Kshaor was enjoying this flood, despite the oddity of it. He was generally sent off on information missions, rather than anything actually interesting. But when the apprentice of an old friend asked for him by name, well, his interest was piqued. He was expecting disappointment, being called by one of the two usual groups of people who wanted to be Paragons.

  The first kind were the nobles, discontent with daddy dearest’s rules, deciding that the life of a rogue is perfect for them, so long as they don’t need to do anything on their own. Their hand had to be held every step of the way, if they even had the resolve to avoid running back home. Kshaor never even bothered approaching them, at least not in a way they could see; they were not Paragon material.

  Worse was the second group: the maniacs whose sole purpose was to gain power so they could exert it on anyone around them too weak to resist. He started training one once, and the maniac did have the commitment and force of will to join the Paragons. But Paragons were heroes first, so once Kshaor found his apprentice’s list of people to kill, that was it.

  Meanwhile, his current apprentice threaded the needle. Neither fully consumed by some dark purpose, nor so capricious that she was unworthy of his time. She had secrets, and desires, and she needed some more heroism drilled into her, but assuming they both survived, she would become a Paragon. Her decision to stop the heist had guaranteed that.

  The heist was always a test of skill and mettle more than an actual money-earning event, for the both of them. Kshaor had always wanted to attempt stealing from a fifth-echelon, and the Dryad Queen’s own powers were legendary. For the elf, it was planning ahead, adapting to the mission, and, of course, showing the dedication to doing things the right way.

  Then it all went to hell, but he could always find another person to rob. He had a lot of time, and had a few different heists half planned already. He may even invite his apprentice for some of them, once she's more trained.

  Right now, however, he found himself waiting for said apprentice to convince a member of the local thieves guild to let them up into their home. Another snow elf, named Flavia. Talks were going slow because the noble was indignant that they'd used the tunnels in the first place. That said, if Kshaor knew anything about thieves, she was probably more angry about the breaking of the “Thieves’ Guild Code” than anything else. He wasn’t really interested in listening either way. He was more concerned about the tremors rippling regularly through the city. Whatever that was, it couldn’t be good if it had gone on this long.

  Eventually, his apprentice turned to him with a grin. Flavia looked towards him, but he’d kept his stealth boon active upon entering the house. With a flick of his tail, it slowly dropped, and she saw him in full.

  “Oh. . .” Flavia whispered.

  “Flavia,” the other elf said, “Where did the adventurers go?”

  The older elf looked at her, “They were going to the Vestac complex, a few streets over,” and pointed in the direction. “Why?”

  Kshaor interjected, “Undead invading, they’re in the tunnels, and we’re some of the only people who know about it. Us, and maybe those adventurers. Get the rest of your guild with whatever weapons they can use. More bodies will help.”

  Flavia nodded, seeming slightly dazed, but after a moment she stood up, grabbed her own weapons. The trio left the home after sealing the entrance to the tunnel by placing a large cabinet in the way. Flavia walked quickly towards the gate between Canopy and the rest of the city, while Kshaor was carefully avoiding stepping on any of the Dryadwood making up the street.

  His apprentice didn’t care, instead moving in the direction of the Vestac as quickly as possible.

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  Hraban and Othin were free men (well, man and bird) once more. At least on paper. They were being escorted, quickly, towards the noble’s private section of the city. Othin, of course, was free to fly away if he wanted, but wasn’t willing to let the guards of this city take his companion somewhere alone.

  The Guards were all Dryads, or at least all of the ones he’d seen so far. They were towering over him in their armor, and each step fell with gravitas, but they moved at a remarkably slow pace. How they managed to catch up to any intent thief, Hraban couldn’t tell you.

  The Inquisitor was wearing his robes of office, thick, pure white robes, warded lovingly by the theurges of the Gravemaiden. Others of his order preferred crossbows, but he was taught by Master Jeihann, whose class was Swordmaster. He never carried less than four blades, and his favored weapon was sheathed and carried by one of the guards. It was a messer sword, built for resilience rather than sharpness, and looked more like a cleaver elongated to a sword’s size than anything else.

  Eventually, they passed through the gates into the elite’s district. He was escorted every slow, plodding, thundering step to the massive guard tower within.

  One of them, presumably a captain, spoke without turning, but it was clearly directed towards him. “You are here to kill a necromancer, Hraban of the Mortocracy?”

  He nodded solemnly, “Yes. A fallen Inquisitor.”

  “This person is in this city. Their horde is beneath our very feet. Can you permanently slay undead?”

  “Anything weaker than a Vampire I can guarantee. If you fight alongside me, a Lich may be within our reach.” He was confident in his statement, even if he wasn’t speaking the whole truth. The varieties of undead were wide-ranging. Vampires could be classed, making their encounters unpredictable. Some, like the hate-twisted revenants were truly unkillable by any reasonable means. But vampires were individuals, and revenants took an exceptional amount of time to create intentionally - they certainly could not be considered a horde.

  No, he would be facing the Mindless and Soulless. The kinds Theurges were taught to create, the kinds that farmed and built the Mortocracy to allow the idyll of his homeland.

  He turned to the guard with his sword, and it was handed to him. He spoke a prayer under his breath, one that would activate the latent magic within the blade. It was a simple curate’s spell, one that many learned early on, but it was effective against every kind of undead he’d encountered so far.

  The dryads waved their hand, and the floor beneath them began to move downward. Eventually, a large archway appeared before them, opening wide to a set of tunnels hidden beneath the city. The roots of the guard tower they were in were buzzing with lightning bugs, shining brighter than should be possible.

  “The undead are ahead, at the barricades. We must keep them from the roots.” The captain’s voice bellowed out. They approached the barricade, and the cacophony of a hundred undead feet slamming into the floor grew louder as they did.

  Othin stretched his wings, and Hraban breathed in deeply. He could smell some of the preserving salves they were taught, and knew he was in the right place.

  Othin moved along until he was held solely in Hraban’s hand, and the inquisitor helped him lift off.

  “You may want to cover your ears for this,” He said to his allies, resting his sword on a root as he did so himself. They didn’t move, until Othin’s screech knocked them back a step. Hraban grabbed his sword and became a whirlwind.

  Marc found himself in a nearly empty, black room, sitting in a chair. He heard the sound of a clock ticking, and as he opened his eyes, he saw a figure. The figure was perfectly average in every way, average height, no discernible features, dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt. He was looking at a pocket watch, the source of the noise. Marc felt his chest, only to find no arrow there, only the hole where it should be.

  The figure looked up at Marc with a blank expression. No anger, no happiness, no anything. A purely neutral look.

  “Marcus Henry Green,” The figure stated, watch ticking even louder now. There was no emotion as he spoke, like an AI voice. “You saved a life.”

  “That’s, uh, that’s me,” Marc replied. He hadn’t been called that since high school.

  “This was his time to die, yet you stopped his end.”

  Marc waited. He really didn’t know what to say to that. He wasn’t sorry, not for saving a life.

  “Nor was it your time,” The figure turned down to his watch. “You must return and slay the one you saved. Then, you can live on as you were.”

  Marc looked at the figure in the eyes. His chest started to hurt, more painful than he remembered before he blacked out.

  “No.”