"That's a lot of big talk for the guy who got himself captured," Lily said with a huff. She was leaning with her back against the cell door and did not look impressed by the man's display. "Do you have any idea how much trouble we went through to get here?"

  Cal would have read them the riot act as well if it hadn't been for the demon's presence. That alone meant this trip was worth it.

  "Is that the Arcutien brat?" Ferguson's nose wrinkled, and he turned to where Cal stood. "And the Ardere one too! You're all mad. Do you think this is some field trip? Don't tell me the Procellae is skulking around somewhere."

  Rolland placed a hand on Ferguson's right shoulder, his eyes trained at the ugly stump it led to. It had not been a clean cut, and bits of charred flesh still dangled off it. The pair exchanged looks, only one of them having eyes to do so, and Ferguson made a noise of acceptance.

  The ground under him shifted, and he collapsed onto the newly made chair. Benjamin approached and knelt by his side, examining the wounds with a frown. He reached for his pouch of medical supplies and began tending to the man.

  "Nah," Cal responded casually while Benny began mixing bottles again. Saying he was relaxed was a stretch, but having Ferguson back was a load off. "He's the only one of us that had a lick of sense."

  Ferguson grunted at that. His remaining hand reached for his back, and Cal caught the twitch as the man tried to grab at what was not there. Rolland's brow furrowed at that, and he looked to Benny, who remained stoic in his work.

  "Shame he didn't share," Ferguson retorted. His head tilted upwards. "Who's that upstairs?"

  Cal checked again, only to find himself still blind to the outside.

  "You can sense that?" he asked with a smidge of jealousy. His senses were nothing to sneeze at, and he didn't like being beaten at something he considered himself good at.

  Ferguson's foot shifted across the floor, and his face hardened.

  "Aye. Not directly, but the Earth is a gossip and she whispers to me. The smaller of the two was just put through the outer wall."

  Cal wasn't sure how Ferguson could get such a clear picture from vibrations alone, but the man was a Finger. That title had to count for something.

  "That would be Adjunctor Basem," Benny said, while jamming a syringe into Ferguson's arm. It didn't produce so much as a flinch, which was good, because the boy had laid out several more and was reaching for the next. "He was meant to serve as a distraction while we freed you and locked down the ninth floor. There is something there that was stolen, and he is eager to recover it."

  Ferguson's face scrunched up, and he spat onto the ground.

  "Shirai? Gods, I can't afford to buy his silence. The she-devil is going to skin my hide for this." Benjamin took a break from the injections and gave the man a small packet. Ferguson placed it in his mouth like a piece of chewing tobacco. "Boy, what's your gut say? What are his chances?"

  That was extremely tough to tell. He'd only been able to observe their opening engagement.

  "I have nothing to back this up," Cal offered a disclaimer before continuing. "But I don't feel he's good enough to finish the job."

  Basem was strong, and he should be able to survive the encounter. However, that demon would be hard to kill, and Cal didn't think the Adjunctor was up to the task. It was likely that he would be forced into a retreat after a prolonged battle.

  "He did not entertain the idea of failure," Rolland broke his silence. His hand reached into his breastplate but stopped short. "That displays his confidence in the matter."

  Basem had been sure of himself, but who in their position wasn't? No one reached their level of strength by sitting by the wayside. They seized it by repeatedly pushing themselves. Those who succeeded were used to getting their way.

  "Did ya think I wasn't?" Ferguson jeered, reaching up and whacking Rolland on the side of the head. "I did a number on the bugger, but it's had time to make itself at home." He paused, rubbing his chin before pointing at Lily and Cal. "You lot aren't supposed to know this. Considering where we are, I don't give a rat's ass about that, so listen up." He slapped his thigh. "Rule one about demons: don't let em live."

  Cal was thankful they'd left their phones behind; he must have been wearing the dumbest expression on his face. What was the other option there, have tea with them? He might have had trouble with what some consider common sense, but this wasn't one of those areas.

  "Wow," Lily commented dryly. "I would have never guessed. What's rule two?" Ferguson broke a smile at that before it withered away, making way for a grave look.

  "There's none. Cause if you screw up rule one, you're dead. A demon's presence changes the world, makes it more like the hells. If they stay in one place too long, the barrier starts to weaken, and more of them can wander over. Treat em like an infestation."

  Cal didn't have to feign a look of disturbance at that. Despite his lengthy experience in combating demons, he'd been ignorant of that aspect of them. There was good reason for that, as the Federation was adept at catching cultists either prior to or soon after their summoning. Cal may have played around a little when he was called in, but in terms of actual time spent, he killed them quickly.

  "Doesn't change much, does it?" Lily questioned. "I mean, we still need to kill it."

  In essence, she was correct. However, his jaunt in the hells taught him they were a tad more resilient over there.

  "Good lass," Ferguson said with a nod. "That's right. It'll be a little tougher, but I ain't met a head I can't split open."

  He'd probably never met Aegis then. Cal wondered how his colleagues in the Federation would react to the goings-on here. Most of their opinions could take a long walk off a short pier, but there were a few he valued. Unfortunately, he wouldn't be able to convince those few that he had planned this.

  "Who are these people?" Rolland asked in a harsh tone. "Mere mercenaries would not dare defile Urel's temple."

  Ferguson huffed, releasing a breath. He ran a hand over his scalp, and he shook his head.

  "Nother thing I shouldn't be telling ya," he mumbled before continuing in a somber voice. "Aye, they be mercenaries. It's who they're working for that's important. Craven and I have a history. He used to be a chieftain of one of the tribes I tangled with. He disappeared a few decades ago."

  The tribes now too? On the one hand, this was turning into a geopolitical clusterfuck; on the other hand, the tribes didn't really count as a country. They were a collection of nomads who roamed the tundras in the far northwest. Isolationist by nature, they seldom ventured out from their corner of the world. With no unifying presence, negotiations with them were nearly impossible.

  That wasn't to say the Federation hadn't tried. With the tribes having fought off incursions from the Holy Enclave for over a hundred years, the two groups had a common enemy. The tribes simply had no interest in outsiders.

  Craven must have been a black sheep of sorts.

  "My brat's a meddlesome one. Always yapping about this and that and trying to get me off my ass. She sent me a letter a while back about a sighting of him out here. Was gonna ignore it till that uppity Justiciar got me all bothered," he said with a forlorn expression. His empty sockets pointed up, and his voice broke. "I don't know what came over me. I just thought that if I could beat him again, maybe I could get back some of what I lost? Ya know? It was dumb of me. Shouldn't have come out here in the shape I was in, and I paid the price for it."

  Cal stared at the stump. With the aid of a dedicated healer and the patient's own skill in augmentation, limbs could be regrown. There were some people who didn't even need the former. However, wounds from demons weren't your standard fare, and Cal couldn't say if he'd ever recover.

  "This belongs to you," Rolland said, holding out the golden finger.

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  Ferguson didn't react, and Rolland took the man's arm, uncurling the palm and gingerly placing the pin on it. The bald head snapped at his hand, and his fingers clenched and unclenched, feeling the metal.

  "I don't deserve it," he said, speaking as if he were addressing a ghost. "Not since Sherry died. I don't even know why I kept the damn thing so long."

  Rolland closed the man's fist around it, holding it firm.

  "If you truly wished to be rid of it, then you would have destroyed it properly."

  Ferguson's trembling hand steadied, and he stood, resolution etched onto his face.

  "Aye. You're right about that." He turned to Benny, who had finished applying a salve to his stump. "If you're done fussing over an old man. I have a weapon I need to get back."

  After a polite discussion about not causing further damage to the historical monument by tunneling to the surface, they'd made their way back to the entrance of the tower. Past the center doors they'd bypassed earlier was another winding staircase. It was much larger than the previous ones, with each step being large enough to fit two cars horizontally. The space in the middle was open, allowing one to peek at the distant ceiling. Due to the vertical height of each floor, they had to ascend multiple flights of stairs to pass even one floor. He found himself tempted to explore the subsequent levels, yet their goal was the ninth floor, and so they didn't dally. They hadn't run into anyone yet, but it was only a matter of time.

  "I can't believe you swiped the Wayfinder," Ferguson said, having been recently informed of the relic's presence. "You better run to the palace and put it back after we're through here."

  It would probably be harder to steal with a Finger around. He might have been blinded, but he'd already shown his perception to be intact. That was not to say he was in peak form. His magical presence was like a bonfire to his senses, but in terms of practical use, Cal was pretty sure he could kill him without drawing on the void. Ferguson's physical form had been battered. He hid his difficulties well, but there was an odd lean to him, and he couldn't quite smooth out his stride.

  "That was my intention," Rolland replied uneasily. He'd most likely noticed what Cal had.

  "Good. I'll handle Craven. After that, I'll hop down and help the Shirai brat finish the demon. When I do, he's in charge." Ferguson gestured to Cal. "He knows the Waste better than any of us."

  Yes, he absolutely did. However, the way Ferguson phrased it bothered him. It felt like he was making too many assumptions.

  "Believe me," Lily cut in. "We noticed."

  Ah, another pointed look he was going to ignore. Strangely, Benny and Rolland didn't share her reaction. They looked almost understanding of him. There was no way that could be the case.

  "Lass, you wanted to be a Finger, right?" The question seemed to catch them all off guard. "Left or Right?"

  Lily chewed on her cheek, and she stole a glance at Cal before replying.

  "Right."

  Ferguson snorted at that, but nodded in approval.

  "Want to see the world, do ya? I'll put a word in with my brat. There are no backdoors for passing the trial, but if you do make it, I'll make sure you can pick your deployment."

  That was an unexpected boon for the girl. Mixed feelings arose in Cal. He knew this was all temporary and that he'd leave behind everyone he met in the Empire one day. The possibility of encountering them elsewhere had never occurred to him.

  His senses alerted him, and he looked up to see a crate falling down the center of the staircase.

  "That's just wasteful," Cal commented, watching as magic inside the box started to violently expand.

  Ferguson stepped forward, and the walls extended, wrapping them in a cocoon of marble. It had been formed swiftly but was far too brittle to defend against the resulting explosion. It shattered, and Rolland placed both hands up, forming a barrier of light. The prince appeared strained, but outlasted the blast.

  They'd just taken a breath when Cal spotted another crate.

  "This feels spiteful," he said while preemptively shooting a jet of flame toward the box of cores. It set off the explosion prematurely, and Ferguson sealed off the entirety of the ceiling, pulling more marble to replace that which was demolished.

  "Desperate, more like it," Lily said in a tone of frustration. "Considering they're throwing bombs at us. I vote we forget about preserving the staircase."

  Another explosion caused the ceiling to tremble, and more marble was layered overhead.

  Ferguson did not wait for the votes to be tallied, and the steps beneath them flattened, bringing them onto level flooring. It shifted them to the previously empty center, and Cal felt them beginning to ascend. The improvised roof moved with them, and explosion after explosion shook the structure.

  Cal lamented the number of cores those idiots were detonating. Couldn't they just patiently wait for their demise?

  They jerked to a stop, and their platform lowered before shooting up again. It met with the same resistance as before, and Cal got to experience what the inside of a battering ram must have felt like.

  "Screw this," Lily said, pulling magic into her palms. They crackled, and lightning was wrangled into the form of a lance. "And screw them."

  It pierced through Ferguson's roof, and Cal took a knee as the shockwave pushed him down. He glanced at Lily, who, while huffing, had a manic grin on her face.

  "Don't give me that look." She responded, her claws sparkling. "We got the big lug now. I'm through holding back for the next fight."

  That was true, and he wasn't trying to rebuke her. It was just easy to forget how dangerous these kids could be.

  "A word of warning next time would not be remiss," Benny said while rising from the floor. He helped Rolland up, whom he'd tackled down. "That could have ended poorly."

  Ferguson had been the only one of them to remain standing, and his sockets were directed at the hole above them. The ground shifted again, this time slowly, as they were gradually brought upwards.

  The destruction Lily caused must have disrupted some wards, because new signatures came into his awareness.

  And they were surrounded. Neat.

  The room was in the shape of an oval, and at the far end was an altar. It was up some steps, and behind it was a set of plain wooden doors. More frescoes adorned the walls; however, they were hidden on account of the moss covering them. There were some arches that might have once contained windows, but they had been covered by tarps. Above them was a glowing pool of liquid resembling a suspended pond.

  "Ferguson, old foe." One of the two men standing in front of the altar welcomed them with open arms. He was skinny, with his bones clearly visible under his weathered skin. He was wearing a kilt, and his chest was bare aside from a sash of twine. On his head was a metallic crown; it looked at odds with the rest of his clothing. "Spirits be praised. I hope the accommodations were to your liking."

  Ferguson punched forward, and a jagged line of spikes began extending toward the man who waved a hand in return. Grass sprouted in the attack's path, and the spikes abruptly stopped upon reaching it.

  "Never one for words, were you?" the man said dismissively. "That's why I let you keep your tongue."

  Ferguson's magic spiked at that, but he seemed to bring himself back into control. He brought a finger to his ear, cleaning it out.

  "Jus don't see a point in talking with a dead man."

  Before any more heartfelt messages could be exchanged, there was something important that needed to be established.

  "Question," Cal said, raising his hand and attracting the attention of everyone. "This wouldn't happen to be the ninth level of the tower, would it?"

  His intrusion seemed to catch both big shots flat-footed, and one of the mercenaries hanging in the wings spoke up.

  "It's the eighth."

  "Cool," Cal said happily. "Go ahead and keep going."

  Basem had said to spare those on the ninth floor. There had been nothing said about the eighth.

  The man whom he deduced was Craven waited a moment before waving another hand.

  "I—" The mercenary didn't get a chance to speak further as moss crawled up his boot. The moment it made contact with his skin, he fell to the ground. He writhed as liquid seeped from his body. The moss absorbed it, growing faster until it completely enveloped him, and he moved no more.

  That was one way to foster loyalty or a dagger in the back. Definitely one of those two.

  "Can you stop disposing of our associates in such a crude manner?" The second man by the altar spoke up in a gravelly voice. His face was completely obscured by wrappings, and he wore a long cloak with a silver trim. "This venture is already unprofitable as it is."

  Craven turned to his companion with pity in his eyes.

  "That you are so close to greatness and persist in these delusions saddens me."

  The man muttered, holding his hand to his face before addressing the tribesman.

  "What saddens me is the Shirai dog at the gates, the Finger in our hall, and half our stock escaping. This would never have happened if you had let me form the contract."

  Cal was trying to figure out who was in charge. He was pretty sure it was Craven based on how the mercenaries seemed to hold their breath at his every word, but this new character wasn't a grunt. One thing was certain: he wanted them to keep talking. He shuffled towards Ferguson, attempting to be discreet as he grabbed the man's wrist. The Finger seemed to get the message, even if he didn't look happy about it.

  "Your will would have shattered under its presence, and we had no other methods to repel him," Craven said while tapping on his crown. "I tire of your incompetence, outsider. This trinket of yours has failed, as have your attempts to open the sanctum."

  He was getting the sense that if they just waited a little, the two would end up killing each other. That feeling grew as the wrapped man began to chuckle darkly.

  "I would have perfected that trinket if you had brought me more alphas. As for the door, I was never going to open it, you lunatic," he spat, sweeping his hand across the room. "The best part is, they all knew. Only you were kept in the dark."

  Craven shook his head while wearing a sad smile.

  "And people wonder why we do not deal outside of our kin. I led you here, and yet you wronged me. Spirit's blessings, I let word of my presence spread." A light entered his eyes as they locked onto Rolland. "Spirit! Do you hear me?! Come! Greet a descendant of The Mother, so that the world may know your greatness once more!"

  His voice echoed, and the one to respond was decidedly not a spirit.

  "Maker, save me from this simpleton," the man said in exasperation. "The royal family's blood is generations removed from their forefathers. It's too diluted—"

  The wooden door creaked open, and light pooled into the room, coalescing into a figure. It was translucent, and the first thing that caught Cal's eye was the shaggy beard that ran down to its feet. It paced across the short length of the altar with its hands held behind its back.

  "She's dead. It's not my fault. I did my best. It's not my fault. She planned for this. It's not my fault. I should listen to her. It's not my fault. She's dead. It's not my fault. I did my best. It's not my fault. She planned for this. It's not my fault. I should listen to her. It's not my fault," the figure paused in its ramblings, blinking and raising its head. "A descendant?" Its sight passed through Craven, settling on Cal's group. "A descendant."

  The air seemed to still as they withstood its scrutiny, and Cal was starting to wish he'd let the crazy man talk less.

  "She's dead," it said, raising a palm in their direction. "It's your fault."

  Cal agreed. It was his fault. He was the one who wanted chaos, and a vengeful spirit certainly qualified.