Chapter 62

Once inside the Grand Archive, we found a secluded room tucked deep among the shelves - dark wooden walls muffling the soft sounds around us.

“Hey, before we start,” Jess said, her voice lowering. She looked uneasy. “Someone was asking about you and Ashlara.”

My eyes met hers. “I didn’t tell him anything,” she added quickly. “He was really subtle, too. Knew how to ask without sounding like he was asking.”

“Brand,” I said without hesitation. “I’d heard he might be poking around. If he was that smooth, how’d you catch it?”

She flushed. “Oh. Well. You know how sometimes guys talk to me - try to flirt. I kind of know the type.”

I smiled.

“Not that it happens a lot or anything,” she rushed on. “I’m not some beautiful elven princess with men throwing themselves at her. I just-”

“It’s okay,” I said gently. “I get it. A cute girl like you probably gets more attention than you’d like. And not all of it’s good.”

Her face went even redder. “That’s not-”

“It’s fine,” I cut in softly. “That’s actually part of why I wanted to talk to you. I’m glad you brought it up. It just confirms what I already know about you - the kind of person you are.” I offered her a reassuring smile. “This Brand guy is causing problems. I don’t want to put you in danger, but I do want to ask for your help.”

She eyed me warily, suspicion flickering across her face.

I set Adhaneth down carefully, laying it along the edge of the door. The weight of it settled there with quiet power, effectively barring the room. “Want to see something cool?” I asked.

“What?” she said, clearly confused.

I placed a hand on her shoulder and stepped.

* * *

Before us, the wide cobblestone road wound lazily through tall grass and wildflowers, leading toward the fantastical castle at the heart of my demesne. Its peaked towers glittered beneath a bright, cloudless blue sky. Colorful ribbons drifted overhead like the remnants of some eternal parade. The air was warm, the breeze gentle. More and more, this place was starting to feel like home.

“Where are we?” Jess asked, breathless.

Behind us lay the abandoned goblin village - clean, orderly, and well cared for. Fields of crops spread out around the houses, stalks tall and green. Quaint. Simple. Peaceful.

“Cool, right?” I said.

She looked at me, confused. “It’s warm here.”

I smiled. “Where I’m from, saying something’s cool just means it’s good.”

She turned slowly, taking it all in. “Then this is definitely… cold.”

I laughed. “Where I’m from, saying something’s cold means it’s bad.”

Her brow furrowed. “That sounds confusing.” Her eyes never stopped moving. “So… where are we?”

“My demesne,” I said. “I didn’t mention it when we first met, but apparently I’m a god. Want to go inside?” I gestured toward the castle.

“You what?” she shouted.

“Do you want to go inside?” I repeated.

“No, I mean you’re a god?” Shock was written plainly across her face.

I grinned. “I knew what you meant. I was just being difficult. But yeah. Apparently.”

“What do you mean, ‘apparently’?” she snapped.

“It’s complicated,” I said. “I’ll explain when we get to the castle.” I motioned for her to go first. She hesitated, studying me like I might vanish. “Oh, can I take your coats?”

She stared another second, as if her brain had shut down. Then she slipped the blanket from her shoulders and draped it over her arm. I reached out, and she handed it to me. One by one, she removed her three coats and scarf and passed them over.

“I think you’re going to like this,” I said with a smirk.

I lifted one coat as if to hang it on an invisible hook. The world lurched.

The landscape slid past us in a blur. Castle doors yawned open, the foyer rushed forward - and as my arm came down, we were suddenly standing before a coat rack. The entire journey took less than two seconds. Jess nearly toppled over when we stopped.

I hung the coat, then the rest - blanket and scarf included - on the same rack.

Her eyes darted wildly, fear and awe tangling as she took in the grand foyer. Cherry-hued carved wood lined the walls. Twin staircases swept upward on either side. Behind us, towering stained-glass windows spilled light in a riot of color. The whole place carried a distinctly Victorian gothic air.

“I know,” I said gently. “It’s a lot. I’m still not convinced it’s real myself. This is all pretty new to me too. How about we sit down in the family room? You can ask whatever you want. We’ll take the long way - it’s less disorienting.”

I led her through a side door, down an ornate hall lined with my favorite artwork, and into one of the common rooms. The walls were made to look like rustic logs, stained a warm blonde. Dark polished planks formed the floor. Exposed beams crossed overhead. Overstuffed chairs rested on plush carpets. It felt like a cozy lodge tucked deep in the mountains.

I gestured to a chair and dropped into the one beside it. Jess lingered, eyes wide, drinking it all in. I gave her time. Eventually, she sat.

“So,” I said, “I’m sort of an exception to how gods usually work. Apparently, gods form from ideals and pass through several stages before ascending. I didn’t do that. I was born. Just like you.” I glanced at her. “The main difference is - I’m from another world.”

Her eyes snapped to mine. “What?”

“I’m from another world,” I repeated. “Some of the gods kidnapped me and brought me here. It was… disorienting.”

I told her everything. About arriving here. About Yveth, and how she told me what I was. About the battle beneath Northgate that nearly tore me apart. About the kids. About Ashlara, Mirri, and Serah. About the High Witan and what they’d told me about Brand.

She asked her questions, but there were fewer than I expected.

“I can’t believe it,” she said when I finished. “I mean, we’re sitting in a castle unlike anything I’ve ever seen, in a land with ribbons instead of clouds, next to a fire-breathing god, and I still can’t wrap my head around it.”

“Why were you running E-rank commissions?” she asked.

“We needed supplies,” I said. “I’d never run commissions before. Had to work my way up.”

“Can’t you just… conjure gold?” she asked.

“I wish,” I said. “Life would be a lot simpler.”

“If you told the commissioner you were a god, he’d make an exception.” Her tone was incredulous - and maybe a little teasing.

“Yeah, well,” I said, “being a god is sort of a secret. Aside from other gods and Brand, you’re only the… thirteenth person I’ve told.” I met her eyes. “It’s a pretty big risk. I’m trusting you to keep the secret.”

“So why tell me?” she shot back. “You barely know me.”

“As I said,” I replied, leaning forward, more serious now, “I have a job for you - if you want it. I don’t want to put you in danger. But I have a plan to deal with Brand, and I need your help.”

I told her the plan. At least the part that involved her. I explained the job. She was incredulous. I took her home and introduced her to the others - they adored her instantly. She was still overwhelmed, I think.

Eventually, I took her back to the Archive, using Adhaneth as a beacon of Faith to guide us home.

That was a new trick. One I suspected would make life much easier.

From there, we made plans to meet again tomorrow.

* * *

Voretta knelt before Morakai, warlord of the Varnak Sol horde - the Black Earth Clan.

His tent was a thing of hard-earned excess. Thick furs - wolf and bear - were layered beneath her knees, their pelts supple and warm, stitched together with sinew darkened by age. A wide fire pit burned at the tent’s heart, fed with blocks of scented desert wood that crackled softly and filled the air with resin and smoke. Weapon stands lined the walls - axes notched by use, spears tipped with blackened steel, shields bearing the scars of blows that would have killed lesser warriors. Armor racks displayed trophies taken from defeated foes - human plate twisted by brute ****, dwarven mail split clean through, helms crushed inward by fists or hammer. Nothing here was decorative without first being deadly.

Morakai loomed above her, seated upon a low, broad-backed chair carved from bone. He was enormous even by orc standards - a mountain of corded muscle wrapped in scar-scored hide and iron. Old wounds riddled his body - dark lines across green skin, puckered burns, a jagged scar climbing his neck and disappearing beneath his jaw. His left tusk was chipped, his right intact, both stained dark with age.

His eyes - dark and sharp - rested on the old crone before him, though his thoughts turned inward.

Voretta had known him for decades. She was shaman of the Gorrak Zul, keeper of bones and blood, and she had served Morakai’s father, Grashan, when he wore the warlord’s mantle. She had trusted Grashan with the ancestors of the horde, and she trusted Morakai now. He was a good warlord. Strong, when strength was required. Clever, when strength alone would fail.

She only hoped he was clever enough to listen.

“You have verified the vision?” Morakai asked.

His voice was a low, rough growl, permanently scarred by an old throat wound that had nearly killed him in his youth. Each word carried weight, scraped from deep in his chest.

“Yes, my lord.” Voretta inclined her head, the stiff spikes of her hair creaking faintly as she moved. Her hair was rigid with wax and red war-paint, pulled into a crown of jutting points that marked her station. Deep lines etched her green-gray skin, her face weathered by decades of smoke, frost, and ritual scars. Bone charms clacked softly at her neck as she shifted. “I have consulted the ancestors. Read the omens. Cast the bones and the fire. War is coming - and if we do not ride with Grath’kor Varnak, we will suffer greatly.”

She lifted her gaze to him then, eyes pale and a little clouded, yet sharp with certainty.

“Not to mention,” she added, a thin smile touching her cracked lips, “miss the glory.”

Morakai’s brow furrowed. For a long moment, he said nothing.

“Go now,” he finally rumbled. “I will dream upon this.”

Voretta grunted softly and pushed herself upright. Her bones ached a little more with each passing winter. And this winter they ached terribly. She leaned heavily on her gnarled staff - carved from old horn and wrapped with leather darkened by ritual and use - and turned toward the tent flap.

“And thank you, Voretta,” Morakai said quietly.

She did not turn, but the corners of her mouth lifted all the same. With a final tug, she pushed the flap aside and vanished into the cold.

Morakai watched her go.

Her silhouette was unmistakable - short and hunched, her spiked hair jutting in every direction, stiff with frost and paint. She had always been loyal. To Grashan. To him. When Grashan died and the horde teetered on the edge of fracture, it was Voretta who had spoken for Morakai. It was her blessing that had sealed his claim, her magic that had marked him before each challenge for the warlord’s seat.

She would not lie about a vision. Not after confirming it in entrails and fire.

And yet, the thought gnawed at him.

Kael of Grath’kor Varnak rode for vengeance, and Morakai could not shake the feeling that it was wrong. Why summon the horde for a single man? Why rally banners and blood when honor demanded single combat - warlord to killer, blade to blade?

What was so important about this battle that it demanded the weight of an entire people?