Matabar

Step by step, they drew closer to the top of the building. The rasping echo of heavy, exhausted footsteps scraped against the rough walls, where the paint was veined with cracks that looked like scars left there by some invisible, flesh-hungry paw with menacing claws.

How had the tenants and staff of the Castle Tower failed to notice them? The reason was quite simple: without the Ley glasses Milar and Ardi had, only someone trained in the art of the Aean'Hane could have seen the underside of reality. An underside that Ardi, at the moment, would have preferred not to notice at all.

His head spun faintly from the insistent, cloying stench — a mix of sulfur, the salty taste of tears, and the metallic tang of hot blood that had dripped onto the tip of his tongue. It was bitter and viscous, steeped in pain and fear.

Demons…

***

The little hunter perched on a stone, watching the falcons soar along their airy paths. He watched them drift among the clouds, diving into their white depths only to surface a heartbeat later and once again direct their gazes below — down to where all those unfortunate enough to be born without feathers clung to life.

Sometimes, one of those hunters of the cloud trails would fold its wings and plummet like a stone. They'd turn into a yellow-brown lightning bolt slicing through the azure sky, until, at the last moment — moving so fast that the eye could scarcely see more than a blur — the sky hunter would snatch up its prey and, wings spread wide, speed off again.

Ardi loved falcons.

Perhaps he even loved them just a tiny bit less than swallows.

Those free-spirited, dark blue-and-white birds lived at the very foot of the Stairs. They nested in their burrow-like homes, and with the first rays of the sun — when the breeze from the eastern slopes was still barely caressing the stone blanket of the Alcade's ridges that were so hungry for warmth — they would flutter out into the open. Accompanied by whistling calls and the swift flapping of sharp wings, they would dart about, chirping cheerful tales and slightly risqué yarns.

Ergar had never liked swallows. He couldn't grasp what Ardi found so charming in their endless chatter.

But the little hunter still listened to them.

He listened to their stories of what happened out there, beyond the horizon, where the sky-wanderers flew whenever the Alcade was veiled by the Queen of Ice and Darkness, the ruler of the Winter Court.

Swallows would leave to wait out the cold and the crushing embrace of the white snow. They'd cross the Alcade range under the starlight of the Soaring Phoenix, passing near its beak, and then play tag with the constellation of the Riders before coming to rest on far-off islands.

What wondrous tales they shared — marvelous and enchanting. The other beasts didn't believe them. Nor did Atta'nha.

"Swallows can't be trusted," the wise she-wolf was teaching him even now.

She was sitting beside the stone where Ardi was resting and spinning some thread. With her claws, she hooked the wind, stringing it with the scent of wildflowers. Then, after finishing that spool, she cast it wide over the meadows and forests, stitching together the tapestry of blossoming snowdrops.

"Why?" The little hunter asked while gazing at the sky.

"Because those who leave their home in the dark hour of need are not to be trusted, my little friend," Atta'nha replied.

"But if they stay here, they'll freeze!"

The she-wolf smiled. Ardi couldn't see it, but he knew she'd done so. Atta'nha smiled often. She laughed brightly. And if one buried their face in her fur and squeezed tightly, she would start to purr — it was almost like the sound a forest cat made, only lower and coming from deep within her chest. Someone else might've mistaken that sound for a snarl and been frightened off, but the little hunter knew better.

"That is the dream of the Sleeping Spirits, my little friend," Atta'nha said, and the conversation ended there.

The she-wolf did not always explain her words. Sometimes, she simply spoke, and Ardi simply listened. Skusty would say that this was how Atta'nha was teaching their "furless snow leopard" to search for the right answer himself. And sometimes — much to Ardi's chagrin — no "right" answer existed at all. There was a question, but no answer.

Why?

Because that was the dream of the Sleeping Spirits. Whatever they saw in their slumber simply was and so it must be. Asking yourself why, for what purpose, or how come was pointless. As pointless as listening to the swallows and their far-fetched tales.

And yet Ardi still listened to them. He listened and dreamed that perhaps he, too, would someday journey to the edge of the Alcade. That he would see fields so vast they stretched to the very horizon, where the Spirits of the Day and Night met to embrace. Maybe, he thought, he would even find lakes wider and deeper than anything the eye could ever behold.

Yes.

Indeed…

It all sounded like a silly fantasy — a clumsy bit of make-believe. Hence why no one believed the swallows.

"Don't envy the birds, my little friend."

"But I don't envy them," the little hunter muttered, frowning.

Atta'nha burst out laughing.

"You're no good at lying."

"That's because Skusty won't let me!" Ardi huffed and, rolling onto his side, lowered a hand to the she-wolf's head, tangling his fingers in her warm, soft fur. "He says that whenever I feel like lying, I can still say the exact same thing, but only using honest words."

"Indeed you can," the she-wolf agreed. "Truth can be far more deceptive than any lie, my little friend… And do you know why you shouldn't envy the birds?"

Ardi shrugged. Atta'nha could not see the gesture, but the little hunter knew she knew he'd done so. Just as she knew that the first spring butterfly was fluttering near them, that a blind mole was digging its tunnel beneath their feet, and that a bear — awake in the next hollow — was already sniffing at the breeze, hunting for a patch of berries.

Atta'nha knew everything around them. For unlike the little hunter, who had to try very hard to glimpse the other side of the world — "seeing a tree from both sides at once," as that annoying squirrel might've called it — Atta'nha saw everything, always.

"Why?" Asked the little hunter.

"Because you think they fly for pleasure," the she-wolf explained, moving her hand-paws as she whispered. And with each word, in the meadows, along the banks of rivers and lakes, in the forests and at the foot of the mountains, snowdrops began to bloom, shattering the last, thin traces of ice with their petals. "But that's not it. They fly, little hunter, for the same reason you rise each day — to find food. To drink water. You gaze at them and see the mesmerizing heights, inhaling the scent of freedom. But they look downward and… what they see is better asked of Kaishas."

Ardi sensed a hidden meaning in her words, yet he couldn't catch hold of it.

"And now tell me, my little friend — what did you read yesterday?"

The little hunter started, tumbled down the stone, and snuggled in beside the she-wolf, pressing himself into her fur. The moment he did so — letting her soft warmth envelop him, hearing her measured, steady heartbeat, feeling her gentle, snuffling breath against his hair — drowsiness descended upon him.

"Could we… maybe do this later?" He yawned, fighting the sleep closing in.

"What you read, Ardi, is not for tomorrow's idle thinking," the she-wolf said, her tone a bit sharper. "One day, you and all those who learn to Hear and Speak must fulfill your duty."

"But I still can't Speak, and I can hardly Hear anything at all."

"Yes, for now. But one day, you will master this art. I know you will."

She smiled, showing her fangs. It was a friendly, slightly comical grin — much more amusing than Ergar's.

Out of all his friends, Ardi probably enjoyed being with the she-wolf the most. It wasn't like he didn't love the others, but with Atta'nha… When he was near her, he felt like he might recall something terribly important at any moment. Something he'd inexplicably forgotten. Sometimes, after a particularly deep sleep, he felt a slight ache in his chest. An ache brought on by the smell of blackberries…

"I read about those Fae who lost their way," the little hunter said grimly, reluctantly remembering the awful book he'd forced himself to finish.

"And why did they lose their way?"

"Because they never chose between Winter and Summer, and so they lost their bearings?" Ardi ventured after a short pause. "Like when you're hunting and lose sight of your guiding landmarks — you just wander in circles, back and forth, back and forth."

Atta'nha laughed again, this time more sadly.

"Perhaps… Yes, one could say that, my little friend. Now tell me, how does a demon smell?"

"Like a Homeless One — of sulfur."

"And why sulfur?"

"Because that is the dream of the Sleeping Spirits," the little hunter replied with a shrug.

"Precisely," the she-wolf nodded. "Don't trouble yourself over why they smell of sulfur, my little friend. The main thing is to never forget that this is how they smell. And if you catch that scent, be ready."

"Ready for what?"

"To fight."

Ardi sighed and rubbed his cheek against her soft fur.

"But I don't want to fight anyone," the little hunter mumbled, closing his eyes and trying to melt into Atta'nha's warmth. "I want to play with Guta and Shali, swap riddles with Skusty, hunt with Ergar, race with Kaishas, and roam the Alcade with you. I don't want to fight. Even when the other young hunters cross my trails, I find it easier to outwit them than to fight. And why would I? It's as Skusty says: your head is always mightier than your paws."

The she-wolf sighed heavily and set her spinning aside.

"And what will you do, my little friend, if a demon — a lost Fae — comes to the meadow where you're playing with Guta and Shali?"

"They'll tear it to pieces right away," Ardi said without hesitation.

"What if they're ill and weak, and the demon is strong?"

"Then we'll run!"

"And if you can't run?"

"Then…" The little hunter thought about it for a moment. "I'll try to negotiate. What does it want from us? Demons don't hunt. They don't know our trails. There's nothing to fight over. Let it go its own way."

"They don't hunt the same way you do, my little friend, but that doesn't mean our lost kin do not feel Hunger."

"Hunger?"

Atta'nha nodded once more, her warm, slightly wet eyes filling with sharp, searing sparks. These were the sort of sparks you saw in a hunter's eyes when they were remembering the names of those who'd never returned from the trails, those who had walked away on unseen paths.

She clearly felt pain at the memory.

"Lost Fae are always hungry, my little friend. Their nature, their path, should have led them to a certain place, but they can't find it. And so they try to take that place from others."

"I… I don't understand," Ardi admitted. "How can you take someone's place? …Do they just go around fighting for other people's dens?"

"Not exactly, my little friend… not exactly. But know this: if you encounter a demon, you won't be able to flee or hide or bargain with it or trick it. A lost Fae needs only one thing — to take from you whatever it lacks in itself. And so, my little friend, enough dozing," Atta'nha bumped her flank against him, rousing Ardi from his half-sleep, "and tell me how to drive away a Homeless Fae, and how to defeat a demon."

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Ardi frowned.

"Oh fiiiiine," he grumbled in annoyance.

***

"Does it smell like gas or something?" Milar sniffed the air.

Ardi shook off his memories and glanced at the captain's back. After their latest break, there was just one final stretch left before they reached the Stronghold.

Outside the window, the same lightning bolt was still splitting the sky, again and again. He and Milar were no longer walking up a high-rise stairwell in the New City, but rather, through the demon's domain. The influence of that lost Fae extended all the way here, and now everything around them obeyed its will. What their eyes perceived was nothing more than an illusion, and yet it was so deeply woven into the fabric of reality that it was nearly impossible to tell truth apart from falsehood.

Maybe if Ardi had been one of those incredibly mighty Aean'Hane, he could've dispelled the demon's glamour and glimpsed what truly lay beyond the window. Alas…

"It's the demon's smell," Ardan explained.

"You mean they actually have a smell?"

"Mostly sulfur. Plus a tinge of something unique to each of them. It varies."

"How come?" Milar pressed on, and Ardi began to understand why some people might find his unrelenting barrage of questions vexing at times.

"Because that is the dream of the Sleeping Spirits," Ardi answered.

Judging by Milar's disgruntled muttering, he'd assumed that answer to be an insolent rebuke.

"Ard, did you ever stop to think that…"

***

"Ard, did you ever stop to think that vanishing into the steppes all day isn't the best way to care for a pregnant wife?"

Ardan blinked and turned to the voice. Before him stood Anna. Her golden hair was pulled back into a tight braid and she hovered over the stove, stirring sizzling meat… with onions and garlic.

Beyond the window, the spring sun rose above Evergale. Its light poured over the settlement and the surrounding lands in warm rays, eager to push back the last breaths of winter's chill.

"I…"

"'I, I, I,'" Anna cut him off. She set aside the spoon and, wiping her hands on her apron, sat down at the table. "That's all I ever hear from you: 'I.' Nothing else."

Wearing a dress that Shaia had sewn for her to accommodate Anna's rounded belly, she poured some coffee from a small pot and nudged a bowl of crumbly biscuits closer.

"Did you go see my father?"

"Your father?" Ardi echoed.

He glanced out the window again. There, looming over the foothills, stretched the Alcade's peaks. They were covered in forests, quick streams that had grown strong over the winter, and hidden paths invisible to an untrained traveler's eye.

"Yes," Anna replied firmly, the hint of a chill in her tone. "You promised to talk to him again. We can't raise a child on your guide's salary, Ard. Even more so when you vanish for weeks at a time. If it wasn't for Kelly, I don't even know how I'd manage here by myself."

Ardan blinked… Right. Timofey Polskih. After that night he and Anna had spent together by the creek, Ardi had returned home.

He'd spoken with his mother and had even asked his stepfather for advice. Then, as planned, he'd spent fifteen exes on an engagement ring.

And the next time he'd seen Anna, he'd asked the question:

"Will you marry me?"

She'd answered:

"Yes."

Timofey Polskih had opposed it at first, but he loved his daughter too much. He hadn't wanted to hurt her by sending his cowboys after Ardi (or maybe he hadn't wanted to test how close Ardi and the sheriff truly were). And so, he'd simply cast Anna out of his house, seeming to age a decade in that moment — looking thin and stooped.

Ardi, of course, had lost his job. They were saved only by a stroke of luck when a pair of marshals passed through Evergale. Andrew Kal'dron, a battle-tested veteran who was short on warmth and quick with barbed remarks, and Tevona Elliny, a young woman whose life had drastically changed because of a less-than-honest friend.

By chance, Ardan had helped them, curing a northerner's daughter of some ailment. From that day on, for the past year, he'd been working as an assistant and guide to the marshals. He helped them plan routes through the Alcade peaks, and also…

Ardi's gaze fell on the skillet. Beef was frying there. And onions. Everything he couldn't eat. There was also coffee he couldn't drink because of the beans, and crumbly biscuits that he could only manage to have a couple pieces of a week.

And he'd already eaten his week's allotment — yesterday. This happened morning, noon and night. This was the only thing he could ever eat at home.

"Anna, you-"

"Why aren't you eating?" She asked, her brows drawn together. Somehow, Ardi had missed when the meat had ended up on a plate and that plate had ended up in front of him. "I'm sitting here pregnant, spending half the morning at the stove to make you breakfast, just so you can then ride off again — Face of Light knows where — while I'm stuck here alone… Not that you're earning anything decent from the marshals anyway. How are we supposed to raise a child, Ard? Have you thought of that?"

Yes… it seemed like… Kal'dron paid him one and a half exes a week. That did not amount to much by the end of the month. And so, for a year now, Ardi had been searching for other work. He hadn't been able to secure his hunting license, so he traveled from farm to farm instead, offering his services as a hired cowboy. Sometimes, he got lucky; often, the landowners took one look at his papers marked with "Firstborn blood in his lineage" and refused outright.

Occasionally, Ardi managed to sell a few simple healing potions he'd made from herbs and flowers, but that was rare. One way or another, over the year — while Anna's belly had steadily grown — they'd scraped by. A lot of it had been thanks to Kelly, who'd pulled some strings so the town would grant them a small house at the settlement's edge. It was just a single-story home with two tiny rooms and an even smaller kitchen.

"I already told you I can't eat beef."

"Then excuse me for having nothing else," Anna retorted, eyes flashing. She snatched away the plate and… tossed its contents out the window. "Go find yourself something to eat, since your hunting rules are more important to you than your pregnant wife."

Ardan stared at Anna, at her face that was flushed with irritation and fatigue, then picked up his hat and headed for the door.

"Fine, get out!" She shouted at his back.

Outside, the air was still chilly, though tinged with a damp, hopeful warmth. Next to the entrance stood his horse — a graying mare long since retired from the sheriff's stable.

Ardan stroked her mane and smiled.

If not for Kelly, life would've been unbearably hard. Terribly so.

A breeze came through.

It swept bits of grass and flower petals eastward, over the mountains and the horizon, welcoming the swallows that were returning from distant shores where waves rolled onto the sandy beaches of unknown islands.

And somewhere out there, within that horizon, stood the magical towers of the Metropolis, its streets buzzing with horseless carts, Star Mages working their sorcery on every corner, the very air ringing with strange, modern music.

Or so the rumors spread by tipsy travelers in the saloon claimed — and those people, in truth, might never have roamed farther than Delpas.

Yes, it did sound ridiculous.

So, maybe there were no golden beaches at all, and the waves were beating against the rocky shores of Kargaam instead.

How did Ardi even know what Kargaam's coast looked like?

It might have been Mart who'd told him — Mart Borskov — when the Cloaks had hastily spirited his family out of Evergale. They'd most likely saved the lives of the Brian-Egobar household.

"You know, I never really wondered what would've happened if I'd stayed in Evergale," Ardi said, looking up at the clouds. They drifted across the sky… never changing shape, just as the wind kept blowing the same petals away, and Anna kept smoothing her hair too often. (She hated braids — that was why she never wore them.) "And I never again fantasized about Anna or having a family with her. Maybe it's because Grandpa was right, and I'm an asshole. Or maybe it's because, on that night, aside from adrenaline and a teenage crush, we really had nothing else in common. So you guessed wrong."

Ardan ran his hand along the mare's flank.

"I wasn't actually thinking about what would have happened if I'd stayed, Weeper. I was thinking about what would have happened if I'd lost my nerve and never returned to the Metropolis at all — if I'd stayed in Delpas with my mother, my brother, and the others, working in some design bureau. And maybe I… Well, truth be told, I don't even know what that 'maybe' would've been like."

He sighed, then closed his eyes and extended his hand.

"But it was a nice try, demon."

He didn't try to touch what he'd been seeing, but the thing that was truly there. He reached out, grabbed something slimy clinging to his face, and jerked it aside, enduring the sharp pain as it raked across his skin.

***

Breathing heavily and pressing his shoulder against the wall, Ard stomped on something foul. It was a green slime thing with sharp, claw-like tendrils ringing a peculiar maw, where instead of fangs or teeth, smaller mouths could be seen — and each of those, in turn, had mouths of their own, and this went on and on until it made the mind reel.

Ardan shoved the shrieking, writhing mass that was still squirming as he stomped on it down into the depths of the lower floors. The blood coming from the thin cuts on his face trickled down his cheeks and soaked his collar. But with every heartbeat that passed, Ard felt his wounds slowly knitting themselves shut, the bleeding coming to a halt.

Then, turning and climbing up the next flight of stairs, he bent down over Milar. The man was slumped over on the floor, his head encased in a bubble of slime. Those odd tendril-claws were digging into his face, sliding beneath his skin, and corrupting it with foul, brown "veins" that were fusing with his capillaries. Those pulsating veins were taking in pieces of the slime and pushing the stuff into Milar's body while siphoning out his blood in return.

The captain's mouth was letting out little bubbles, which vanished inside the slime that was slurping noisily as the parasite "breathed" for both itself and its victim.

Ardan reached out and touched the warm membrane that served as the creature's flesh. He remembered a time long ago when he had carefully pressed his fingers against the thin layer of ice on a barely sleeping stream. He recalled how a damp chill had licked at his fingers back then, and how his skin had stuck to the ice, sensing the steadily-quieting pulse of the water beneath that frost-bound surface.

Ardi drank in that memory and allowed a shard of the ice's Name to slip from his lips. A cold echo wrapped itself around the vile creature. It shrieked and shuddered, and in the next instant, it cracked apart, flying to pieces in a spray of nauseating gray-green shards.

"Damn it!" Milar shouted, shoving Ardi aside. He snatched up his revolver and pressed it to the young man's forehead. "Fucking bastard! You're still alive?! How many times do I have to blow your brains out…?"

As the light of understanding returned to Milar's eyes, chasing away the haze of the parasite's thrall, the captain's words faded, and he slackened, almost collapsing. By the end of it, he was too weak to stand and nearly dropped his revolver.

Ardi had expected something like this, so he said nothing.

"Eternal Angels, Magister," the captain muttered, struggling to lift the cold metal of the revolver to his temple, as though hoping it might soothe him. "I saw it all… It was like I lived through it all over again… I saw… I saw how I didn't shoot that bastard. That damn vermin… Irigov… Shit, Ard… That monster molested children. Little kids…" Milar swallowed the rest of his words and, shutting his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall. With each breath, he gradually came back to himself. "And we were forced to keep him alive. He was still breathing. Suffering, sure, but alive. Those kids aren't. Peter's right twenty times over when he says that bastards learn through pain, but sometimes, Ard… Sometimes, it hurts you as well, knowing that filth like that still walks the earth. Their footsteps feel like they're trampling on you."

"Milar, I'm sorry, I-"

"This isn't your Witch's Gaze, Ard," the captain said, waving him off. "It's just… I was enjoying it. Shooting that scum." Milar shaped his fingers like a revolver and aimed them at the empty air. "Bang. Bang. Bang. And he screamed and writhed. And I… I felt good. You get that? It felt good… and terrible, all at once."

"Those would be the Tears."

"Something got in my eye, that's all."

"I don't mean your tears, Captain," Ardi countered, pointing to the slowly thawing chunks of slime. "They're the Tears of the Weeper. They slip into our minds and-"

"And whoever drinks them plunges into sorrowful memories," Milar interrupted. Opening his eyes, he stared at the disgusting mass that lay at his feet. "Damn it, Magister, in the stories, it's all… well, more proper, somehow. I never would've guessed that the Tears of the White Lady were these foul things."

"In truth, a real White Lady's tears look more like dandelions," Ardi said as he leaned on his staff to push himself upright. Then he offered the captain a hand. "But we are dealing with a Lost one. So those weren't memories you saw, but fantasies."

"Oh… right. A demon. That explains it…"

The captain, much as Ardi had done earlier, kicked the icy shards of the slime down toward the lower floors. He nearly went down with them, and would have if Ardan hadn't caught him just in time.

"My head's spinning…"

Ardan immediately pulled a crimson vial out of his pocket. He snapped the glass stopper and poured the contents down Milar's throat. The captain coughed and swore, but color gradually returned to his cheeks.

"What… the hell… Damn… ugh," Milar wheezed, seeming to half-push Ardi away. Or maybe he was just flailing clumsily. Who could tell?

"That was Ley's Blood."

"Magister, give me a minute. Once I pull myself together, I'm going to strangle you for-"

"Sorry," Ardi blurted out, remembering his habit of giving abrupt answers. "Ley's Blood is a brew of the Blue Star rank. It allows you…" — he recalled their earlier conversation and tried to phrase it more simply — "For a short while, it gives your body the ability to convert whatever Ley you have stored into blood. That thing drained too much from you, so-"

"I got it," Milar cut him off. Standing straighter and looking relatively healthier, he popped his neck joints with a crack. "So, how come you look like nothing sucked anything out of you?"

"You-"

"Yes, I chose those words on purpose."

Ardan sighed. The captain was the same as ever…

"Our physiology is just different," Ardi explained curtly.

He did feel a little under the weather, but not nearly enough to bother with a potion. Besides, whether it was Fungi-Algae, Ley's Blood, or any other alchemical concoction that relied on a person's stored Ley, none of them were entirely safe.

Yes, they acted far more quickly and sometimes more effectively than other products with similar properties. But if you got too carried away, you could deplete yourself. And once the body was stripped of most of its Ley, it would be left vulnerable to Ley-radiation from the Ley Lines, and then…

In short, nothing good would happen.

Anyone who wanted more details could always visit the Heroes' Hospital specializing in Star Mages and Star Magic-related diseases. If they had the guts for it.

But Milar didn't need to know all that. Ardi had worked it out so that the side effects would be kept to a minimum for them both.

"Tomorrow, drink as much hot water as you can, with any restorative or at least harmless herbs thrown in," Ardi said as he walked past Milar. "From here on out, I'll go first."

They covered the last few flights without any more incidents. Outside, that same eternal streak of lightning still flickered, but no further Tears rained down on their heads. The only change was the smell — it grew stronger and stronger, filling their throats like cloying wool soaked in the sickly-sweet stench of rotting flowers. The reek of sulfur practically coated their windpipes, provoking fits of coughing.

Milar started to reach for his gas mask, but Ardi stopped him. At the captain's silent question, he shook his head, then pointed to the filter box.

Slime dripped from it. The same slime that belonged to the Weeper's Tears. The demon had already contaminated their filters, rendering them useless.

"Dagdag won't be happy about this," Milar muttered, and a moment later, he almost shouted, "Eternal Angels!"

At last, they reached the thirtieth floor. Perhaps both of them had expected anything but what the next flash of illusory lightning actually revealed.

There, right on the landing, among pulsing brown veins embedded in the walls — veins brimming with the same filth that had ruined the filters — stood a set of tall doors. These were honest-to-goodness gates, about three and a half meters high, split into two rounded halves with a carved-out base, and adorned with a family crest. They looked as out of place as…

Truth be told, Ardi was at a loss for words.

He approached and looked closer. There were cracks along the wood, but not from age or weather. A master woodworker had spent a great deal of time splitting freshly-felled lumber to make it look old. Likewise, a smith had intentionally aged the rivets and steel nails, tapping them with a hammer so they would seem as though they'd endured the sieges of multiple armies. Even the shallow dents from supposed battering rams had been artfully arranged around…

"A winged pig?" Milar asked, baffled.

"A boar," Ardan corrected him out of habit.

Indeed, the crest of House Le'mriti was a winged boar with a peacock's tail. It truly was as flamboyant as it was ridiculous. Milar wasn't wrong about the fact that vast wealth did not always go hand in hand with good taste.

"Ready?" Ardi asked, placing a hand against the damp, chilly wooden surface.

"No," Milar admitted, baring his saber and cocking his revolver's hammer. "You?"

"No," Ardi answered in that same tone.

"Perfect. Then let's go."

"Let's go," Ardan agreed and heaved the doors open, stepping into the demon's lair.