2.28. Labyrinths & Liches, Part Four

Prior to this mishap, Lark only had one experience with teleportation—only one, as if it’s a common occurrence for more privileged folks. Still, that experience must have been formative: the spell she casts, while unintentional, is powerful enough that it transports her clear out of the village of Dewhurst and into the neighboring forest. In an instant, she finds herself in the center of a ring of mushrooms, her two unwitting passengers in tow.

After the cacophony of the tavern, the forest feels too quiet. It’s not entirely silent, of course—crickets chirp, and the leaves rustle in the breeze, and in the distance there’s the repeating screech of an owl. But it is stark enough that the atmosphere is decidedly disconcerting. Bjorn’s uneven breathing adds to the tension. Lark’s lip trembles and she tightens her hold on her son. His body is limp in her arms. “Bjorn? Are you okay?”

He doesn’t answer.

 She turns to Dominic. “What can we do?”

His jaw is clenched and his fists are balled, but she doesn’t notice. “I can try to lay on hands. I can’t do much else.”

“How do we do that?”

“Lay him down,” he orders, “gently.” She obeys, carefully sliding Bjorn’s limp body onto the soft grass. Dominic kneels next to him and rubs his hands together before cupping them in front of his mouth. He exhales onto his palms, then holds his hands out above the boy’s body. With a percussive but inaudible incantation, his hands begin to glow.

The rise and fall of Bjorn’s chest picks up from adagissimo to adagio. And with a staccato gasp, he lurches up, his eyes snapping open.

“Thank the maker,” Lark exhales.

“Where are we?” Bjorn blinks, holding his hand to his chest. But instead of answering, Lark pulls him in for a hug.

 “Thank the maker!” She repeats.

Bjorn’s eyes flicker as he takes in their surroundings. “Where’s Raven? Is she okay?”

“Raven’s not here,” Dominic says quietly.

“What?” Lark says. “That can’t be. She was just with us.”

“Whatever you did, you left her behind. The spell’s area of effect must not have been wide enough.” His voice is mechanical.

“I—I didn’t realize—I didn’t mean to.”

Dominic shrugs, but it isn’t nonchalant. It instead seems an attempt to dispel his anger. “Intentional or not, you left her.”

“I’m sorry,” her voice rises, and the forest noises decrescendo in proportion.

“I know.”

“So we’ll go find her,” Bjorn suggests, “right?”

Lark nods. “Exactly. We’ll fix this. I’ll fix this. We’ll go save her—find her, first, but we’ll get her. Okay?”

Dominic bites his lip, swallowing back the urge to articulate every parent’s worst fear: if she’s not already dead. “The castle Sadie mentioned is the most obvious place to look first,” he finally says, “it should be north, if I remember my notes correctly.”

“Perfect, let’s head north then,” Lark says brightly. “Which way is north?

“Let’s start by finding the village, and possibly some transportation. We shouldn’t strain Bjorn with too much walking.”

“It looks like there’s a path that way,” Bjorn gestures to a slight depression in the foliage.

“Right, you took tracking,” Dominic says.

“Lead the way,” Lark adds.
 
Bjorn takes a step, but crumples. “I’m sorry,” he gasps, “it still hurts. Maker, it hurts.”

Between the weight of his armor and general fatigue, it’s a strain, but Dominic and Lark manage to carry Bjorn out of the clearing and down the path, guided by his tracking skills. Gradually, the trees become sparser and the ground becomes firmer until they find signs of civilization: a sizeable farm on the edge of the forest, simultaneously quaint and impressive by the dour and archaic standards of their current universe. Oil lamps hang randomly around the walls, and a battered and decaying sign by the front door sways in the breeze. Lark can barely make out the image on it: a faded painting, it seems, of a lantern.

More importantly, the stableyard contains two stout horses, one of which Lark recognizes from various beer commercials as a Clydesdale. Next to the yard is a large wagon, stacked with hay and a barrel.

“The wagon,” Lark grunts. With small, quick steps the pair carries Bjorn towards it. “Do you think you can climb up here on your own, honey?”

“Eugh, mom,” Bjorn frowns. “I’m not a baby.” He winces through the pain, but manages to clamber on to the wagon.

Dominic stretches out, popping his back. “I’m too old for this” is written on his face, but he isn’t the kind to utter such a cliché. His eyes narrow when he notices Lark preparing to scale over the fence and into the stable yard. “Where are you going?”

“I took, like, five dots in animal husbandry. I’m gonna get us a horse,” she grins.

“They don’t belong to us.”

“Oh gee, the imaginary horses in this imaginary universe don’t belong to us. What ever will we do?” She scoffs. “You whacked a guy with a hammer, Mr. Pacifist. We’re not exactly living our true selves.”

 “Right,” Dominic concedes, “just—don’t botch, okay?”

She slides over the fence, hesitantly touching her feet to the damp grass of the stableyard. The Clydesdale looks up and regards her with indifference. Slowly, she approaches, reaching her hand out. She rubs her hand against its nose, and the horse snorts then pushes its face into her arms.
She strokes its nose. “Well, aren’t you just the sweetest?” The Clydesdale neighs, matching her coos. “So are you ready to go on a little adventure, cutie?” The horse bows its head to Lark, and she smiles. “Good—let’s find your bridle, shall we?”

While Lark saddles their new equine companion, Bjorn rifles through the contents of the wagon. In between sneezes, he reports on them to his stepfather. “Hay,” he frowns, “hay. More hay. A couple of lanterns. A barrel.”

“What’s in the barrel?” Dominic asks.

He grunts as he pushes off the lid, then squints his eyes. “It’s some kind of liquid. Oil, I think.”

But a flicker of movement distracts the paladin. A lurking figure steps hastily in the shadows of the farmhouse. Its form comes into focus: a young man, drawing a bow and arrow.
“Lark,” Dominic takes a step back, “watch out.”

She remains oblivious. “And you scoffed when I decided to take animal husbandry,” she grins as she leads the Clydesdale out the gate.

“Lark!”

An arrow zips past her, missing her head by mere inches. She recoils, dropping the reins.

The young man grunts in frustration and pulls another arrow from his quiver. “Let go of Damsel,” he draws the arrow and squints one eye closed.

“Or what,” Lark shows her hands. They glow purple, casting her face with a haunting glow. “You’ll miss again?”

“That was a warning,” the man bluffs. “Leave my property.”

“Make me, turd.”

Dominic takes a step forward. “It’s possible to reach a peaceful solution, I think.”
 
“Maybe I don’t want to,” Lark growls.

“You need this horse and wagon for your crops, I assume?”

The young man nods.

Dominic unties a pouch front his belt and holds it up. It jingles as he shakes it. “I think this will cover those cost of Damsel and the wagon,” he tosses pouch to the young man, who—with some hesitation—picks it up and examines it. "And we'll take your bow and arrow as well."

“This is a suspicious amount.”

“It’s an alternative to robbery.”

“Fine,” the young man clutches the bag to his chest, “but leave. Now.”

“That was,” Lark struggles momentarily, “something. What was that?”

“I bought heavily into resources, since I never really meant this character for more than support.”

“Lucky us.”

“You need rest. I’ll drive until morning. Hopefully we’ll reach the castle soon, then we can plan.”

The party boards the wagon, Lark opting to sit in the back with her son. Bjorn, weak and wounded, nods off. It’s quiet, save for the evenly spaced clop of Damsel’s trot. The clouds move quickly, the stars shine brightly, and Dominic is left with his worries.

***

Fortunately for Raven, her father’s various neuroses had never managed to rub off on her. If they had, she would be in hysterics at the moment. Instead—confined to a dark, rancid cell— she is enraged.
The smell of the dungeon, a mixture of feces and rot and fear, is strong enough that her nose hasn’t adjusted to it. She’s taken to breathing through her mouth in a futile attempt to escape it. And the lighting is unobtrusive enough that the dungeon’s citizenry of rats and roaches feel brazen enough to scurry around in her presence. She’s lost count of the vermin, not that she’s particularly interested in compiling census data on her cellmates.

But she does take note when Teague and Farres approach her cell. The two linger momentarily before Teague deigns to address her. “Such a pitiful sight that this darling thing is subject to such conditions.”

“You’re the one that put me in here, you dumb douche,” Lark puts her hand up to her furrowed brow.

“Oh, my dear,” he clucks, “You misinterpret my actions. I am in pieces over your downfall. It is absolutely tragic, and I wish to help you.”

“Then maybe you’ll let me out of here, huh?”

“How fortunate for you—Farres and I dropped by to do just that.”

“Peachy. And I’m sure there aren’t any strings attached.”

 “Only a pleasant one,” he smiles, “you have an audience with the queen, lucky duck.”

“Oh goody.”

The door swings open, and Teague gestures widely. “Come now. She awaits.”

Raven glowers, but steps out nonetheless. She stands for a moment, stiffly, her fists balled. Ultimately, her instinct wins out over reason, and she punches. It lands hard, hitting Teague in the eye. Still, she overcompensated for her short stature—she had been aiming for his smug smile. She makes a note to practice her right-hook at the gym.

He reels back with a grunt. She turns to meet Farres. He swings at her, but he’s too slow. She catches his fist and jerks it down, pulling him forward into her elbow. His weight does most of the work.

She had started her formal sim fu lessons at age ten, and had five years to practice against forgiving opponents. In the first few seconds of surprise, Teague and Farres are just as pliant. But as soon as he collects himself, Teague overpowers her. “Behave, girl,” he growls as he tugs at her pointed ear. She groans and wriggles, but the pain is surprisingly disabling. 

With a grunt, Farres lifts her over his shoulder and carries her up the narrow stone stairs. He kicks open a wooden door, and sunlight floods the dungeon. Tears well up in Raven’s eyes and she curses to herself—the tears are a simple reaction to the sudden burst of light, but she doesn’t want them to think otherwise.

They don’t seem to notice, though. Farres carries her quickly down a series of precarious steps and over a bridge. Teague follows close behind, a grin plastered on his face and a jaunt in his step.

The surroundings don’t match her captors. The castle is too manicured, too thoughtfully maintained and decorated. The gardens and pond bustle with life and beauty, enhancing the pallor of Teague and Farres.

The discord is emphasized as they bring her into the castle proper: Farres drops her to the floor in an ornate, gilded dining hall. At the table sits a woman Raven can only assume is their queen. Monochromatic—if Raven had to choose a single word to describe her, that would be it. Her skin is mottled grey, and her platinum hair provides little contrast.

“Welcome,” Artemis says in a lazy voice.

Raven doesn’t bother to stand. “Let’s get this over with: I’m not telling you anything, and you and your boys can go suck a frog.”

Artemis stands and tilts her head. “That’s a new one. Teague,” she studies his face, “It seems the two of you have made acquaintances. What can you tell me about our little guest?”

Teague gives a slight—but still deferential—bow. “She is pig-headed and disrespectful, my Queen, and beyond her knowledge of the paladin, I believe she is of no use to you. I would be more than happy to dispose of her.”

“Too bad I don’t care what you believe,” Artemis circles the table and leans against it. “Listen, girlie, I’m simply looking for a way out of this world. That’s all—a little smidge of freedom, and I need to find Dominic to make that happen. Even better, I’d like your help drawing him in here. I’ll take care of the rest, plus I’ll reward you with adventure and riches beyond your wildest dreams. Or however the cliché goes.”

“Dominic?” Teague whispers to Farres, and the pirate shrugs.

Raven sneers. “I think you have some out of character knowledge.”

“That’s one way to put it. Now, we can solve this in a way that will leave you practically unscathed. All you have to do is help me bridge the gap between our two worlds.”

“I have a better idea,” Raven holds up a hand, and pink sparks rise from her fingertips. “I put you out of your misery, and you leave me and my dad alone.”

“Oh please, continue with this petulance,” Teague says, “I ache for your end.”

Artemis’s face softens and she steps towards her. “You don’t understand. You’re just as stuck as I am,” she touches an icy finger to the teen’s cheek. Raven shudders and recoils, but the lich grabs her wrist and pulls her closer. “I bet you’re just one in a billion in your world. But I can help you become something better, someone more important. You can help me change your world.”

“I mean, that’s super tempting and all but I’m a fairy in the real world, and becoming a zombie seems like a real downgrade.”

Artemis’s nose twitches. “I’m offering you subservience, or oblivion. Don’t let your insolence blind you to the possibilities.”

Raven wrests her wrist away. “I’d prefer oblivion.”

***

“Lark.”

Lark snores.

“Lark. Wake up. Lark!”

Her eyes flutter open. It’s daytime, and Dominic—dour, distressed Dominic—stands in front of her.
“Nice nap?”

“Very nice,” she sits up and stretches. “Maker, do I feel better.”

“Good. We’re here,” he says.

“Here?”

“The castle. Wishborne Keep.”

Lark blinks. It takes a moment for everything to flood back. “Right—oh, right! Raven?” The words don’t capture her worry.

“No sign of her, yet.”

“Well, let’s get Bjorn up and we’ll figure this out. Bjorn,” Lark turns and puts a hand on her son’s shoulder. She shakes it. “Bjorn?” His body his limp, his face pallid, his lips dry. “No. No! Bjorn?”

Dominic’s face darkens. “I was afraid of this.”

Lark’s eyes frantically scans her son’s face. His nostril twitches—a sign of life. “What is it? What’s wrong with him?”

“Poison, possibly. Some DOT effect that continues to lower his HP over time.”

“What can we do? Is he going to die?”

“I can lay on hands again to stabilize him. If we can get him to Raven, she should be able to heal him. If she’s still alive.” Dominic says as he climbs into a wagon.

The spell goes the same as before: warmth, light, and temporary reprieve. But Bjorn is slower to come to, weighed down by the compounding poison coursing through his veins. With Lark’s help, he sits up, his head swaying back and forth as he fights the dizziness. “I wanna go home,” he mumbles.

“I know,” she crouches next to him. “I know.”

 “We can’t take him,” Dominic says.

“No, we can’t,” Lark agrees.

Bjorn opens his mouth as if to protest, but remains silently. Finally, he nods.

Lark slides off of the wagon. “What next, then?”

“We don’t know how many men she has.”

“Sexist. There could be women.”

Dominic ignores her. “Nor do we know where Raven is, and whether or not she’s injured.”

“We could try sneaking in,” Lark suggests.

“Your interaction with Damsel confirms that the character skills we have—combined with our real-world skills—actually have influence in this world. Since neither of us bought heavily into stealth that probably wouldn’t work.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“It’s time we thought like murder-hobos.”

“Well then. Sounds fun.”

 The plan is simple enough that it only takes a few moments to hammer out. The pair will take with them the wagon, its contents, and Damsel. They will leave behind Bjorn, obscured by tall grass.

“See you on the other side,” Bjorn says as they depart.

“Hopefully that other side is Bridgeport,” Dominic grimaces.

With their materials gathered, they set their trap. Step one: they pull the wagon to the front gate of the castle and unhitch Damsel.

Step two: They pour the oil from the barrel onto the hay. Dominic mounts Damsel and withdraws a bow from the quiver on his back.

Step three: Lark waits by the gate, out of sight. Dominic lights the arrow on fire, and shoots from a safe distance, aiming for the oil-soaked hay.

The resulting explosion is thunderous. But more importantly, their working hypothesis comes to fruition: Lark senses movement. Teague and Farres emerge from the smoke, no doubt sent to investigate by their queen.

“Oh, this is no good,” Teague’s sing-song voice carries, echoing off the walls of the keep. Lark can hear purposeful footsteps as he approaches. “Now, let me guess what ruffians are behind this: Ardreth and the Fallen whore, no doubt. Now, let’s—“

 The sense of satisfaction of hitting him in that moment is almost unparalleled, and she relishes it: magic pours out of her, knocking him back and off balance. And that is only the beginning—Dominic, astride the Clydesdale, slams his hammer into Teague. He’s both disarmed and knocked prone.

Farres attempts a charge, but Lark had anticipated this: holding her arms up, she channels all her power into both offense and defense. The pirate struggles to swing his sword, weighed down by whatever invisible force she’s managed to call forth.

“No,” Teague loses a struggle of his own. “No!” He cries out as his body rapidly desiccates and disintegrates. Unceremoniously, he is gone.

She turns her attention to Farres. She glowers, her hands alight with cosmic energy. Behind her, Damsel bucks as Dominic brandishes his hammer.

“Surrender,” he orders.

Farres’s eyes flicker between the pair. “She will not let me return a failure.” He drops his sword.

“You’re giving up?” Lark asks.

The pirate clenches his jaw. “Make it quick.”

“We could just let you go,” she says. "If you promise just to leave."

“No. Make it quick.”

Lark obliges, but this victory is bitterer than the last.

Dominic dismounts Damsel. Her burden lifted, the horse begins to graze, apparently unperturbed by the battle.

“That didn’t feel as good as I thought it would,” Lark says.

Dominic stands next to her, but his eyes remain forward. “It never does.”

“Well. Showtime?”

“Seems that way.”

***

Dominic and Lark’s heroic entrance is quickly undercut. They burst into the dining hall to find Artemis unsurprised by their arrival; so unsurprised, in fact, that she greets them with literal open arms. “I’ve been expecting you,” she says through a grin. “I felt Farres and Teague’s demise—so sad they won’t be able to join us for this, though I must say I enjoy a challenge.”

“It would be wiser to just surrender,” Dominic says.

“Yeah, we have you surrounded, you loon,” Raven adds, “so you might as well give up now.”

“Dominic,” Artemis tsks, “my brother. I’ve been waiting for this moment from the day I burst forth from our father’s mind. I will not accept anything less than what I am owed.”

“You’re not my sister.”

“Hmm. I imagined this going a little differently,” she says. “But we play the hand we’re dealt, don’t we?”

Dominic makes eye contact with Raven. She nods. The each step forward, in unison, flanking the lich.

 “Let’s not,” Artemis interjects. She holds her hands above her head, and a shockwave emanates forth, knocking back the trio.

Quickly, she turns on her heel to face Raven. “Now, let’s take care of you,” she growls, “so the grown-ups can talk.” A glowing ball of white-hot light takes shape in her hands. Raven manages to pull herself up, but it leaves her little time to channel a defense.

“No,” Dominic sprints forward, his eyes on his daughter. Muttering a quick incantation, Lark takes charge of offense in his stead.

Dominic reaches Raven just in time: the orb surges forth, narrowly missing them as he tackles her to the ground. Retribution is quick, though, and Lark’s attack lands almost concurrently. It unbalances Artemis, but doesn’t disable her.

Artemis slips her dagger out of her belt and straightens up. “Teague told me that this girl is your daughter, but I didn’t really believe him until now. I’ve been too rude to my little nibling,” she waves the dagger. “Let’s make your death a little more intimate, shall we?”

“Stay away from her,” Dominic scowls.

“Or what?” Artemis lunges forward, slicing at him with the dagger. He recoils, and the blade scratches—but doesn’t pierce—his armor. Sensing her opportunity, Lark releases her full arsenal. Simultaneously, Dominic delivers a riposte, striking her with his hammer. Artemis grunts and falls back.

“Surrender?” Dominic asks.

 She glares up at him and shrieks. An unholy light radiates from her hand. It envelopes Dominic’s body, burning his skin. His resulting scream is deafening, chilling Lark to her bone.

“Stop!”

Artemis whips around. With a growl she hurls the dagger at Lark. It grazes her arm, but she crumples to the ground nonetheless, moved in part by self-preservation. And on the floor she finds good company.

Dominic—cursed and burned—fares worse. He grunts as he tries to stand, but a stabbing pain in his stomach weakens him. The burns on his face double his struggle. With a gasp, he goes limp.

“Dad,” Raven kneels next to him. “Dad!” For the second time today, her eyes water. She shakes her head and holds up her hands. She hasn’t tried a healing spell yet, at least not intentionally. But in the moment she needs it most, her magic fails: Dominic remains still, and her magic dissipates.

“How sad,” Artemis manufactures a pout. “It’s going to take a lot more than that to heal him.”
Raven stands. “You killed him.”

“Not quite. Though in just a moment he should be ripe for reanimation. With Teague and Farres gone, I could use another thrall.”

“Then I’ll cast my resurrection spell,” Raven’s voice quivers. She barely remembers the parameters, but her father had been insistent that she buy the spell at character creation.

“Go right ahead. Correct me if I’m wrong, nibling, but I’m fairly certain you can only cast one resurrection every twelve hours.” Raven’s lip trembles, provoking a laugh from Artemis. “So, who will it be? Mommy or daddy? Wait, Teague also mentioned killing that boy—so you could go find him and resurrect him. But whoever you choose, you’re really just picking whoever is going to die with you.”

Raven’s eyes catch movement. She tries not to look directly at it, to keep her gaze on the lich, because she can tell what it is: Lark is still alive, with Artemis’s dagger in hand. “You’re dead, right?”
“Literally, I suppose,” Artemis rolls her eyes, “So what will it be, nibling?”

“Who am I going to resurrect?” Raven’s eyes remain still, but she senses Lark’s movement. Her stepmother walks silently, shockingly so, but Raven doesn’t want to do anything to give away the rapidly developing plan.

Artemis nods. Lark lingers right behind her.

Raven outstretches her arms. Light flows through her and out her fingertips. “How about you?” The releases the spell.

She had no idea what resurrection would look like—she imagined some Beauty and the Beast-esque theatrics. But instead, it’s a gradual shift: Artemis’s skin regains its color, her wounds heal, and her heart begins to beat.

“You made—I’m—“ Artemis looks at her hands. “I’m—“

 “Mortal,” Raven finishes. And with a thrust of the dagger, Lark punctuates Artemis’s epiphany. The blade drives into her back and through her heart. Lark jiggles the dagger, shoving it in up to the hilt. And when she draws it out, Artemis slides to the floor, motionless.

It’s silent for a moment, until Raven speaks. “What next?”

Lark looks around. “I don’t know.” The room begins to dim.

Raven gapes as shadows close in on them. “What’s happening? Lark, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Lark feels herself floating upward. The shadows envelope them, and their surroundings—including the bodies of Dominic and Artemis—fade away.

Raven reaches out to her step-mother. “Grab my hand!” Lark grunts and reaches forward, but some invisible force tugs at her.

 “Mom!” Raven gasps as the pull strengthens. Finally, Lark grasps both of Raven’s hands.

The shadows overtake them.

***

 The room is bright, much brighter than Lark expected. But she’s here, back in Bridgeport. She looks at her hands. No claws, though the wound from Artemis’ dagger remains obstinately on her arm. She glances to her left. Raven sits, sobbing.

“Raven?”

“Someone call an ambulance,” Nikolas calls out. Lark shakes his head. What’s he doing here? He shouldn’t be here. But even more dismaying is Bjorn’s limp body, dangling from his father’s arms. Nearby, Sadie kneels by Dominic’s body, her face twisted with concern.

The night moves quickly. An ambulance arrives, though Lark doesn’t know who called it. Sadie, most likely. It doesn’t matter.

She shuffles out of the back of the ambulance and into the hospital, where she is separated from Bjorn and Dominic despite her protests. “Emergency,” reads the sign over the door they’re taken through. She’s taken to a different room, an ugly room of white and seafoam. And in that ugly room her arm is patched up, and she’s questioned by a doctor. He asks Raven to leave, but the teen refuses. With a sigh, he begins a litany of invasive questions.

“Do you feel safe in your home, Miss Bee?” He asks. She wishes she still had her magic.
Throughout the night, Raven doesn’t leave her side. But it’s hours before she’s released.

Bjorn is kept company by Nikolas and Sadie.

But Dominic finds himself alone.

At least for a moment.

“You look like shit,” a familiar voice rings out.

“You’re not really here,” Dominic doesn’t sit up.

“Of course I’m not,” Bastian snorts, “at least not corporeally. You should know that.”

“Sadie said Artemis killed you.”

“I’m already dead. Though she did sever my tie to the house. Fine by me. That house was more of a burden than a home.”

“Too bad.”

Bastian clears his throat. “So you survived.”

“No thanks to you.”

“So we’re doing this,” Bastian scoffs. “Look, son, I forgot about that curse when you forgot about that stupid game. I never thought you would play it again.”

“I forgot about that game until you died. Funny how that happens.”

“Point is, you’re here, Lark’s okay, and that fairy girl lived. I suppose you’re happy about that.”

Dominic sighs and sits up. “Why are you here?”

“There’s something you must take from the house.”

“If it’s important, it’s probably already packed.”

“You’d think so, except your dim little wife has been throwing out my papers willy-nilly instead of packing them. There’s one paper I don’t want you to miss. It’s in the rolltop desk, in an unmarked envelope. Read it, then destroy it. Or keep it, actually. I don’t care. I guess I can’t do anything to stop you.”

“Rolltop, envelope. Got it.”

Bastian puts his hand up to his head. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

 “I—I don’t know if I’ll see you again, son. I want,” he pauses as he searches for the word, “rest.”

He fades before Dominic can respond, and once again the mage is alone.

***

Somehow, the rolltop has survived most of the chaos of the move. It stands in its usual state: littered with old scrolls and tomes and letters. On the morning of his release from the hospital, Dominic seeks out his father’s letter. He soon finds the unmarked envelope, the sole occupant of the desk’s left-hand drawer.

He rips open the envelope and fishes out a single piece of paper. It’s old and yellowed but the writing isn’t. In fact, the ink is so recent he doubts for a moment that it’s dry.

He reads.

Then he re-reads.

***

The air in Aurora Skies is refreshing. It’s cold, of course—near freezing—but the smell of precipitation is preferential to that of pollution and people.

Inside the Bee home, Dominic reclines on their bed, the letter in hand. It’s one of the only items he brought back from Bridgeport. He reads it almost daily, though he has not shared it with Lark. Sometimes she peers over his shoulder in an attempt to catch the words. He doesn’t stop her. But he doesn’t share.

“Everyone should be here soon,” she says.

Dominic nods. The doorbell rings. Carefully, he folds the paper. His exactness allows Lark a glimpse of the final lines, the only lines she’s ever managed to read from the letter:

Despite my many failures as a father, you’ve grown into a man of unparalleled courage and conviction. My deepest apologies, and my unending love. 

It ends with a scribble, which she can only assume is Bastian’s signature. She can guess how he failed Dominic, but the litany detailed in the letter will forever remain a mystery.

 Dominic rises from the bed, and she follows him. They invite their guests inside, and the night goes on without incident.

***

Author’s note: Oof. There are so many thing I want to write in this note, but I’ll try to keep it brief.  I’ve had writer’s block for eons, starting January of last year. I had the idea of this story around that time, and as Halloween got closer I decided to write it as a spooky story (that got toned down, obvs). Unfortunately, my computer died and delayed the process. But I’m glad I stuck with this story idea—though I struggled with this chapter in particular, this little detour has been really enjoyable.

Don’t get me wrong—looking back on previous chapters, there is a lot I wish I could change. I wish I had set more specific rules for magic, for instance. Nevertheless, I got to tell a story that highlighted certain characters. I also learned what I need to work on. Action, for one. Consistency, for another. I read a style guide (Dreyer’s English) between this chapter and the last, and so there are even some stylistic changes in this story that will likely drive some readers mad.

And obviously I didn’t kill Bjorn and it was cruel of me to end on that cliffhanger and leave you all wondering for a month. If this wasn’t a random legacy, he’d be super-duper dead, probably along with Dominic or Lark. But alas! The rules kept him alive. Sadly, so many of my sims have survived near-death. I need to start killing them for reals, or tamping down on the constant threat of death.

Anyway, I have no story plans for the rest of this generation. I might do some table-setting, but expect a lot of gameplay for some time. I may write out Sadie's backstory, but it's likely that'll remain just text.

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