he pulled himself to his feet. They were always like this, full of praise and positivity, he’d never been comfortable dealing with it. From ordinary parents, perhaps it would have been easier to accept, but they doted on him as if they didn’t recall who they were. He could remember how his father had acted the day he’d unlocked the swordsmanship skill, you’d have thought he’d won the Swordsaint contest and been crowned the best in the empire. Watching someone who’d actually won that tournament act in that manner had just made Tyron embarrassed.

He took hold of the sword that still pulsed with power, gripping it tightly in his left hand.

“I can’t believe you got me a sword…” he shook his head.

Magnin shrugged, a little embarrassed.

“I had to cover the bases, didn’t I?” he defended himself. “What if you’d actually Awakened as a Swordsman and we came home with a staff but no sword? I’d’ve turned around and gone back out to commission one immediately.”

“As if there was ever any chance. This boy is a genius Mage, make no mistake. He had a Mystery before he even had a Class.”

Tyron tried not to smile.

“I have two now.”

Beory gave a little shriek and squeezed him from the side as Magnin threw back his head and laughed.

“I still have a long way to catch up to you two. How many do you have now, Dad?”

Magnin’s laugh cut off and his eyes flicked to his wife.

“There’s no need to dwell on the numbers. More isn’t necessarily better, it’s all about how far you advance them.” He nodded seriously. “Take that lesson to heart.”

Beory huffed.

“He has nine,” she murmured, pretending to glare at her husband. “I’ve never been able to catch up to him.”

“Let’s not dwell on that, how far did you manage to advance yours Tyron?”

“They’re Advanced, both of them.”

Both Steelarms boggled and he felt a flush of pride at being able to shock them for once.

“How?” Beory gasped. “What level are you? You can’t be over forty already?”

“I’m not,” he shook his head, “I reached Level thirty in Necromancer. They were progressed by the Unseen as a reward.”

“Well, well, well,” Magnin grinned. “I can see you have a lot to tell us.”

He glanced up at the sun overhead.

“We’ve got a little time, why don’t we set up a little camp here and you can tell us about your journey.”

They waited for him to nod and then launched into a flurry of activity. In no time at all, they’d arranged a humble campsite, replete with crackling fire as they utilised their superhuman abilities to perform routine chores in mere seconds. From their packs, they pulled tea and bread, along with cured meat, and soon they were chatting around the fire, listening with rapt attention as Tyron detailed his trials since the Awakening.

As always, his parents made an excellent audience, hanging on his every word and interjecting with appropriate excitement or sympathy at the right moments. When he fought off his friends and escaped the tomb in Foxbridge, his mother sniffed and glared at the nearby corpse of Rufus, now freezing in the icy temperatures.

“I never liked that boy,” she declared. “His poor mother deserved better.”

“Poor Elsbeth,” Magnin shook his head, “a shame she got caught up in all this.”

“All what?” Tyron asked.

His father waved him off. “Later, lad. Finish your tale first.”

He told them of his trip to Woodsedge, getting robbed on the way, and eventually making it to the town. He spoke of his apprenticeship to Hakoth, learning the basics of the butcher's trade, his forced ritual casting of Beyond the Veil and the chaos that ensued. They listened quietly as he spoke of his first journey to the Broken Lands, of his search for bones and his first meeting with Dove.

When he told them of his attempt to rush to the rift, hoping to do something to support the slayers, they both winced, and he nodded sheepishly.

“Not my best decision,” he admitted.

“Your heart was in the right place,” Beory reached out and patted him on the knee. “And one day, I believe you’ll be so mighty you can hold a rift single handed, but that wasn’t the time to try.”

He went on to detail how Dove had saved his life, how they had bunkered down during the break and how he had partially resurrected his friend and mentor.

“He sounds like my kind of guy,” Magnin laughed and Beory shot him some side-eye. “Oh come on. Would I have given him my wallet? No. But he does sound like a fun person to know.”

Tyron opened his mouth to defend Dove, but shut it again after a pause. The Summoner hadn’t been altogether wise with his finances. If he’d gotten his hands on Magnin’s fortune, it likely would have vanished overnight.

“He wasn’t the kind of person you would approve of, mother,” he said, “but he was a great slayer, a brilliant Mage, and a good friend to me.”

“I can hardly disapprove of him after everything he did for you,” Beory said. “I would love to have met him.”

The Necromancer nodded sadly.

“He’s free now. That’s what he wanted.”

“More importantly, that was some incredible magick,” Beory enthused.

“I earned my second Mystery for it.”

Then he detailed his contact with the Scarlet Court and the summoning of Yor. His mother huffed disapprovingly.

“Vampires,” she said with disapproval. “I’ve never liked them.”

“You know about them?” Tyron turned his eyes to her and the Battle Mage smiled.

“Of course, but we can deal with that later, go on.”

He went on to detail his escape from Woodsedge, his journey through the western province, and the encounter with the farm and bandits.

Beory’s face twisted in disgust at the description, and even Magnin leaned and spat to one side.

“Filth,” the swordsman stated simply, as if it was all that needed to be said.

After the battle and his successful defence against the counter attack, he described his meeting with Elsbeth and her teacher, which raised the eyebrows of both his parents.

“Priestess to the Old Gods? Well… I did not see that coming,” Magnin said.

Beory hesitated before speaking.

“I… don’t really see Elsbeth as being compatible with… them.”

“You know about them as well?” Tyron demanded.

Magnin laughed.

“You don’t get to as high a level as us without learning a few things,” he chuckled, “even though people try desperately to hide it. In fact, the more they try to hide it, the more I want to find out what they're hiding.”

From there, he told them of his journey through the foothills, of his contact within the Abyss and of hunting down the bandits.

“Going through the veil,” Magnin whistled, sharing a look with Beory.

“He’s not going slow, is he?” Beory said with pride.

“I couldn’t have done it without the help of Yor,” Tyron explained, but his mother wouldn’t have it.

“It takes a certain fortitude to encounter the beings beyond the Veil and return with your sanity. You should be very pleased with yourself. There’s a reason Abyssals are usually hunted by Gold Slayers.”

Tyron hadn’t known that….

By the time he got to explaining his encounter with Cragwhistle, his capture of the archer and his discovery of the nascent rift, almost an hour had passed. Only then did he realise something he should’ve thought of earlier.

“The archer! She’s still out there!”

Magnin looked at him with an eyebrow raised.

“You think we didn’t notice her?” he asked incredulously.

“Is she….” Tyron faltered, glancing at Rufus’ bisected body and Laurel’s frozen tomb.

“She’s alive,” Beory said, glancing up the slope, “but she won’t bother us for a while. She still has a purpose to serve.”

From there, he told them of his fight to examine the rift, and his defence against the slayers. Almost as an afterthought, he mentioned the marshals and the ambush which Yor had foiled.

“Marshals,” Magnin shook his head. “They might be able to keep the regular populace in line, but they’re terrible at fighting high level slayers. At least, the regular ones are. They don’t have to do it very often, they can rely on the brands most of the time.”

“At least I don’t have one of those,” Tyron grimaced.

“And you never will, if you play your cards right,” Magnin winked.

Tyron shrugged uncomfortably. Now it came down to it, he felt a queasy twisting in his guts. As wonderful as it was to spend time with his family again, as warm and safe as the presence of his parents made him feel, he knew deep down that it was an illusion.

“I… I did my best,” he choked out, emotion welling in his throat. He vigorously rubbed away the tears that threatened to spill once more. “I tried… I tried to make you proud.”

Beory was by his side in an instant, her arm wrapped around his shoulders.

“And we are proud of you, Tyron. You’ve done so well, better than even we could have hoped.”

“She’s right, son,” Magnin confirmed, his eyes soft. “You were dealt a terrible hand, and you made a winner out of it anyway. I couldn’t have done better myself at your age. Well done, lad.”

Tyron slumped forward, his head between his knees, and nodded.

“But it’s over now,” he stammered, trying to firm his resolve. “I know they sent you to bring me back.”

He drew in a shaky breath and raised his head.

“I… I’m ready. I’ve probably damaged the Steelarm reputation beyond repair… but at least if you turn me in, people will see we solved it in the family. And I want you to apologise to Worthy and Aunt Meg for me. I feel terrible for leaving them the way I did.”

He couldn’t look at his parents as he spoke, only glancing at them when they didn’t reply to his words. They were both looking at him as if he were insane.

“You think we’re going to take you in?” Magnin laughed. “Don’t be daft, boy!”

Beory looked hurt.

“You really thought we would do that? To our own son?”

Tyron stared at them.

“But… you have to!” he stammered. “You’ll be outlawed if you don’t!”

The two Slayers continued to look at him with those puzzled expressions on their faces.

“So?” Magnin said.

The Necromancer grew increasingly frantic as his parents failed to grasp the gravity of the situation.

“You’ll be killed! They’ll hunt you down. I won’t let that happen!”

Magnin shared an awkward glance with Beory before he reached out and grasped his son by the shoulder.

“Tyron. You need to listen to me. None of this is your fault, do you understand?” He glanced up at the sun overhead. “And I wish we could take more time to explain it all, but we seem to be running a little short.”

“W-what are you talking about?”

Beory sighed before she started to explain.

“This is all our fault,” she said, a sad smile on her lips, “just like everything else that’s gone wrong in your life, and I can’t apologise enough. I’ll try to explain as briefly as I can.”

She looked up as she tried to think of what to say.

“It really boils down to the Magisters, the Nobility who control them, and the four arseholes who control them.”

Tyron boggled.

“You mean… the divines?”

She sneered.

“Of course the divines. The entire branding system is their invention, desperate to prevent anyone from fighting their way up to the same level. When your father and I reached a certain point…”

Magnin picked up as she trailed off.

“They told us we couldn’t progress any further,” he sounded completely affronted and Tyron could understand why. You might as well have told the pair to stop breathing. “Imagine that! Stop fighting, leave the rifts alone, retire to some mansion in the central province and live out our days in peace.”

He looked as if he might throw up just thinking about it and Tyron couldn’t help but laugh. Knowing his family as he did, it was a ridiculous request.

“We could still tidy up little jobs around the edges, but nothing serious, nothing like what we would need to do to progress. If we didn’t comply, they threatened to use the brands and murder us.”

“So naturally, we immediately tried to find a way around it. Sneaky stuff, dark powers, Vampiric nasties, long forgotten gods, all the classics.”

“Take this seriously, Magnin,” Beory frowned. “But… he’s basically right. We sought for a way to nullify the effects of the brand and break the control they had over us. We were… partially successful. We were able to weaken the brand, but couldn’t break it.”

“And to make a long story short,” Magnin broke in, “they found out what we were up to and decided to punish us.”

Tyron frowned.

“How?”

“You, love,” Beory said gently. “The divines interfered with your Awakening. They have some influence over the Unseen, not much, but the Awakening crystal is designed to increase this control. They used it to give you the Necromancer Class, and the Dark Ones noticed their meddling, giving you Anathema to help you survive and… disrupt things for their enemies.”

It was a shocking revelation and Tyron’s brain froze as he tried to process it. The gods had given him this Class? In order to punish his parents? It was absurd. Or was it?

Magnin grimaced.

“From there, it was relatively easy for them to engineer a situation that was no-win for us. We’d either have to kill you, our only child, or die ourselves, which is what they really want.”

The words registered with Tyron slowly.

“No,” he said.

His father gave him a twisted smile.

“I’m afraid so, son. There’s only one way out, and I’m afraid that this is it. We created this mess ourselves, prodding at things we shouldn’t have. There’s no way we would ever make you pay the price for that.”

“It’s for the best this way, Tyron,” his mother told him. “You will survive. You can send the archer girl back to the Magisters after Yor modifies her memory. She’ll tell them we all died, and that’ll be the end of it. They don’t really care about you that much, it’s your father and I that they want. You can escape through the rift. We’ve arranged things for you. A new identity, a chance to hide and start your life again.”

“No!” he shouted.

It wasn’t possible. This couldn’t be happening. He refused to accept it. He refused!

Magnin sighed.

“We’re about out of time, Beory,” he said, peering up at the sky.

Irritation flashed across her tired face.

“Always interfering, even at the worst possible moments,” she snapped. “Useless pricks could never leave us alone.”

“Language, dear.”

“Shut up, Magnin.” She turned back to Tyron. “There’s a letter for you in my pack that explains what to do from here. We’ve arranged things with some friends of ours, they’ll help you.”

The two of them rose and stood arm in arm, looking down on their son with proud smiles on their faces. Tyron looked a mess, tears running down his face as he stared imploringly up at them.

“Live your life, son. We’re so, so lucky to have had you in our lives, and I’m sorry we messed things up so badly for you,” Beory said, her lip quivering.

Magnin leaned his head down against that of his wife.

“You’ll be free after this,” he said. “We’ve been able to do that much for you, in the end. Love you, kid.”

He turned his head and kissed his wife’s hair.

“Are you ready, darling?”

“Of course.”

The greatest swordsman of the western province flipped a dagger from his belt and caught it nimbly by the hilt.

“You may want to look away for this,” he said to Tyron, before he turned, lifted Beory’s chin and kissed her full on the mouth.

Then he rammed the dagger straight into her heart. Beory stiffened, then went limp in her husband's arms. Magnin lowered her lovingly to the ground, then knelt by her side.

“Sorry we couldn’t leave you our souls,” he said quietly, “we didn’t want to risk the divines getting hold of us.” He tapped himself on the chest. “But this is the finest damn set of materials you’ll ever get your hands on. Make sure you use it well.”

Without taking his eyes from Beory, he lay down by her side, before he slid the blade into his own chest, sighing as he did.

Then he was gone.

Tyron sat staring at them for a long, long time.