Seraphine's hand-me-down robes fit me as tight as ever. I sucked in my breath and patted everything down as best I could.

  As soon as the fabric was in pce, I let myself breathe for the first time all day.

  Not a real breath. Not the kind that settles you or loosens anything. Just enough air to convince myself that, for once, I hadn't broken the game.

  On the contrary, I had actually fixed something—all the pieces were now where they were supposed to be.

  I'd sent Ysel after Seraphine. The Matron took to her with the kind of solemn focus usually reserved for sacred rites, and in short order, Seraphine should be receiving the legendary-tier staff Pulseweaver.

  Meanwhile, Rocher had been dragged off by Ferric. Which meant he was where he needed to be too: learning from someone who would frustrate him, push him mercilessly, and still keep him steady through the worst parts. Ferric was exactly the catalyst Rocher needed to unlock his tent magic—his ancestral Spirit Warrior subcss.

  I exhaled again and pressed a palm to my sternum.

  We had just under two weeks before the crusader vanguard slipped past the Forest's gnarled edges.

  From then on, the attacks would come relentlessly. It wasn't just the thousand at the fore, armed with swords and magic. It was the logistical machinery. The White Warden's stern leadership. The Crown Prince's backing. The Church's ardent fervor.

  The timeline throbbed like a second heartbeat beneath my skin.

  Seraphine had to be ready by then.

  Pulseweaver would have synced to her so perfectly that she'd stumble straight into chantless casting—bursts of raw primordial mana that bypassed the structure of nguage entirely.

  It would be faster than anything she'd ever been allowed to learn in the Tower. Stronger. Infinitely more dangerous.

  The Tower forbade it for a reason. Magic ungated by chant or sigil was easy to miscast. One stray emotion, one flicker of fear, and it could implode or explode or twist itself into something monstrous.

  It was magic without training wheels. New pyers always messed up the combo inputs.

  Seraphine would need to learn focus. Precision. Discipline of thought.

  Rocher was no better off. He had mere days to figure out his own magic.

  Days to discover that if he pushed his body past instinct, his dormant mana would answer. That it could flood his muscles and turn an ordinary strike into a mythic blow, or turn a jump into a leap that cleared a house.

  And when that finally happened, he'd still have to learn how to use it without snapping a tendon or shattering bone.

  At least I'd given him a headstart with the knowledge of his potential. In the game, it'd come entirely as a surprise; not unlike my magic. Just like I had with Ysel, I would share as much information as would gain us an advantage.

  That meant keeping some things from him, however. The crusaders were technically here on the Hero's behalf, so in the game the pyer could make a choice: they could join the crusade and exterminate the witches living here. Witches were monsters who lived in the skin of others, after all.

  But making that choice meant losing Ferric's training—and the powerful css skills that came with it. A Hero who made the "correct" choice was magnitudes weaker in the final fight against the Demon Lord. And I already knew—my Rocher would pick the righteous path every time.

  Thankfully, he hadn't been present when Nyxara revealed the profane nature of their longevity, and I pnned to keep it that way. I couldn't afford to lose him. Not when so much was at stake.

  I rubbed my hands over my face, swallowing my own disgust. Pragmatism had carried me through the game; it would have to carry me here too.

  I followed the scent of scorched citrus and hot stone to Nyxara's brewing hut.

  It sat half-grown into the roots of an older tree, its walls woven from living wood and reinforced with bone. Even from outside, I could hear something bubbling.

  I stepped through the threshold.

  Heat hit me first. A wave of it, thick and heavy, rolling out from the wide copper cauldron dominating the center of the room. The liquid inside churned in slow, reluctant circles, a dark, viscous mass that kept trying to climb the sides as if it resented being contained.

  Living weapons, not forged but grown.

  Nyxara was bent over the cauldron, sleeves rolled to her elbows, her small frame moving with the impossible, practiced confidence of a centuries-old Crone.

  "Careful where you step, priestling," she said without looking up. "I will not stop the brew if it decides to tch onto your ankles."

  "I'm not here to interfere," I said, shutting the door.

  "Good. I already have one reckless oaf out there trying to match Ferric's mana-infused leaps." A dry pause. "He nearly crashed through my roof."

  Yup. That sounded exactly like Rocher.

  "He'll get used to it," I murmured.

  "In a mere two weeks? Doubtful."

  "Ferric's not the most conventional instructor, but they seem to be getting along... really well, in fact."

  A little too well, I thought.

  I pushed the thought down and stepped closer to the cauldron, scanning the surface.

  "Your basilisk ash is reacting with the copper. That's why it's curdling on top. You need something alkaline to neutralize it." I paused, thinking. "Lye will work."

  Nyxara stopped stirring. Then she turned toward me with an expression I had never seen on her before: grudging acknowledgment.

  "...cupboard on the top left," she said.

  I rose to fetch it. The drawer was set high in the wall—too high for the body she wore now.

  A quip rose before I could stop it—Why choose a frame that can't reach your own shelves?—and I crushed it immediately.

  I already knew why, and the knowing unsettled me far more than her stare ever could.

  By taking vessels young and wearing them into old age, she could minimize the number of lives she'd have to take. A pure numbers game. I hated how it resembled me.

  I quietly handed her the corked fgon.

  Nyxara stirred in the lye once. The brew smoothed immediately, glossy and venomous as fresh oil.

  She clicked her tongue, annoyed that I was right.

  Then she fixed me with a sharp gre. "Ysel wasn't exaggerating. The little priestling really does know the secrets of the world. Would you prefer to be called Oracle? Or Seer?"

  A prickle crawled up my spine.

  "I'm old. Not demented," she said. "Your coming here was no accident. Tell me, is there a secret about me you're dying to share?"

  I swallowed.

  There was no point pretending. Not with her.

  "I know who you are," I said quietly.

  Nyxara stilled. Even the bubbling seemed to hush.

  "One of the four heroes who sealed the original Demon Lord." I breathed. "Nyxara, darling pupil of the First Sage."

  A long beat passed. Then she exhaled a ugh, low and ancient.

  "Well I suppose there's no point hiding it from you," she said. "And? Is it the wisdom of the Crone you seek?"

  "Just that of the former hero," I murmured. "I was curious where I might find your old companion, Horatio the Pious."

  Nyxara stopped stirring and narrowed her eyes. "Should I take that to mean he's still alive?"

  "Not sure exactly. My knowledge around him is spotty at best. Hence I sought you out."

  She shook her head. "Every so often I receive a letter. No return address, but the handwriting is unmistakably his."

  A bubble popped.

  "I haven't seen one for decades now, so I thought he'd finally bought it."

  "Unlikely," I said. "He'd received blessings from many deities throughout your journey."

  "He did have a way about him when it came to the divine. Bright, curious, and far too stubborn for his own good." She sighed fondly. "That righteous old fart will outlive us all."

  I nodded. As long as he was around, there was hope. Even though his location was still an enigma.

  Nyxara tapped her chin. "So... for what reason do you seek him?"

  "Idle curiosity. I had some questions. Back then, that constitution of his made him the closest being to a Saint, at least before the Goddess came around and made it an official title."

  Her lips curled. "Careful, priestling. Your Church might call what you just said bsphemy."

  "They already want me hung," I ughed. "Besides, you're one to speak about propriety. With how quickly they deified Xolotl and Danzig, I'm sure they're not thrilled that the st two remaining heroes are heretics."

  "Suppose godhood awaits me after they kill us all in a few days," she said drily. "Won't that be nice. I won't be around to argue."

  Steam puffed from the cauldron. Nyxara flicked her fingers, and it folded neatly toward the ceiling, avoiding the herbs hanging overhead.

  While she was distracted, I dragged a stool toward the worktable and got to work setting up my own equipment beside her.

  She blinked. "What are you doing?"

  "Making myself comfortable," I said. "It's not every day I get to work alongside a master apothecary."

  Her tongue clicked. "Fttery won't get you anywhere."

  "I don't know about that." I grinned. "It's given me a seat at your table."

  She sniffed with mock indignation. "Fine. Sit there. Don't talk too much. And don't breathe too loud. If anything with teeth climbs out of the cauldron, you're dealing with it."

  "Deal."

  Nyxara's eyes returned to her cauldron as she resumed stirring.

  I folded my hands in my p, letting my heartbeat settle into something steadier. Not calm—never that—but steady enough to think.

  "Nyxara?" I said softly.

  She grunted.

  "Thanks. For trusting me with your secret."

  She paused mid-stir.

  "You would have found it out anyway..." A beat. "Cire."

  The word almost sounded like acknowledgement.

  The clock inside my ribs ticked on.

  First contact in just under two weeks.

  I felt ready.And terrified.And absolutely determined.

  At least I would no longer be facing them alone.