Evening came slowly for Dahlia. She was, for one thing, unaccustomed to waiting on the timetables of others, and to say that the young emberling was easily bored would have been a massive understatement. She had spent the last several hours alternating between pacing until Nil shouted at her to stop and chatting up the Mountaineers as much as they would let her. She had learned, for one thing, that Soren’s position as the shift leader of their mining crew had led naturally to his position as head of the gang (she also learned that he was none too fond of the term ‘gang’, not that he could come up with a better word when pressed). Jonar was a family man, and had already been having trouble making ends meet before Delegate Gilveer began abusing his position; he had joined the crew out of a desperate need to somehow alter the town’s predicament, and tended to be the most agreeable to Soren and his plans. Houg was a ‘daver sculptor, and owned the workshop they were currently hiding under – Dahlia was able to find out that he was Soren’s “uncle” through marriage, but the cagey old man gave little more than that. Mostly he seemed annoyed at being spoken to in the first place. The same went for Corgan, she supposed, who gave at most a sentence or two in response to her questions.

Nil had been quiet as well – judging by the icy look Dahlia received every time she caught the goblin’s eye, she guessed the witch still wasn’t too happy about being roped into helping the locals. Nil was scribbling fastidiously in a small journal as Dahlia ambled up beside her table. 

“What’cha workin’ on there, partner?” Dahlia said, leaning over her shoulder to get a look at the open page. It was filled with what looked like mathematical formulae interwoven with arcane runes and drawings, none of which she could make the slightest sense of. 

Nil snapped the journal shut and glared at Dahlia as if the goblin were about to bite. “We aren’t partners.”

“Right,” Dahlia said, flicking a fingertip against her own temple, “my bad. Nemesis. You’re not still mad about me dragging you along on this, are you?”

There it was again – that look of stunned disbelief on the goblin’s face. After a few seconds of silence, she said, “Two days ago, you and your merry band of lobotomites bumbled into a heist I had been planning for months, ruined everything I have been working for and stole the most important magical relic in the modern world by way of sheer idiot luck. You have, on two separate occasions, nearly gotten me killed, and you are about to waste more of our time walking straight into enemy territory – where, once again, we will most likely be discovered and killed – to rescue a bunch of yokels who were evidently stupid enough to think they could stand up to the Holy Edict!” Nil slapped a hand onto the tabletop, rattling a cup near the edge. “And you’re asking me if I’m angry?!”

“Not a rescue.” Dahlia said, holding up a correcting finger. “A jailbreak, of dissidents against the government’s lawfully appointed Delegate. Much more evil.”

Nil’s fingers flexed, claws digging shallow gouges into the old wood. “The things I am going to do to you the instant I dispel that binding-”

A clatter from the trapdoor announced Soren’s entrance. He had changed into a coat of dark leather, as well as donning a tight-fitting mask and headwrap that would have done a better job obscuring his identity if the elf’s eyes had not been so strikingly blue. “Alright, ladies, the hour is upon us.” He said. It sounded as if he was having trouble containing his excitement. “Have we made all necessary preparations?”

Dahlia spun like a top, propping both fists against her hips. “Never been prepared-er, captain. We’re ready when you are.” 

Soren’s eyes dipped down and up again. “Dahlia, you uh…you don’t have anything a bit less…heavy, do you? Gear-wise?”

“Oh, this? Heh, sure don’t. This armor is like a second skin! The shell of the hardy crustacean!” Dahlia puffed out her chest and rapped her knuckles against her breastplate, producing a metallic bang. “Don’t worry, if stealth fails us, you can always hide behind me for protection.”

The elf laughed nervously. “I suppose I’ll hold you to that, Miss Scratch. After all, you are the one with the, uh…” Soren trailed off, searching for the right word for a moment until simply waggling the fingers of one hand in pantomime of someone casting a spell. 

“Let’s get this over with, then.” Nil said, hopping down from her chair. “Lead the way, if you please.”

Soren nodded, and the three of them made their way up the steps and into the workshop proper. The shop was all but pitch-dark, a band of soft moonlight coming through the bay windows and casting the front half of the room in vague, silvery silhouettes. Here and there, scattered chunks and pebbles of ‘daver caught the thin light and seemed to absorb it, creating a faint, shimmering glow within the stone. Houg sat in an old rocking chair by the window, looking out at the empty street – he looked over his shoulder as the trio emerged from the basement. 

“You look like an idiot, nephew.” Houg said bluntly, turning back toward the window. “I suppose that means you’re still determined to go out there and get yourself killed?”

Soren sighed. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, uncle, but at least I’m doing something. Besides, we have Travelers on our side now.” The elf swept his arm toward Nil and Dahlia. “We won’t get a better chance than this to set things right.”

Houg turned again – even in the moonlight, they could see his craggy brow wrinkle with skepticism. He snorted. “You put too much faith in the Guild’s lackeys, lad. Look at these two. Barely more’n girls. How old are you, Red?”

“Who, me?” Dahlia tapped at her chin for a moment, looking toward the ceiling. “Uhh, let’s see-”

“Don’t answer that, Dahlia.” Nil snapped. “Better a child than an old coward sitting in the dark, anyhow.”

The old orc made a grunting sound that might have been a chuckle. “Anklebiter’s got some fire in her, at least. Do me a favor and try to keep my idiot nephew alive, will you?”

“Alright, alright.” Soren said, tilting his head toward the door. “Come on, the lads are waiting for us outside.”

They found Corgan and Jonar waiting at the mouth of the alley, all but invisible in the pool of darkness created by the narrow space. Both men were dressed in similar garb to Soren’s, only their eyes catching the occasional tiny glint of starlight. 

Soren moved quietly to their side, getting Corgan’s attention with a hand on the shoulder. “How’s it looking?” He whispered. 

“Haven’t seen anybody coming or going for the last few hours,” the big man said, “and things were already pretty damn quiet before that. I reckon anybody who heard what happened’s been holed up, trying to stay out of the way.” He pointed a thick finger Northwest. “Found another body a few streets down, just left where they fell. So that’s at least two dead.”

Soren cursed under his breath. “There’s no going back from this. Fine. Everybody ready to move?”

“Boss, listen.” Corgan turned, crossing his arms. “As risky as this plan is, we got no way of knowing if it’s gonna do us any good. Say everything goes off without a hitch – we pull off the rescue, get these two outta town.” He jerked his thumb toward Nil and Dahlia. “Then what? It could be weeks before help arrives, and that is if you’re right about Gilveer-”

“We are not having this conversation again.” Soren said, a note of steel entering his tone. He was not the larger of the two, but he was significantly taller, and his eyes were grim as he loomed over his human compatriot. “It is Gilveer’s corruption that has put us in this position, I’m sure of it. Chancellor Volsturm carries the will of the gods, and I am certain that the moment she finds out that her Delegate has been hoarding our godstone for personal gain, the Holy Edict will see that justice is done.” He stabbed a finger toward the ground. “Kaldemere has always remained faithful to the Triumvirate. Always. She would not abandon us like this.”

Soren ran a hand over the crown of his head, as if to smooth back his hair, and took a deep breath. “I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, or a week from now, but I know we won’t get another chance like this. We’re moving forward.” He turned to Jonar. “You got everything you need, Jon?”

The dwarf hefted a heavy-looking satchel bag over one shoulder. “Hope so. Gonna be a hell of a thing. Say, ten minutes?”

Soren nodded. “Should be fine. Make it as big as you can.”

Jonar flashed a hearty thumbs-up and jogged off into the darkness. 

“Make what as big as he can?” Nil said, watching him go. “What exactly is the dwarf doing?”

“Wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.” Even through the mask, it was clear Soren was grinning. “Let’s just say Jonar is providing our distraction. Come on, everybody – we are officially on the clock.”

With that, the four of them – Dahlia, Nil, Soren and Corgan – began making their way through the silent, moonlit streets of Kaldemere. They moved slowly and quietly – or at least as quietly as was possible, given the occasional creaking and clanking of Dahlia’s armor – as Soren led the group through narrow alleys and side streets, keeping away from the main roads as much as possible. Luckily, their stealth seemed mostly to go to waste; nothing apart from themselves moved through the little town’s gravel streets, with one notable exception.

Nil’s hand snapped out, catching Soren by the belt and stopping him in his tracks. He raised a hand, signaling the others to stop, and looked down; the goblin’s ears were lifted, twitching in the still night air, her eyes two softly glowing moons. A moment later a swaying figure emerged from around the corner up ahead. All four quickly shrunk back, pressing themselves into the deep darkness of a nearby storefront as the individual staggered into clearer view; it was one of the Watch, missing his helmet and having noticeable trouble walking a straight line as he made his way down the street. He passed by their hiding place without so much as a glance and carried on, moonlight catching the hard lines of his armor as the rest of him faded into the distance. 

“Was he…drunk?” Soren whispered, watching as the soldier’s form blended into the night. “Now, of all times?”

Nil made a scornful little sound, not quite a laugh. “Why not? I can imagine a memory or two that might be worth drinking away.”

The elf shook his head. “Bastards. Come on, not much further now.”

The path ahead opened into a wide, roughly circular town square ringed with various shops and stalls, their hanging wooden signs adorned with simple silhouettes representing services offered – an anvil, a folding razor, a needle and thread. It looked like the sort of place that should have been peppered with colorful tables and booths, ready to be tended by shouting farmers and fishmongers when morning’s light brought the citizens out to mill through the streets; as it was, the wide stretch of empty gravel yawned with a particular sense of melancholy and abandonment even in the blackest hour of night. 

Dominating the northern edge of the square was a large, two-storey structure with a squat watchtower perched at one corner. Guttering orange-brown light spilled from an arched alcove containing the building’s main gate, where two figures sat slumped under soot-stained lanterns. They looked to be asleep, though from a distance it was difficult to tell. 

“That would be the barracks, I assume.” Nil murmured. “Now what?”

“Just a moment.” Soren said. “Jonar should be coming through any minute now.”

And so they waited. Again, nothing moved in the darkness as the four huddled beneath the awning of an abandoned stable – if Kaldemere had had much of a night life before, it had been scared indoors by the morning’s unrest. A light breeze swept over the expanse of empty gravel, stirring up a mournful scattering of coarse dust. Somewhere in the distance, a night bird cried out as Dahlia began to fidget, tugging nervously at the leather straps of her armor. 

The earth beneath their feet trembled. 

Half an instant later, a roar like the end of the world washed over them. Southeast of where the group huddled in the shadows, a flickering orange stain crept into the still air above distant rooftops, growing and spreading until flames could be seen licking over the horizon and pouring black smoke into the sky. It did not take long for the muted sound of a bell, rung frantically somewhere inside the barracks, to drift across the square; the two soldiers posted at the front gate were on their feet now, jabbing fingers toward the flames, shouting voices made unintelligible by the distance. 

“That’s your distraction?” Nil hissed in disbelief. “Burning down half the town?”

Soren shook his head. “I’ve never met anyone with a defter hand for dynamite than Jonar. He wouldn’t let that happen. But more importantly,” he stuck out a finger toward the barracks, “neither will they.”

As if on cue the main gates slammed open, admitting dozens of disheveled, half-armored Watch soldiers into the street. More shouting and pointing ensued until the group turned and stampeded as one toward the source of the flames. The two watchmen remained behind, quite awake now, ostensibly left to hold down the fort. 

“That’s all of them!” Soren whispered. “Or, most of them, hopefully. Time to move, either way.”

Following the elf’s lead they began moving around the outside of the clearing, darting from shadow to shadow and drawing ever closer to the gate. At last, their party stood but a stone’s throw from the entrance; the two watchmen had not even glanced in their direction, so focused were they on craning their necks nervously toward the distant commotion. 

“Now what?” Corgan grunted under his breath. “Us and a couple of zyv girls against their swords? I don’t love these odds, Soren.”

“I’m thinking. I’m thinking, alright?” Soren snapped. “I was sort of expecting all of them to leave.”

Nil stared at him. “You can’t be serious-”

Dahlia put a hand on Soren’s shoulder and stepped forward. “Not to worry, gentlemen. Got everything we need right here.” She unslung her shield from her back and plucked the small hammer from her belt. “Watch and learn.”

With nary a warning the emberling stepped out into the moonlight. Soren and Corgan cringed; Nil reached out, grasping at Dahlia’s tail in an attempt to hold her back and catching only a handful of air. 

“Dahlia, you idiot!” She hissed. “Get back here before they see you!”

Dahlia did not respond, striding forward with her hammer arm outstretched and her head cocked slightly to one side, as if measuring the distance. Luckily – miraculously – the guards’ gaze remained firmly glued to the horizon, and never once did either look in her direction as Dahlia wound back and hurled her hammer in a flat spin toward the gate alcove. Without waiting for the impact she hefted her shield, spun her entire body in the opposite direction and flung it to follow the hammer. The others watched the entire display with varying levels of awe and horror, jaws loosening as their eyes traced the path of Dahlia’s armaments sailing off into the night. 

The first attack missed entirely. Metal cracked against brick as her hammer collided with the alcove wall high above the guards’ heads; both spun toward the sudden noise, hands jumping to their swords. The hammer, meanwhile, had already bounced up and out of their line of sight. It fell in a lazy arc and came down almost directly on top of the first guard’s head, ringing his helmet like a bell. 

At this point, Dahlia’s shield entered the equation, catching the first guard cleanly in the back of his helmet and knocking him forward – his head bounced off the wall before him with an audible clunk. Behind him, still partially stunned by a blow to the head, the second guard did not have the presence of mind to dodge the shield, which in turn bounced from the back of his companion’s skull directly into his face. His head snapped back, knees wobbling for a moment before he sat heavily on the ground.

Corgan swore colorfully and sprinted past her to deliver one last vicious kick to the guard’s head before he could recover. 

“What in all the Hells was that?!” He said, wheeling on Dahlia, his bulldoggish face contorted with rage. The emberling laughed nervously and tried to shrink away, but a hand slapping against her back forestalled any attempt at escape. 

“Yeah, what kind of spell was that?” Soren chirped, having just jogged up behind her. “That was incredible!”

“Spell?” Dahlia blinked. “Uh, right! Spell!” She shot a glance at Nil, who looked as if the vein under her eyelid were about to pop. “That was, uh…y’know, just a bit of, um-”

“Metallurgy.” Nil said, striding up beside them. In the span of an instant her expression had gone placid, her tone perfectly calm. “Ferrokinesis, specifically.”

“Uh, yeah! That!” Dahlia said brightly, snapping her fingers. “Brinya’s always been better than I am with the, uh, terminology.”

Corgan looked back and forth between them, anger and uncertainty warring in his narrowed eyes. “Didn’t look like any spell I’ve ever seen-”

“And you’ve witnessed a lot of magic, have you?” Nil said haughtily. She looked to Soren. “I could bore you with the details, gentlemen, but I believe we are on something of a schedule…?”

“Right.” Soren nodded hesitantly. “Hey, Cor, it’s fine. Got the job done, right? Just…maybe a warning next time, alright Dahlia?”

Dahlia grinned a bit too stiffly and flashed a thumbs-up. “You got it.”

“Whatever. Fine.” Corgan said, shaking his head. “You two, get inside. Boss, get over here and help me with these idiots.” The big man pulled two bundles of rope from his satchel and tossed one to Soren. 

Nil hooked her stubby fingers around one of the armor plates at Dahlia’s hip and pushed through the gate, all but dragging the emberling inside with her. The interior of the barracks was nearly as dark as the street, with just enough dim lanterns bolted along throughout the halls to keep resident soldiers from stumbling over themselves in the night. She slammed the door shut behind them and wheeled on Dahlia. 

“Just once, Dahlia.” The goblin hissed, “Just one time in your miserable life, is it too much to ask that you think before acting on the first notion that comes into your head?!”

“I try not to.” Dahlia whispered. “Disrupts the purity of my purpose. Besides, it all worked out fine, didn’t it?” She stuck out an arm, closing one eye and tilting her head as if lining up another shot. “After all, there are few who can escape the diabolical arcs set into motion by my keen visual calculations.”

“Oh, do not even pretend you did that on purpose, you little-” Nil stopped herself short, took a deep breath through her nose, and spread her hands in front of her. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. You have fun with your little rescue mission – I have a matter that requires my attention.” 

Before Dahlia had a chance to respond, the witch had palmed her spellbook and muttered an incantation. It took less than a second for her body to shimmer and fade from view like a mirage. 

“W-wait! Nil!” Dahlia waved her arms frantically through the space the goblin had occupied a moment before. “What do I tell them? What if I need you?!”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something, love.” Nil’s disembodied voice said. “Be sure not to die horribly while I’m not there to enjoy it!”

The door behind Dahlia swung open as Corgan entered, one of the guards trussed up and slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain – Soren came through behind him, dragging the other by the ankles. Corgan’s shaved boulder of a head swiveled left, then right before he turned an accusing look on Dahlia. 

“Where’d the greenskin go?” He growled. “We ain’t got time to be fuckin’ around!”

Soren’s head came up. “Huh?”

“Uh, yeah, about that.” Dahlia said, scratching the back of her head nervously. “She, um. She said she had to…go take care of some things?”

Soren looked at Corgan, then back at her. “Your handler just…left you?”

“Gods fuckin’ rotting!” The big human rolled his shoulder and let his captive smash into the stone floor; a muffled grunt of pain escaped the man. “I knew somethin’ like this was gonna happen, Soren, I told you. Never should’ve trusted her, Guild or no.” 

“Cor…” Soren said, a note of warning in his tone. 

“And you just let her scurry off?” Corgan said, looming over Dahlia. “What, did the little rat see a coin roll around the corner?”

“Cor, leave it.” Soren snapped. He turned to Dahlia with a somewhat pained look. “This won’t…we can still do what we came here to do, right?”

Dahlia straightened with a jolt. “Uh, yeah! No problem!” She snapped out a salute. “Lead the way, bossman! I’m sure she’ll catch up.”

“Good. Good.” Soren said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Cor, come on. Let’s get these lads somewhere they won’t cause trouble.”

As luck would have it, it seemed that Soren’s plan really had emptied the barracks of all but the two left out front – that, or whoever yet lurked inside was being extremely quiet. Unlikely, given that Watch grunts tended to be woefully underequipped when it came to subtlety, but Nil was not one to take chances. She moved silently on soft-slippered feet, ears perked, eyes wide and dilated against the gloom. The only way anyone could have discovered the invisible goblin would have been by physically walking into her. 

Nil made a slow, methodical circuit of the ground floor, checking every door as she went. A broom closet. A mess hall. What looked to be a combination living quarters and office – probably belonging to the captain. A locked door – she leaned in close to peer through the keyhole, finding only a small room with shelves of dry foodstuffs lining the walls. The next room was the dormitory; Nil pulled away from the doorway almost immediately, the smell of sweat and stale body odor assaulting her sensitive nose.

She pressed her hand against the next door, found it to be locked, and bent once again to look through the keyhole. A much larger room lay on the other side – from Nil’s limited vantage point she could see the dim glint of armor, but little else. A small smile curled the goblin’s lips as she reached into the folds of her dress and pulled out a package of rolled leather. Nil went to one knee and laid the satchel across the floor at her feet, unrolling it to reveal a selection of thin metal rods, varying in size and shape. Choosing two, she came to her feet and carefully inserted her tools into the keyhole, pressing one ear against the locking mechanism. After a few seconds of prodding, she stooped to switch one pick for another and went back to work. 

With a muted clunk, the lock turned, and the door swung open. The room beyond was a dense clutter of shelves and racks filled sporadically with armor, weapons and valuables, roughly organized in such a way that the swords and truncheons could be quickly accessed and distributed in case of emergency. Racks containing suits of armor in various degrees of completeness sat to one side, while another was hung with the Watch’s customary silver-on-white capes – still spotless, which was little surprise given that this platoon did not likely have many opportunities for parade marches. Nil knew from personal experience how difficult it was to get any amount of soiling out of one of those capes; she smiled to herself, feeling a small pang of nostalgic regret that she did not have one of her childhood mud-balls in hand.

Arms and armor was not all that populated the shelves stacked throughout the room. Clothing, jewelry, dishware and more lay strewn haphazardly about, including a ‘daver statue that had been jammed against a corner, its broken base preventing it from standing upright on its own. ‘Evidence’, the soldiers would have called it. A gleaming golden pocket watch caught her eye among the spoils – Nil plucked it from its resting place, slipped it into her dress and moved on. 

The witch found what she had been looking for tucked into the left corner at the back of the room. Nil had watched closely as the platoon ran off toward the fire; not a single one of them had been carrying the death-throwers, and now she knew why. The devices were neatly arranged into two rows on a small, custom-made rack, two heavy steel rods running through the hand-guards of each weapon and secured in place with thick padlocks. It made sense; if her theory was correct, the weapons would be massively dangerous in inexperienced hands. Allowing the rank and file easy access to devices like these would have been irresponsible, to say the very least. 

Luckily, Nil did not need to remove the weapons from their housing in order to accomplish what she had come here to do. She leaned in close, peering at the tubes and mechanisms of one of the weapons until she found what she was looking for: several of the metal components were lined with tiny runes, stamped in a meandering pattern that resembled a swarm of insects crawling along their length. Nodding thoughtfully, Nil removed her hat, inverted it and set it on the floor beside her. She reached into the cone and extracted a small, greenish-white stone with a single rune of its own carved into the surface. Nil pressed her thumb against the sigil, concentrated, and slowly moved the stone toward the glass vial installed in the weapon’s stock – almost immediately, the stone began to emit a faint hum, vibrating ever so slightly in her fingers. 

Even knowing what she was looking for, the confirmation of Nil’s theory sent a shock through her. She felt her hands begin to tremble, fingers squeezing the little stone until they turned white with pressure. Rage welled up in her, gathering at the back of her throat and the base of her spine; hatred bloomed in her chest like a warm coal. Her vision blurred slightly at the edges. The divining stone fell from her hand and rattled across the floor – she barely noticed.

How dare they, she thought, lips pulling back over her fangs. Her jaw clenched until she heard the hard clik-clik of her molars gritting against one another. How dare they.

With an almost violent motion, the witch reached into her hat and snatched a pointed metal stylus. Muttering darkly to herself, Nil began the process of altering the rune formula stamped into each device – an extra curve here, a tiny pair of dots added there. Defacing the entire set only took a few minutes; after all, her aim was not to create any particular formula, only to disrupt what was already present. Once the deed was done, she stood back to survey her handiwork. To anyone but the most astute and attentive of Mages, the difference would be all but invisible.

Nil’s expression shifted, twisting her delicate features into a satisfied, hateful little smile. She would show them. She would show all of them what happened when they put their hands to the flame. 

The air became more dense with every step Dahlia took down the narrow stairwell, wetter, more thick with the cloying scent of mildew. Above, the barracks’ halls had been well enough maintained, if somewhat spartan; the further they ventured underground, Corgan behind her, Soren leading the way, the more the moist chill and grit underfoot seemed to increase. 

“Yeuugh,” Dahlia said, rubbing her hands along her upper arms, which produced no warming effect whatsoever given that they were encased in armor, “kinda nasty down here, huh?”

“It’s a prison, girl.” Corgan grunted. “Ain’t meant to be pleasant.”

“Both of you, quiet. Please.” Soren said, gesturing ahead. The stairs leveled out into a cramped, featureless hallway that stretched only a few paces before terminating in a heavy wooden door with a barred slot-window sitting roughly at eye level. From somewhere in the room beyond could be heard the sound of weary voices muttering back and forth to one another. Soren put his hand to the door, giving the handle a couple of shoulder-driven cranks to no avail. 

“Quiet!” A female voice hissed from up ahead. “Somebody’s coming.”

Soren turned, a grim smile on his face. “Alright, first obstacle. You ready to give it a shot?”

“Let’s do it.” Dahlia said, stepping forward. She cleared her throat, bowed her head and laid her left palm against her breastplate, muttering the scriptures etched into her mind since childhood under her breath as she had countless times before. She felt the power suffuse her almost immediately, something deep and long dead reaching out to pour heat into her chest, heat that collected in her veins and swirled through her heart, her shoulder, flowing until it reached the tips of her fingers. The door’s lock and handle were set into one large, pitted panel of iron with a wide keyhole in the middle – Dahlia stuck out two fingers on her right hand and inserted them as if she held the missing key. 

The heat of her power surged like a river through a ruptured dam, humming through the iron shell of her gauntlets and into the panel. Dull red, then orange seeped into the dark gray metal, spreading outward from her knuckles like liquid, the hot tang of burning iron filling her nostrils. Dahlia turned to grin at the Mountaineers, twisted her wrist, and pushed her fist through the panel as if it were wet clay. A cacophony of tortured, metallic sounds rang out – springs popping, bolts snapping and melting – and the door swung open with a shudder. 

Dahlia pulled her hand free and gave it a quick shake, scattering minuscule globs of glowing metal against the wall beside her. “Pretty neat, huh?”

Both men were still staring at the ruined door, wide-eyed. Seemingly without noticing it himself, Soren crossed three fingers over his heart. “Uh, yeah.” He said haltingly. “Really…neat. Let’s, uh, let’s get in there and make sure everybody’s okay.”

The door opened into a simple continuation of the cramped stone hall with a dead end about fifteen feet ahead. It was almost pitch black within, the only light filtering down the stairs behind them from a single dim lantern – a torch sconce perched high on the wall to their left as the group entered, but it had been left empty. To the right, two cells roughly large enough for one or two occupants each were enclosed by barriers of thick iron bars. Some dozen or so bleary pairs of eyes peered out from pools of darkness as Dahlia and the Mountaineers entered. 

A middle-aged human woman with a mop of tousled red hair swam out of the blackness, gripping the bars in white-knuckled fists. “Soren? Corgan? What in the fuck are you doing here? And who the fuck is-” she shook her head violently, cutting herself short. “Doesn’t matter. You need to get out of here, now. I dunno what fool notion got into your head to just waltz in here-”

“Marlisse, listen!” Soren said, holding his palms up. “Listen, it’s fine. The Watch are all gone, they’re…well, except for the two we have tied up in the closet upstairs, but-”

“You what?!” Marlisse said, voice going so hoarse she nearly choked. A hubbub of agitated voices began to rise from the cells. 

“It doesn’t matter. Everybody, listen, I’ll explain everything, but this is not the time or the place.” Soren turned to Dahlia and jerked the side of his head toward the bars. “For now, I need all of you to move back toward the wall. As far as you possibly can.”

A chorus of confusion arose from the prisoners, but Dahlia had taken the signal and was already beginning her recitation afresh. As luck would have it, the cells had been built with their doors quite close together – the right cell opened on the left side of its barrier, the left cell on the right. This being the case, the emberling was just able to stretch her wingspan enough to grasp the locking panel of both doors simultaneously, closing her fingers around each in a clawlike grip as another rush of heat flowed through her and into the metal. 

“Hey, what’s she doing?” A male voice said, its pitch rising frantically as the panels turned cherry-red and began to soften under Dahlia’s hands. “Hey! Hey!”

Those who had not heeded Soren’s command before did so now, pressing themselves against the damp stone at their backs as much as the cramped alcoves would allow. A dozen pairs of eyes went nearly circular, staring with varying levels of terror as the emberling slowly clenched her fists, clawing through steel with what seemed only mild effort. Once the panels had been all but destroyed she pulled sharply back, tearing the unrecognizable lumps of molten goo free of their housing and leaving two holes in the bars like mouthfuls of broken teeth. 

A long moment of silence came and went, and everyone began speaking at once. 

“A Mage?!” Said a stern-looking young drow, his expression wide with disbelief. “You brought a Mage here?!”

“Soren, are you absolutely fucking insane?” Marlisse said. 

“Where did you even find a Mage?” Asked a short, stocky man with orcish features. 

Soren waved a hand frantically. “People, like I said I can explain, but I would very much like to do so anywhere but here. The Watch could be back at any second, and our one chance to get all of you out of here will be wasted if we don’t move,” he swept both arms toward the stairs, “right now.”

The assorted prisoners exchanged uncertain looks but soon began filing out of their cells, most all of them giving Dahlia a wary look as they passed or simply refusing to glance in her direction at all. The exception to this trend was a goblin in a yellow rain-coat who trudged slowly behind the rest of the group. 

“Uh, h-hey.” She said, pausing just outside the ruined cell door to address Dahlia. Her voice was a nervous, reedy squawk. “Um, thanks for, y’know, breaking us out.” The goblin stuck out a slightly trembling hand. “N-name’s Bobbi.”

Dahlia did her best not to flinch at the prospect of gratitude. You’re playing a part, she reminded herself. Hero types bask in gratitude all the time. It’s fine. She extended her arm stiffly, grasping Bobbi’s hand and giving it three mechanical pumps, up and down. 

“Dahlia Scratch.” She said woodenly. “Think nothin’ of it.” 

Bobbi’s gaze lingered on her hand, the skittish look in her eyes dimming a bit as if she were relieved not to have burst into flames. “Uh, s-so, are you-”

“Hey, you two.” Corgan snapped, “Save the jawing for later, we’re leaving.”

“Huhyup! Right behind ya!” Dahlia chirped, snapping a thumbs-up out in the big man’s direction. “C’mon, Bobbi. Ain’t out of the woods just yet.” 

Soren had gathered the others at the base of the stairs as Dahlia and Bobbi jogged to catch up. “…Quick and quiet.” He was saying. “We’ve got a hideout, should be able to accommodate everyone here for…at least a few days. If we get separated for any reason, you stick with one of the Mountaineers, they’ll know where we’re headed.” He took a moment to point out Corgan, Marlisse and a few others. “Everybody ready? Let’s go.” 

Soren crept forward, retracing their steps toward the ground floor, the tight confines of the stairwell forcing the rest of the group to walk in nearly single file behind him. He kept his head up, listening intently for any signs from above that the barracks’ occupants might have returned; save for the patter of their own hushed footfalls on stone, there was nothing. The group had nearly reached the top of the steps. 

A sharp, collective intake of breath sounded through the corridor as someone stepped into the doorway above. 

“There you are.” Nil said, putting her hands on her hips. “I was beginning to think you lot had gotten yourselves lost.”

Soren let out a relieved breath and half-turned, holding out a palm to the others. “It’s alright, everyone, she’s with us.”

“The hell she is!” Corgan growled, shouldering the elf aside as he stomped toward her. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, sneaking off like-”

Corgan reached the top of the stairs and froze; Nil had taken a step back, her dagger appearing abruptly in her hand. 

“That’s close enough, human.” She said softly. “Anything you’d like to say, you can say from right there.”

His eyes went to the dagger, lip curling with rage. “You vicious little-“

“Cor! Cor.” Soren climbed the steps behind him two at a stride, grabbing the bigger man by the shoulder. “We can’t afford to do this right now. Let’s keep focused, alright? We’re almost home free.”

Corgan snarled something unintelligible and shook the elf’s hand from his shoulder. “You heard the man, folks. Anklebiter’s with us. Keep moving.”

He turned and jogged away, leaving the somewhat confused collection of prisoners little option but to shrug and keep pace. Nil turned her attention to Dahlia, raising an eyebrow as she and Bobbi brought up the rear.

“It seems you did perfectly fine on your own, as expected. Who’s this, now?”

Bobbi stuck out a hand. “Bobbi, traveling merchant. You’re…Dahlia’s friend?”

Nil looked at the hand as if it might be filthy, making no move to take it. “Brinya. Charmed. And no, not as such. I am Miss Scratch’s handler.”

“You’re Travelers!” Bobbi said, snapping her fingers. Her eyes sparkled. “That makes so much more sense. B-but, this is great! I’ve only heard about two of ours being inducted into the Guild here and there, so, to actually meet a-!”

“Yes, well…” Nil said, cutting her short, “really, Bobbi, lovely to make your acquaintance but I do believe we are being left behind.” She made pointed eye contact with Dahlia and tilted her head toward the rest of the group. “Shall we?”