After Magpie swept out of the office, Vaza was left to gather up the many pns for Divine Puppets, sort them, and file them.

  He has no need to fear that the Goddess of Victory would dislike this pn. To gain command over lesser spirits would increase her influence over the other Deities as well as the humans. Whether or not a few humans died? Well, no one said she was the Goddess of Deathless Victory.

  Vaza was already well acquainted with Her ways. His wish was constantly lorded over him, always one mistake away from being taken away as punishment.

  In fact, he was quite surprised that the Goddess had allowed Afia to walk away in one piece.

  Then again, She did try to seem so unshaken, unaffected by anything. She didn’t want any of the other Deities to spy any weaknesses, or worse, have a Spirit seek to challenge her for Deityhood.

  As the Head Holy Imanjar, Vaza was the closest human to her, Her loyal hound. His mistress had no need to hide her pettiness from one such as him.

  Head swirling with such thoughts, Vaza mechanically continued about the more menial portions of his job.

  Sometimes, Vaza felt as one with the lowly civil servants working to keep the country operating under the vice-like grip of the greedy, bloodsucking nobles.

  Not that Vaza thought all of the nobles were greedy. He was even pretty sure none of them sucked blood. Thinking about them in such a manner made him feel a bit better about his own tyrant of a mistress, however, so he kept on doing it.

  Poor civil servants! They write the accounting books, fudge the numbers for the nobles when they siphon away money illegally, and then bear their master’s wrath when there’s less money than there should have been. At least he doesn’t have to face that.

  Haha. Ha. ha… Yes, because a demanding Goddess and threat of impending doom was much better.

  Speaking— or rather thinking— of nobles, he has to get his robes cleaned for the meeting with the nobility on Thursday. Less than a week was left to prepare.

  ‘There is no time to analyze my overwhelming anxiety concerning the far off future, when each moment is necessary for completing the days work,’ he brainwashes himself.

  As Vaza drowns himself in thoughts of the work to come, Afia is making final preparations for her family’s journey across the ocean. Three rge rooms had been booked on a shipping vessel carrying dry wheat and other goods to Maharnak’s outposts in Sareatenten, The Grass Pins.

  Her elders’ homend was actually far to the west of the country of Sareatenten, located in a pce known locally as “Forests of Plenty, Earth of Stars.”

  The Maharnak’s name for it was a bit different, Sikadma, transting in the indigenous nguage to “Money Giver,” albeit with a few wrong letters and missing sounds.

  Come to mention it, Sareatenten was a bit of a mess of a word as well… But no matter!

  The suitcases were packed, the house was let out to a kindly pair of newlyweds, and all was in order. And Soon, Afia will be free of the sense of overwhelming dread forever growing in the pit of stomach (or so she hoped).

  Afia felt some guilt for leaving Scamp, Rafinel, and Perfidence behind. Not enough to go back and say goodbye or actually do something, of course.

  She has always been the lookout, warning them of when Austran was approaching, getting them out before anyone caught them sneaking food from the kitchen, pying cards with the city drunkard, or securing cheap, trashy novels from the newsboy. This time, they would have to spy the trouble themselves.

  “Come on Afia! Hurry up!” a younger version of Afia calls out.

  “Yeah, you’re gonna make us miss the boat!” yells a genderswapped twin.

  Amma comes accompanied by the rest of the family, witnessing Afia catch the two by their colrs before they can dash away.

  “Wait for us old folk, Nana Obaa,” calls out the mother of Amma, Obaatan.

  Feeling safe among her loved ones, Afia begins the journey to the port. She crosses through the Capital’s Outskirts, avoiding the worst of the Gutter.

  A little rundown café’s sign fps in the wind as the family hurried past in the midst of a lively, loving squabble.

  Inside the basement of the café, Silnarion wipes the blood running down their face. Don’t worry, it is their own blood.

  “Again.”

  Ms. Mercenary’s offending fist has the same rusty colored liquid smeared across the knuckles. It is not her blood.

  “You are quite capable of splitting me in two with your soul’s sword aura. I don’t see why you want me to keep hammering you.”

  She lunges toward the still recovering Silnarion with the strength and voracity of a leopard.

  “Not that I’m compining!”

  Her fist comes hurtling towards their face. Silnarion twists their body from their waist, flowing with the punch rather than dodging it. Their leg gives out as the woman’s knee makes contact with their chest. Her hands encircle their thin, flexible waist.

  Silnarion’s eyes would have widened in surprise if they weren’t so busy being upside down on the wrong end of a suplex.

  With a sm, she brings them both down onto the floor. Silnarion makes no move to get up. The pantheress, on the other hand, is on the prowl again in seconds.

  A toothy grin comes into Silnarion’s line of sight.

  “Feel stronger yet?” She offers a hand to help them up.

  Silnarion grasps the rough, outstretched hand covered in calluses. Their other sms into the tiger’s maw. The mighty form lumbers back a step in surprise.

  With a boisterous ugh, Ms. Mercenary finished pulling Silnarion to their feet.

  “How about you tell me?” They reply, dusting off their bck, silky undershirt and readjusting their wide-legged trousers.

  “You’re strong enough to deal with a bunch of teenagers and untrained thugs, I suppose”

  “That’s good enough for now.” Bck and blue splotches are visible across Silnarion’s forearms, face, and neck.

  They also seem to be moving with no difficulty or soreness, which is quite odd for one that just took a pummeling from a mercenary kicked out of the guild for being too brutal. (It turns out the employers don’t want to be beat up alongside their enemies by the mercenaries they hired in the first pce.)

  Ms, Mercenary nods in agreement.

  Silnarion fixes the ornate, bck mask to their face. “Time to pick out the newest Sect members, then.” Even with the mask, the bruises on the jawline are still visible, but the eye slits are too narrow and too deep in shadow to reveal any swelling or discoloration there. Combined with the quality of their clothes, they look like some rich young master who had just gotten into a bar brawl with some dy’s suitors.

  Ms. Mercenary juxtaposed with the thin, wiry form of Silnarion looks like the hired muscle, perhaps even like a bodyguard hired by the young master’s family.

  Altogether, one might mistake them for the cannon fodder minor vilin that bullies a main character embodying the spirit of “crouching tiger, hidden dragon.”

  Unaware of their incongruent appearance, Silnarion and Ms. Mercenary exit through the basement’s storm door into the alley, neatly avoiding the street where Afia walks unaware of how close she was to the danger she is fleeing.

  When night falls, the illegal fighting ring will have a new competitor.