CHAPTER 42: THE UTOPIAN CART & THE PURPLE FLARE
The deafening howl of the campus fire klaxons had finally ceased, but the strobe lights still carved sharp amber arcs across the wet lawns. Distant sirens wailed toward the auditorium entrance, pulling emergency crews and the remaining stragglers away from the darkened perimeter. Half a quad away, tucked beneath the shadow of a concrete arcade where the temporal mist of the Lost Roads met modern West Virginia brick, Pierre, Alfie, and Eusacles shoved the gray rubberized janitor cart against a pillar.
Inside the deep vinyl bin, wedged among discarded rags and architectural trash, the bound figure stirred. The dark ink tendrils sprouting from the woman's scalp twitched, their oily sheen catching the flashing yellow emergency lights. As her swollen eyelids fluttered open, her gaze locked onto the trio with cold venom.
"You have no idea what we're capable of," she hissed, her voice vibrating with an unsettling, resonant rasp.
Eusacles crossed his denim-clad arms, his aviator sunglasses reflecting the distant flashing beacons. "Well, yeah. That's why we have you here. Obviously, we're going to ask you some questions because we have no idea what you're capable of. And that's where you come in, because you're gonna tell us."
"That's not going to happen," she snarled, straining against the heavy electrical cord binding her wrists behind her back. "You think you're just going to boss me around and tell me what to do? You fell to the ground like glass."
Her lip curled into a sneer as her black-veined eyes bore directly into Eusacles. "I was able to rip that from your mind."
"I mean, that's a good point," Eusacles conceded with an indifferent shrug, tapping the heavy head of his iron morningstar against his combat boot. "But now you're in a trash can. Anyway, all right, guys. She's being real resistant. Let's just kill her. That'll be way easier."
Pierre adjusted the brass bridge of his spectacles, lifting an elegant hand in protest. "Patience, Eusacles! We have not even begun to offer her choices. She has potential. We must discern what she was sent here to accomplish."
Eusacles grunted, sliding down against the damp brickwork to rest his battered shoulders. "I got to take a nap. I think I should rest."
"Take your rest, my friend," Pierre murmured, keeping his gaze locked on the prisoner as Alfie stood sentry on the cart's rim. Pierre leaned closer, his black beret tilted forward. "I am wondering... do you know who my mother is? It always sounds a little pedantic to ask, but every time I bring her up, people seem to clam up entirely."
The woman let out a wet, harsh cackle from the bottom of the bin. "I absolutely know who you are, and it's simply embarrassing that you have yet to find out what you truly are. You think you're simply a Gorgon? That's not even close."
Her smile turned cruel and mocking. "You're a joke. You're a prank."
Pierre blinked, a sudden crimson flush rising up his neck beneath his scarf. He turned toward the rim of the cart. "Alfie, would you mind slapping her for me?"
The two-foot driftwood duelist did not hesitate. Alfie dropped straight down onto the captive's chest with a hollow wooden thud, miniature boots planting firmly against her sternum. In a flash of polished steel, the curved hook at Alfie's wrist hovered barely an inch from the woman's left eyeball. "Now that's my friend you're talking to," Alfie growled, painted button eyes narrowing. "You watch what you say."
The woman spat a fleck of dark blood against Alfie's sailcloth tunic, entirely unimpressed by the tiny blade. "And you expect me to listen to you? You're junk."
Her lip peeled back over ink-stained teeth. "You're junk. You're a doll carved from driftwood junk."
"junk."
Alfie's small wooden jaw set like iron. "We don't say the D word around here. We don't say it. And because you said it, I think you owe me." With a sudden, surgical hiss, Alfie's needle rapier lashed out. A three-inch severed tendril tumbled free, spurting thick black ichor across the plastic rim. "That one's free. Next time you insult me or one of my friends, it's going to be two."
The woman shrieked in agony as the stump pulsed violently, the dark fluid smoking where it struck the linoleum. Alfie scooped up the dying, twitching tendril and wrapped it around the collar of her tunic like a gruesome fur stole, resting neatly above her maroon university soccer scarf.
Pierre stepped forward, weaving his fingers through the cool night air in intricate geometric patterns. Magic hummed at his fingertips, sinking into the woman's panicked mind as he leaned over the bin. "Okay, you think you know so much about me, my mother, and the powers of the universe. Prove it. *Brag.*"
The woman strained against the subtle compulsion, her pupils dilating into dark pools as she fought the spell. "I don't even need to prove myself to any of you. You are nothing. You are simply a mistake, an edit left in the book, a typo."
Alfie tilted her wooden head, rapier resting casually against her shoulder. "Yeah, right from my angle, mate. You don't look like much, tied up in a trash can."
"Yeah, you're talking a lot of trash for someone who's literally in a trash can," Eusacles echoed, leaning forward from his perch on the pavement. "You keep saying we're trash, but you're the one in the bin. Obviously there's a bigger picture going on and you're just some pawn or peon they use as fodder. It's tough being you, I get it. Poor me, boohoo. But your life is literally in our hands right now, and we're not super motivated to keep you alive because you're not giving us anything useful. So we're gonna try this again: paint us a picture of what's going on, or we send you to Hades."
Pierre smoothed his lapels with exaggerated nonchalance. "I do believe our mutual friend knows the lord of the underworld's wife, so perhaps a personal introduction could be arranged."
The woman's throat rattled as she sneered up at Pierre. "You think mama's boy over there is going to come and save you? Does he think his mommy comes and is going to save him?"
"I don't think so," she muttered, shaking her head.
"Well, I don't see anyone coming to save you," she spat, her gaze darting between the three of them.
"The real question right now is whether anyone is coming to save you," Eusacles countered smoothly.
"That's a great question, isn't it?" The woman's voice suddenly pitched higher, manic and feverish as the severed stumps on her crown flared with vivid violet sparks. "You wanted me to talk a little bit about myself. Maybe I will!"
She arched her back against the plastic bin, the tendrils whipping in agitation. "You think you're some heroes?"
"You think your heroes are my master?" she sneered. "Think about what has happened. Think about it! He saved these innocent people who were being operated on with a simple change. A simple change! He saved people's lives! The means do not justify the ends. Remember that."
Pierre frowned, adjusting his spectacles to study the erratic pulsing of her aura. "Your master has done this before, or only with this experiment?"
"He has grown in power," she declared, her eyes shining with fanatical devotion. "These changes across time—there have been more of them than you have even been able to touch. I will give you credit, you've experienced more of his work than anyone else has in the past. But I don't think he's going to be paying attention to the artifacts as much anymore, knowing how much of a nuisance you have become."
Pierre tilted his head. "And what are these artifacts to him? Are they not just a way to see his great creations? Why are they not being shared with everyone?"
"The artifacts are the incorrect past trying to recreate itself!" she hissed, baring her teeth. "His perfect changes are manifesting in this world, and they need to be erased before they take over and replace what had happened! You don't understand. People's lives have been impacted by these changes. If they grew too strong and changed back, the mist would be broken. People would just disappear—people that were dead in one timeline, but alive in the correct one!"
Pierre gave a slow, theatrical sigh. "Have you seen the Marvel movies yet?"
Alfie glanced down from the cart's rim, tapping her wooden chin. "Yeah, mate. I was born like four days ago."
"If you have not listened to Smash Mouth, that is part two of American culture," Pierre lectured gently. "I thought perhaps you would learn that messing with the time continuity is a number-one bad idea."
"I mean, it sounds like a bad idea, but I don't have a movie to back it up," Alfie replied dryly.
"Maybe we can make some pancakes and have some movies when we get back," Pierre suggested with a faint hopeful smile.
"That sounds like a great plan," Alfie agreed.
Eusacles pushed himself up, resting his knuckles against the janitor cart's rubber handle. "That's a good point. Hey, one last question. This master of yours messing with time and all that—is he splintering the timelines into multiple infinite realities, or is he just messing with one timeline and having to watch out for paradoxes? How does this work?"
"He is saving people's lives, creating a more perfect world!" the woman insisted fiercely. "And you all, for whatever reason, are now representations of this imperfect past becoming reality, not going to where it belongs."
Pierre raised a slender forefinger. "A quick clarification on the saving people part. Are you saying that the ends do or do not justify the means?"
"The doctor, for example, was absolutely torturing innocent people to try and come up with a solution to this illness," she retorted, her voice trembling with righteous fury. "Innocent people would have died for no reason. The means do not justify the end."
"The means do not justify the end," she repeated firmly.
Pierre spread his hands in an exasperated shrug. "Okay. So your master changing history... what has he unleashed upon the world by trying to literally change the ends?"
"He is fixing it to be a more utopian place, a more fair, just place," she snarled, her breath growing shallow and ragged. "But he's not going to keep chasing these down, because he knows they're inside you now. And he's going to be chasing down *you*."
Eusacles looked over at Pierre, his expression hardened into grim resolve. "Well, that's all I needed to hear. So, do we take out the trash now, or what?"
Pierre winced, glancing nervously down at Alfie. "Alfie is new to the world. I feel like we maybe should protect him from this part of the job, you know."
"He's a natural-born warrior," Eusacles countered.
"Yes, but he does not have to be a cold-blooded killer," Pierre insisted.
"To be clear, we're talking about our action figure here who just sliced a hook into her face," Eusacles pointed out.
"Yes, interrogation is fine. It is not killing anyone yet," Pierre argued.
Alfie stepped forward onto the rim of the cart, drawing the needle rapier back with calm, unblinking determination. "All right. Well, it's fine. I got it. I'm filled with memories of really bad men, so it's fine."
Before Pierre could shout a warning, Alfie thrust the steel needle with brutal precision straight up the captive's nostril.
Pierre gagged, spinning on his heel and stumbling into the campus boxwood hedges to retch violently.
The woman shuddered, her eyes rolling back as blood welled from her mouth. Clinging to the ragged thread of her life, she gargled in shock: "I'm not a problem for you anymore... but he's coming." Her head dropped limp against the plastic rim, and from the deep wound in her skull, a brilliant flare of violet energy burst upward into the night sky, illuminating the trees like an arcane signal beacon.
CHAPTER 43: THE SIX-FINGERED SHADOW & THE PATRONUS FLIGHT
The blinding purple flare arced high over the university rooftops, bathing the brick arches and trimmed quad lawns in an unnatural violet glare before vanishing into the night. An oppressive silence crashed down over the breezeway. The janitor cart sat motionless in the gloom, its plastic rim slick with cooling black ichor.
"Time to go," Pierre whispered, his voice trembling as he backed away from the cart.
Eusacles adjusted his grip on his morningstar, his knuckles white. "We should leave, right? Like one hundred percent."
Alfie leapt lightly from the lip of the bin, landing squarely on the shoulder of Eusacles' heavy denim jacket. "Time to go."
Pierre caught Professor Dravin by the elbow, guiding the rumpled academic swiftly toward the shadows along the perimeter. Dravin moved in a daze, clutching his tweed coat around himself as the cold autumn wind whipped through the colonnade. Eusacles fell into stride beside them, head turning constantly. "Leave. We're leaving now."
Eusacles' dark aviators caught a flicker of movement across the wide lawn. Beneath the amber halo of a distant security floodlight, something crawled through the gloom. It possessed no feet, drifting inches above the manicured grass like a pool of living calligraphy. Where its hands emerged from its ragged ink cloak, six elongated fingers flexed in twitching rhythm. Its head was a blank oval void, yet beneath the translucent surface of the skin, dozens of drowned, silent faces shifted and strained against each other in endless torment. The thing was sniffing the air, tracking the ionized trail left by the purple flare.
"We got to get out of here," Eusacles muttered through clenched teeth, his voice dead flat with urgent dread. "I will explain when we're gone, but we're getting out of here now. And we can't be followed."
"Alfie, can you ride on my shoulder so you can lead me, so I don't get lost a third time?" he asked as they broke into a disciplined jog toward the tree line.
"Yeah, all right, mate," Alfie replied, anchoring miniature driftwood boots into the denim seam.
As they slipped between the weeping willows toward the threshold seam where reality thinned into mist, Alfie pulled out a scrap of cotton waste, scrubbing furiously at the needle rapier. "This won't come off. She's really gross."
Alfie gave the hilt a sharp flick, button eyes gleaming in the dark. "You know, she called me a doll after all."
Pierre wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, his face still ghastly pale under his beret. "Alfie, I have to admit I was not expecting such ruthlessness from you, and I am a little surprised by my own reaction to it as well. Normally when I deal with monsters, they turn to stone. There is no blood. That was... it was a lot for me."
"Yeah," Alfie muttered, sheathing the stained needle. "The ink was a bit much."
"Yeah, that was a bit much," Eusacles agreed, his gaze fixed on the thickening fog ahead. "Hey, while we're on this road and walking... the thing that I saw back there. You ever look at something and just know it's dangerous and dreadful? Imagine like a no-faced, multiple-faced figure. Doesn't have feet, lots of inkiness, and like six fingers."
"No facial features, but lots of faces inside the void," Eusacles continued, his voice tight. "Almost as if something was trapped within a body and didn't know what it was. A horrible conglomeration of ink, probably multiple consciousnesses fighting each other. Or maybe some being capable of shifting its appearance. I don't know. I didn't like it. I was horrified."
Alfie shivered on his shoulder. "Yeah, that's not for me."
"Not my type either," Pierre murmured.
"I don't know if y'all know what that is," Eusacles said, glancing back over his shoulder into the misty trees. "If you do, I'd love to hear about it, because I don't imagine this is the last time we'll see it. It looked like it was tracking, like a bloodhound. It looked like it was honing in on that flare that just got shot off."
They reached the crest of the grassy embankment where the modern world ended and the ancient paving stones of the Lost Roads emerged from the fog. Dravin slipped through first, his silhouette dissolving into the pearlescent vapor. Alfie and Eusacles followed closely behind.
Pierre lingered at the threshold, looking back through the damp weeping willows toward the open quad.
Across the lawn, fifty paces away, the six-fingered shape had reached the janitor cart. It drifted above the blood-soaked rim, its blank oval head tilting as its many submerged faces swirled. Slowly, deliberately, the creature turned toward the tree line, its hollow visage locking onto Pierre.
Pierre's breath hitched in his throat. In sheer panic, his fingers twitched as he reached for the dormant wellspring of his threshold heritage, seeking anything to ward off the encroaching nightmare. He murmured an old warding charm under his breath, snapping his fingers in desperate rhythm.
A sudden burst of radiant white light coalesced at his boots. A tiny, luminous hare—sculpted of dazzling silver luminescence—bounded out across the lawn with playful leaps, zigzagging between the weeping willows and circling the towering ink wraith in bright, incandescent loops.
Pierre stared in disbelief, his jaw hanging open. "Mon dieu," he whispered, watching the glowing apparition dash across the grass. "That is an actual rabbit."
The six-fingered creature paused, its shifting faces momentarily transfixed by the brilliant white hare darting around its vaporous skirts.
"I see this creature... it is like a nightmare with far too many faces," Pierre stammered, his pulse hammering against his ribs as he stepped backward into the fog. "I do not like it at all!"
"There is a little white bunny running around it, though," he called out over his shoulder as he threw himself through the seam. "And I do not exactly know where that came from!"
The temporal mist closed over him with a muffled snap, cutting off the quad, the strobing sirens, and the dreadful six-fingered watcher.
CHAPTER 44: THE LOST ROADS & THE RESCUE OF SUSANNA
The damp, muffled silence of the Lost Roads settled over the party like a thick woolen blanket. The world here existed in perpetual twilight, bounded by gnarled elder trees and ancient stone trail markers etched with languages long erased from mortal memory. Professor Dravin walked between them in weary silence, his hand steady on his pocket watch as Eusacles led the way along the mossy flagstones.
A sudden crash of snapping branches broke the quiet.
From a dense thicket of pale ferns, a disheveled figure stumbled out onto the path, nearly colliding with Eusacles' chest. Pierre gasped, his spectacles nearly sliding down his nose as he recognized the woman immediately. It was Susanna—the young museum attendant from the North Carolina Museum of Natural History whom Pierre had shielded from the Gorgon gaze weeks ago before directing her into Theodore's maintenance shed.
Susanna stumbled backward, her wide brown eyes darting between their familiar faces and the swirling temporal mists behind them. "What? Where did you come from? Where am I? What is going on?"
Pierre stepped forward, arms extended in theatrical greeting. "Oh, Susanna! Do not tell me you have been stuck in the Lost Roads for two weeks now! What have you eaten? You are coming with us. Come on!"
Susanna pressed her hands to her temples, trembling as the chill vapor swirled around her ankles. "I don't even know how long it's been," she breathed, her voice cracking with exhaustion. "It seems like it's been months, but also just a few hours. This place is really confusing. I don't know where I'm going, but somehow it feels familiar."
Pierre leaned against a mossy boulder with practiced Parisian poise, tipping his beret with a roguish smile. "I have to say, Susanna, you are holding together much better than I would have in a formless, timeless purgatory. You're sure you're not between Heaven and Hell or something like that?"
He paused, lowering his tone to a melodic murmur. "Because you know that would make me your angel."
Eusacles coughed into his fist, turning aside with an incredulous grin. "That was smooth as fuck."
Alfie piped up from his shoulder, nodding sagely. "Yeah, that's our boy."
"She's looking pretty good for someone who was turning into a rock," Eusacles noted, looking Susanna up and down.
"Hey, easy," Pierre scolded playfully, waving them off. "I am talking to Susanna here!"
Alfie ignored Pierre, pointing a miniature wooden thumb up toward the battered blue souvenir baseball cap perched over his painted brow. "Hey, Susanna, check it out!"
Susanna blinked at the tiny driftwood figure, then at the North Carolina Museum of Natural History logo stitched into the faded cap. A faint, disbelieving laugh escaped her lips. "I guess I am not dead... unless they made the museum in purgatory."
"No, you're not dead," Eusacles confirmed, rolling his shoulders and scanning the surrounding mist. "Does it feel good? You're not dead."
Alfie glanced down at Eusacles with a sly wink, tapping his tiny needle against his belt. As their gazes met, the heavy fog around the trail seemed to thin, revealing thick, sprawling brambles lining the mossy verge that none of them had noticed before. The thorny bushes hung heavy under clusters of fat, midnight-blue berries and golden wild plums, glistening with fragrant dew.
"Hell yeah," Eusacles muttered, grinning as he reached out to pluck a handful. "Look at these berries."
Susanna looked back at Pierre, a soft flush warming her pale cheeks as she caught his dazzling, boyish smile beneath the silver mist. "Yeah... I guess you are my angel. I am so glad to see you, and the rest of you, of course."
Pierre beamed, preening as he smoothed the lapels of his rumpled coat. "Do you think we have time for a picnic? Maybe pick some berries for jam for the pancakes?"
"Yeah," Alfie agreed, already leaning down from Eusacles' shoulder to snatch a ripe cluster of berries. "We always got time for berries."
Together, the party harvested the sweet, wild fruit, filling their pockets and Dravin's canvas satchel as they continued down the winding stone track. The winding path gradually sloped downward, cutting through a high rhododendron thicket before spilling out onto a familiar sunlit rise.
The pearlescent fog dissipated in the crisp mountain air. Below them lay the gravel driveway, the split-rail cedar fences, and the weathered wood-shingled roof of the main cabin at the Margin. The pale golden light of early dawn was just cresting the eastern ridge, turning the morning frost to glittering diamonds.
"And it's daytime," Eusacles grunted, blinking against the sudden sunlight as they descended the grassy slope toward the sanctuary porch.
CHAPTER 45: RETURN TO THE MARGIN & THE MENDED SPATULA
The morning sun filtered through the canopy of ancient oaks as the party guided Susanna down the final gravel switchback toward the clearing of the Margin. The sanctuary cabins rested peacefully against the forested ridge, woodsmoke curling lazily from the central stone chimney.
Susanna walked close beside Pierre, her hands tucked into the oversized sleeves of Dravin's spare tweed jacket. "There were a few odd-looking people on the road," she murmured, gazing around the misty lawn. "People who looked like they had shifting ink tattoos all over their skin. They didn't seem friendly. They gave me a creepy look, checked me over, and then kept on jogging through the woods when they realized I wasn't who they were looking for."
"I have to say, I am a little disappointed that the inky villains are able to use these roads," Pierre said, brushing road dust from his coat. "Stay away from Naomi, by the way. She has a great deal of questions."
"Sounds good," Susanna said with a weary smile. "This is the first time I've seen civilization in weeks. Thank you."
As they reached the gravel turnaround, the cabin screen door banged open. Mike strolled out onto the wide cedar porch in his faded flannel, wiping his flour-dusted hands on an apron. "Oh, sweet! You guys are back right on time. I could really go for some pancakes."
Pierre rushed up the wooden steps, pulling the jagged, fractured halves of his bronze javelin head from his rucksack. "Mike, look! I need help fixing my spatula. Our flipping technique is ruined!"
Mike dropped his spatula to his side, his face falling into genuine despair. "Oh, no, bro! What are we going to do?"
"I know, it is devastating!" Pierre cried, holding up the snapped bronze blades. "We had just mastered the technique. We will have to start all over!"
"Going to have to do it the way I used to," Mike sighed mournfully. "We can't do it the new way."
Eusacles rolled his eyes, pushing past them into the porch light. "Nah, I got this. Come here." He snatched the two severed pieces of bronze from Pierre's hand, pressing the jagged fracture lines together with his thick calloused palms. Eusacles closed his eyes, muttering a quick prayer under his breath. A faint golden shimmer rippled across the metal, and with a soft chime of fusing bronze, the fracture vanished. "God, I hope this works."
Mike let out a low whistle, eyes wide. "Oh, fuck!"
"Thank you very much, Eusacles!" Pierre exclaimed, examining the seamless weld with delight.
"Ah yeah," Mike grinned, clapping Pierre on the shoulder. "We can go back to doing our two-man flip now."
"I really want those pancakes," Eusacles muttered, tossing Dravin's satchel of freshly picked berries onto the porch table.
The screen door creaked again, and Teddy emerged into the morning light, leaning heavily on his carved cedar cane. His silver-streaked hair fell over his collar, his sharp eyes taking in their soot-stained clothing and Dravin's silent exhaustion. "So. You all saw a second artifact. Were you able to capture it, or experience it? What happened?"
"Here's the thing, right?" Alfie piped up, perching on the porch railing and smoothing his maroon soccer scarf. "We went to university. University! Place so nice they named it twice. We went to a lecture about the artifact, touched it, and it was intense—just like the first time. Then a rift ripped open in the hall, and out came a lady with crazy hair and some inky guys. Chaos ensued."
"We did capture one this time, and we did have questions," Eusacles added, leaning against the timber post.
Alfie reached into his pocket and handed over the coiled, rubbery length of dark matter severed in the quad. "We sliced off a hair."
Teddy took the cold specimen with a furrowed brow, turning the dark, fibrous cord under the morning sunlight. "Hair? No woodsman would have called it hair. I would call this some sort of creeping root—or a living nerve plucked straight from a brain." He wrinkled his nose with quiet distaste. "Unnatural."
From the open kitchen window above the porch, Pierre stuck his head out, clutching a mixing bowl. "Teddy, I am curious... in American television, when a police officer terminates someone in the line of duty, they have mandatory psychological counseling. We don't happen to have anything like that here, do we?"
Teddy stared up at Pierre in quiet surprise. "I don't believe anyone has ever killed one of the creatures. It has simply been a choice to touch and run, for lack of a better term."
Alfie crossed his wooden arms defensively. "Listen, mate. She called me a doll. You can only deal with so much, you know."
"That does sound bad," Teddy said gently, nodding toward the figurine. "I have been told that you prefer action figure, and that is how I refer to you."
"That's right," Alfie replied with proud satisfaction. "That's a term of respect, that one."
Eusacles crossed his arms, looking down at Teddy. "We asked some questions, and the creature said her boss is rewriting history to save people and create a more perfect world. And now that we're collecting artifacts, the boss is going to target us personally instead of the artifacts. And there was another monster stalking us across the quad—a woman's shape with no face, but dozens of faces shifting under the skin, and six fingers on each hand."
Teddy's hand tightened around the head of his cane until his knuckles turned chalk-white. His gaze drifted off into the misty forest, haunted and distant. "Unfortunately, I have seen it. And I know how frightening that can be."
"Early on at the Margin—it was 'The Margins' with two N's on the sign at the time, before one fell off—it happened after my second touch of a fragment," Teddy whispered, his voice trembling slightly. "It set off a spiral whenever I tried to pursue other leads. There was this creature that would be there, hunting me anytime I left this place."
Teddy looked directly at Eusacles and Alfie, his face pale. "You are the only others I have ever met who have touched two fragments."
"I have never left the Margin since," Teddy continued quietly. "I left a few times to attempt to chase down a third fragment, but I would always witness this creature. I found a way to hide, sneaking back through the Lost Roads or the Hermes Express."
"After a few attempts, I decided it was too dangerous," he added. "So I have stayed here to cultivate the talent of those who arrive. We haven't had anyone else reach two fragments before disappearing. I am sorry I didn't warn you earlier. I simply was not sure anyone else would survive two."
A sudden shout from across the grass broke the somber mood. Across the yard, Naomi had already cornered Susanna against the pump house, brandishing a thick legal pad and firing rapid-fire questions as the poor museum attendant blinked in bewildered exhaustion.
Pierre hurried out the cabin door carrying a towering platter of golden pancakes, fresh berry sauce steaming in the morning chill. "I have questions for you, Teddy, but I also do not want to leave Susanna to the Naomi questionnaire! I will be back!"
CHAPTER 46: RUM PANCAKES & THE THREAD OF FOUR CENTURIES
The aroma of sizzling batter and spiced berry compote hung thick over the sunny cedar porch. Eusacles sat on a wooden bench, propping his boots on the railing as Alfie perched on the table beside a towering stack of golden flapjacks dripping with dark blackberry glaze.
Eusacles tilted his head, watching the tiny driftwood duelist spear a bite of pancake with his miniature dagger. "You know, this might be a little insensitive of me to ask, but I do want to know. Can you taste things?"
Alfie chewed thoughtfully, painted wooden brow furrowing. "Yeah, I can. I mean, I don't have much to compare it to, but yeah, I like pancakes. And let me tell you, this is some really good jam."
"I've really only ever eaten pancakes, to be honest, up to this very particular moment," Alfie added, licking a speck of purple syrup from his thumb. "Now I've had pancakes and jam."
Mike stepped out from the kitchen doorway with a broad grin, carrying a heavy amber glass bottle. "I mean, what else do you really need? You got pancakes, and maybe a glass of rum on the side." He set a glass down in front of Alfie—a standard heavy-bottomed shot glass that, to a two-foot figurine, resembled a massive ceremonial chalice.
Eusacles reached out, catching the rim of the glass. "Hey, hey, hey! Alfie's not even twenty-one years old. Not even one yet!"
Alfie puffed out his carved chest, resting a hand on his needle hilt. "Yeah, I'd say I'm probably like four hundred and fifty-eight or something, collectively, if you're thinking about all the threads."
"Well, you did say you were born four days ago," Eusacles pointed out.
"Well, that's also simultaneously true," Alfie shot back with a jaunty shrug. "It's a bit of a conundrum, isn't it?"
Before Eusacles could object, Alfie's right arm jerked upward with sudden, uncanny coordination—the same lingering thread consciousness that had drawn him to Dr. Thorne's anomaly binder seizing the shot glass. Alfie tipped the dark liquor back in one colossal gulp.
Alfie's button eyes widened in shock as the burning alcohol hit his carved throat. "Whoa. That takes me back. I feel that every memory I have has rum in it."
Eusacles stared in awe. "Can action figures get drunk?"
Pierre, strolling up the porch steps after leaving Susanna with a fresh plate, adjusted his spectacles. "Nope. They can get hammered."
Alfie hopped down from the table. The moment his tiny boots struck the cedar decking, his balance swayed into an exaggerated, rolling gait, arms swinging loosely at his sides like an old salt navigating a pitching frigate. He weaved toward the lantern post, thoroughly tipsy. "I'm going to go over to the lanterns over there."
Pierre blinked, watching the miniature sailor swagger across the porch. "Mike, did you put more than just rum in the pancakes?"
"Well, we put the rum in the pancakes, and then we also put the rum in the jam," Mike answered cheerfully, leaning against the doorframe. "And then, of course, we put the rum in the rum."
Alfie turned around, clinging to the porch railing with one hand and holding up his silver thimble with the other. "You just... you're too funny, mate! You talk crazy. You got any more of that rum?"
Teddy stepped out onto the porch, raising a firm hand. "No more for Alfie. But we do have a bit of a problem, because usually we would offer you food, but there's rum in the pancakes and rum in the jam."
"I murdered someone earlier," Alfie proclaimed loudly to the clearing, swaying on his heels.
"No, no, you killed someone earlier," Eusacles corrected patiently from the bench. "They weren't innocent."
"Yeah, exactly," Alfie slurred happily. "Called me a doll. You got any more?"
A soft, melodic voice drifted from the bottom of the porch steps. Rosa, the resident free-love artist from the 1970s in her embroidered peasant blouse and flowing denim skirt, smiled gently up at them. "Wow. I heard there was some violence that happened, and I think Alfie and I should have a little chat about what occurred. Pierre, I heard you might want to as well."
Pierre let out a long, relieved breath. "Actually, that would be very nice."
"Well, you want to talk about my new scarf?" Alfie asked, proudly pointing to the black tendril tied around his collar. "It's really cool."
"Wow, that is a fantastic scarf," Rosa said warmly, scooping the little driftwood duelist up onto her shoulder. "Say more about that."
As Rosa carried Alfie toward the garden studio with Pierre following behind, Pierre paused, glancing back at Teddy by the railing. "Teddy, one thing is not clear to me. Why have they not found you here?"
Teddy leaned on his cedar cane, gazing thoughtfully out toward the misty tree line. "It is a good question," he answered. "I've heard reports they have been in the Lost Roads before, sending standard creatures like the ones you've faced."
"I was always careful never to lead the Redactor here," he continued. "That's what I always called that shadowy inky creature—the Redactor. It seemed thematic."
"I was always able to make sure I never led it to the Margin or into our sector of the Lost Roads," Teddy explained. "I would sneak away while hidden."
"There were times I left the Margin to chase fragments," Teddy continued, his expression hardening. "And once, when I was called by the gods to meet with them, the Lost Roads spit me out at an inconvenient place. When I went to find another route, I saw an opportunity to take the Hermes Express. But the Redactor was already there, waiting. It seemed to have teleported ahead."
"Rather than lead it back into the Lost Roads, I jumped on with Hermes," Teddy said. "His protection allowed me to escape. But unfortunately, I didn't give sufficient payment, so he just deposited me right back at the Margin instead."
Pierre scoffed, shaking his head. "Seems kind of strange if the gods were calling you! They should have paid your taxi fare!"
"Why are the gods always acting like they're broke?" Eusacles chimed in.
Teddy gave a dry chuckle. "Hermes told me, 'Leave the messaging to me,' and sent me back. He seemed peeved that they would even need me to be there in the first place."
"That sounds like a monopoly to me," Pierre declared. "No wonder he is rich!"
"He wants to control the messaging," Eusacles agreed. "Classic dictator behavior."
CHAPTER 47: CAMPFIRE WHISPERS & THE ENGRAVED WATCH
The afternoon shadows lengthened across the Margin, stretching toward the central fire pit where the ashes of last night's blaze smoldered. Teddy leaned on his cane, listening intently as Pierre and Eusacles recounted the campus ambush.
"Susanna said she ran into people who were inked up," Eusacles noted, tossing a cedar split onto the embers. "And that crazy tentacle-haired lady said something about us being heroes. I just want to make one thing clear: we are not heroes. I know what happens in every Greek tragedy when heroes get involved. We are not heroes."
Pierre nodded emphatically from the bench, brushing lint from his woolen beret. "Everyone I ever knew who acted like a hero ended up as a statue in my backyard. So I would agree—that is not a good definition."
Teddy gave a somber nod. "I see the sentiment, and I agree. Let's not refer to ourselves as heroes. That does tend to lead to bad things overall."
As night fell over the valley, the sanctuary grew quiet. The crickets chattered softly against the chill mountain air, and the residents retreated to their cabins. Eusacles made his way across the dark meadow to his own rough-hewn shelter on the perimeter, pulling his hammock tight between two sturdy cedar posts.
Sometime after midnight, a sudden, chill draft whistled through the chinks in the timber walls.
The air in the cabin turned crystalline and breathless. A soft, whispering flutter brushed past Eusacles' temple—the scraping caress of a large black feather sweeping across his brow. A flash of pale moonlight flared behind his closed eyelids, followed by deep silence.
Eusacles opened his eyes.
He was still in his shelter, yet the room felt impossibly vast and luminous, washed in an ethereal silver radiance. Sitting casually on the foot of the rough bench was a tall, lean figure cloaked in shadows, dark feathered wings folded neatly behind broad shoulders.
"Oh man," the figure said, his voice deep, soothing, and resonant like distant thunder rolling over calm waters. "That was a pretty tough one, huh? Got you down there for a second. Seemed like that didn't go super well."
Eusacles sat up in his hammock, blinking through the gloom. A crooked smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Hey, Pops. Nice of you to pop in. It's only been what—how many years ago did you leave Mom? It's fine."
Thanatos, the Greek god of peaceful death, gave an apologetic grimace, adjusting the dark mantle over his collar. "It's complicated."
"Isn't everything complicated in the god standard?" Eusacles retorted dryly, rubbing his bruised ribs. "Yeah, that sucked. That wasn't great."
"I'm sorry I wasn't there in the moment," Thanatos said softly, his silver eyes glowing faintly in the dim room. "I'm just glad you knew, and that you were able to understand that this was not your time to go. The clock had not struck twelve, as we like to say."
"Well, if anyone would know, it'd be you, I guess," Eusacles muttered.
"Exactly."
Eusacles swung his legs out of the hammock, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "So, in fear of ending up on some horrible quest, what is going on? Do you have any idea what's happening? Because we're trying to piece together this whole story. We got a talking action figure, a French guy, and no one knows who their parents are. I haven't seen you in years. Clearly, shit is going on."
Thanatos sighed, resting his chin on his palm. "It's tough to explain, and we don't really know. The gods don't necessarily know. It's sort of a gray area. What has been going on for a few hundred years—which is basically a blink to us—is kind of an extradition situation. It's in the Fates' department. It's not really Olympus or Hades. It's an independent third-party paperwork department. We're about the action, and they take the notes."
Eusacles stared at him. "Can you do me one favor? Just one favor. I never ask you for anything. You've missed a lot of Christmases and birthdays. Can a man get just a little bit of armor? Just a little bit. I got hit way harder than I thought, and I don't want to see you when I'm not supposed to see you, if you get my gist."
Thanatos tilted his dark head, a faint smile touching his lips. "Do you still have the watch?"
"I still got the watch," Eusacles said, unhooking the heavy bronze timepiece from his vest. "Turns into my morningstar."
Thanatos reached out and took the pocket watch into his pale hands. With a slender, obsidian-tipped fingernail, the death god traced a slow, glowing sigil into the tarnished metal backing. Sparks of violet and silver light flared along the casing before sinking deep into the clockwork gears.
Thanatos handed it back. "Check the time. It's not yours. Consider this your tier 2 birthright: whenever you are below a quarter of your strength, your skin hardens with the chill of the grave, granting you two additional paces of warding armor. A little charm, a bit of my power onto you to hopefully prevent you from seeing me too early, and prevent me from looking like an idiot."
"Oh, that's kind of sick," Eusacles admitted, weighing the newly blessed watch in his palm. "I do appreciate that."
He paused, glancing up at his father through narrowed eyes. "Hey... do you know who Pierre's mom is?"
Thanatos froze. His dark brow arched, and then, slowly, a look of profound, incredulous amusement spread across his divine visage. "Pierre... that's the French guy, right?"
"Yeah, that's the guy who makes really good pancakes," Eusacles said.
Thanatos threw his head back and burst into rich, booming laughter, slapping his knee in delight. "I can't believe he's real! This is hilarious! What an epic prank! Oh man... did Hermes see him?"
"Yeah," Eusacles said, bewildered. "Hermes came by."
"Oh, I am shocked that he hasn't let that spill!" Thanatos wheezed, wiping a tear of divine mirth from his eye. "My goodness. Epic. Truly epic."
Eusacles glared at him. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"
"No, that would ruin the fun!" Thanatos grinned, standing tall and shaking his dark head. "I can't take credit for this."
"You are so fucking petty," Eusacles grunted. "All right. Well, Dad... I hate to admit it, but it was good to see you."
"Good to see you too, son," Thanatos murmured warmly. His great feathered wings swept around him in a swirl of midnight velvet, collapsing inward until a sleek black bat fluttered upward from the floorboards, squeaking once before darting through the high gable window into the night sky.
CHAPTER 48: THE DIVINE FLAVOR DUEL & THE VISITOR IN THE RAIN
The morning sun broke through the tall pine boughs, casting long golden rectangles across the long wooden trestle tables of the Margin's mess hall. Eusacles shuffled in, dark circles under his aviators, muttering to himself as he collapsed onto a bench beside Pierre and Alfie.
Pierre set down a tin cup, leaning over with an eager grin. "Alfie, did you enjoy the cinema last night? It was the only disc we could find in the supply cabin."
"Incredible," Alfie declared, perched on the tabletop with his arms crossed over his soccer scarf. "Alfie loved it."
"Honestly, Alfie, I don't really know what happens in it either," Pierre admitted with a light shrug. "They never made much sense to me. But I think this one, he turns into a spider, or maybe a spider turned into him. I'm not entirely sure."
The heavy oak door banged open against the wall, rattling the tin mugs on the sideboard. Naomi marched into the hall, hair pulled into a severe ponytail, brandishing an accordion folder thick with manila case files. "All right! We watched a movie, we relaxed, everybody is fine. Rosa told me to give you all the night to recover, and it's been the night. So now it's time. There is still one more fragment out there."
"Naomi, you know the deal," Pierre chided, wagging a slender finger. "You show us the bootleg copies of Harry Potter and Marvel, and then we will go to work."
Mike emerged from the kitchen carrying a smoking iron skillet, setting down three massive plates of golden pancakes topped with dark berry sauce.
Eusacles picked up his fork, poked at the steaming stack, and sighed deeply. "I am getting real tired of these pancakes. They're really good, but they need something else." He raised a calloused hand over the plate, muttering a Vegas tavern cantrip. "I cast Divine Flavor on these pancakes."
Pierre's eyes widened in profound culinary horror, his fork clattering against the tin plate. "Do not touch my pancakes!"
Before Eusacles could bring the fork to his lips, Pierre snatched his newly mended bronze javelin from beneath the bench. Overcome with theatrical outrage, he lunged across the corner of the table, driving the bronze point directly into Eusacles' left flank. The freshly forged metal punched clean through denim and flannel, biting into the flesh beneath the ribs. "How does that taste to you, huh? I can direct-deliver it to your intestines!"
Eusacles gasped, clutching his side as crimson seeped around the spearhead. "What the fuck! I didn't think you'd take it that seriously!"
From behind the counter, Mike waved his wooden spatula in frantic circles. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! What are you guys doing? Take it outside!"
Pierre released the haft, pacing the floorboards with flailing arms. "I have no ingredients to work with!" Pierre cried, gesturing wildly toward the barren pantry. "We have flour, water, and rum! That is all! Where are the eggs? Where is the unsalted butter? If I am to bake proper croissants for Alfie, who has never tasted one in his entire life, we require proper provisions!"
Mike grabbed a grease pencil, hastily scribbling across a brown paper flour sack. "All right, all right, I got it, bro! Scrambled eggs, butter, yeast—we can do this!"
Pierre stopped pacing, eyeing the crimson stain spreading across Eusacles' shirt with a faint twinge of awkward guilt. "Perhaps... perhaps it was a slight overreaction. Yesterday the weapon was completely useless, and today it strikes with the force of an Olympian titan. That is hardly my fault."
"I didn't even touch your plate!" Eusacles barked, wrenching the bronze point free and pressing both calloused palms over the puncture. "Bro, I am not trying to see my dad again already! Holy shit!"
A pale golden warmth flared beneath Eusacles' fingers as he channeled *Cure Wounds* to knit the torn muscle back together.
Pierre immediately knelt beside him on the bench, hauling a curved suture needle and silk thread from his rucksack. "You cannot simply use magic for everything! What are you doing? Hold still!" Pierre snapped, aggressively driving the needle through the closing skin to cinch it shut with tight medical knots.
Eusacles winced, gritting his teeth behind his sunglasses. "Are you digging deep on purpose?!"
"Are you guys done?" Naomi cut in, stepping up to the end of the table with folded arms, tapping her boot against the pine boards. "I have been up for four hours waiting to drop this on you. You already know part of it."
Pierre tied off the final stitch with a decisive flick of his shears, rose smoothly, and wiped his hands on a clean napkin. He grabbed a jug of orange juice and a bottle of rum from the credenza, splashing a generous pour straight across Eusacles' freshly stitched flank as sterilization. "There. Now I have a clean glass." Pierre filled four tumblers to the brim, sliding one to Alfie and setting another before the wounded demigod.
"Pierre, make it a double for me," Eusacles groaned, leaning his head back against the timber wall. "I've had a hell of a night, and you did just stab me."
CHAPTER 49: PODCAST ARCHIVES & THE WASHINGTON LEAD
Naomi slapped a manila folder onto the grease-stained trestle table, scattering black-and-white printouts across the wood. She stood over the trio with arms crossed, her eyes burning with caffeinated intensity.
Pierre leaned back, nursing his tumbler of rum and orange juice. "All right, Naomi. Lay it on us."
"There is this podcast," Naomi began, tapping a printed transcript. "Two women who host a true-crime show—mostly they just get hammered and banter, but out of nowhere, this one episode has completely blown up online. It's about a commercial airliner flight headed into Washington, D.C. A man supposedly stood up in the aisle to hijack the plane. But before anyone could scream, he was found facedown in the carpet, bound with heavy zip-tie handcuffs. The plane landed safely at the airport, and zero passengers saw who tackled or cuffed him."
She leaned forward, her knuckles flat on the table. "No one saw what happened. No air marshal was on board. And right now, the internet is tearing itself apart trying to figure out who saved the flight."
Pierre adjusted his spectacles, swirling his drink. "Did Teddy fill you in on the master? The mastermind behind the Redactors?"
"I haven't really investigated that much," Naomi admitted, shaking her head.
"Teddy gave me a brief overview a long time ago when I was chasing fragments," she explained. "I've always just tracked down the physical artifacts. I haven't dug into where the mastermind is coming from, other than Teddy saying he felt the hand of this entity during his second fragment."
Pierre set his glass down with a deliberate clatter. "Here is something for your big brain to ponder. The creature in the cart told us her master is creating a utopia by altering small, random events—saving a handful of patients from a rogue physician, or sparing a single airliner. Why alter these minor incidents instead of preventing massive global horrors like the Holocaust? If you want to understand the mastermind, you must ask why he is remaking history into his twisted idea of egalitarian perfection."
Naomi stared at him, momentarily stunned. "Wow. I'm speechless. And that doesn't happen very often."
"Furthermore, one more thing," Pierre added, crossing his legs with delicate precision. "I do not believe we should go after any more fragments."
Naomi's eyes flared. "Why do you say that?"
"The master no longer cares about the fragments," Pierre argued, gesturing toward himself. "He cares about us! He knows the anomalies are absorbed inside us. If the villain says you are the most valuable target, maybe we need therapy first to understand what we have seen!"
"If we're important because we've absorbed fragments, wouldn't that mean we should collect more to become stronger?" Eusacles countered from across the bench.
"The doctor attacked as soon as we left the Margin," Pierre added anxiously. "I do not want to get attacked again."
"Teddy has been safe here for thirty or forty years without being attacked by a doctor," he pointed out. "It seems pretty safe to me. We could just never leave, and watch the movies Naomi bootlegs for us."
Alfie piped up from the tabletop, button eyes gleaming with sudden insight. "Is it like a Horcrux situation, like in Harry Potter? Where we are like Harry, in that we are important, but the fragments are also important?"
Pierre stared down at the tiny duelist in utter shock. "Alfie, did you stay up all night?"
"I've never seen the movies, but I have read all the books," Alfie admitted casually, smoothing his sailcloth lapels. "You never really asked me if I read books."
"Have you read comic books?" Pierre asked, bewildered.
"Yeah, all of them," Alfie nodded proudly. "Really, all I've got in my head is memories of sailors dying on ships, and a bunch of books and comics."
Alfie's small wooden arm twitched with thread consciousness, gesturing toward the folder. "What I'm trying to say is: are the fragments like Horcruxes? We are just unfortunate people put into a situation. Honestly, so was Harry Potter. I'm just an action figure who lived, you know."
Pierre covered his face with his hands, groaning in defeat. "Harry Potter had professors at an ancient castle teaching him real patronus charms, not a tiny white bunny that the monster ignores!"
"I do not feel good about walking through the Lost Roads expecting not to get ambushed by a woman sitting in the second row," he added. "We got lucky twice. Are we getting lucky a third time? It seems like too much."
"Don't they always say third time's the charm?" Alfie chirped cheerfully. "I think it's going to be great."
Eusacles drained his tumbler, looking directly at Naomi. "Are you suggesting there's another fragment over in D.C.?"
Naomi tapped a grainy photograph pinned to the last manila sheet—an evidence tag stamped with the seal of the Metropolitan Police Department. "Yes. The podcast confirmed that the flight manifest and the anomalous zip-tie handcuffs used to bind the hijacker are currently locked in an evidence locker at a police precinct in Washington, D.C."
CHAPTER 50: DRILLS AT DAWN & THE EXPEDITION TO D.C.
Naomi smoothed the police incident report across the trestle table, tapping her pen against the precinct badge printed at the top. "Both the anomalous zip-tie handcuffs and the flight manifest are currently locked away in the Metropolitan Police Department evidence locker in Washington, D.C."
Eusacles rubbed his chin, staring at the schematic. "The capital of the United States. In an active police precinct."
"I probably should have led with that," Naomi admitted with an apologetic wince. "But we can find a way in."
Alfie perched on the edge of the table, tilting his carved head. "Do you think they have some sort of gift shop? Because I'm really only interested in places that have merch available."
"If you get into the evidence locker, there's guaranteed to be plenty of odds and ends," Naomi said, suppressing a smile. "Hats, coats, badges..."
"It is Washington, D.C.," Eusacles chuckled, leaning back on the bench. "Between the National Mall, the museums, and the Capitol, it's probably the highest density of gift shops on the continent."
Alfie gave a brisk nod, patting his rapier hilt. "All right, I'm in."
Pierre looked between them, adjusting his wire-rimmed spectacles with a deep sigh. "I am having a crisis. I do not really want to go to a police station, but I feel it is irresponsible to leave a one-year-old action figure unattended. And I really like watching Alfie work."
"Well, look, Pierre," Eusacles said, lowering his voice as he leaned across the table. "I don't want to get your hopes up, but I talked with my dad last night."
Pierre blinked. "Who is your dad, by the way?"
"He's the god of death. Thanatos," Eusacles replied casually, as if mentioning a cousin from Reno. "Anyway, that's not important. Dad visited me last night, and I asked him if he knew who your mom was."
Pierre froze, his tumbler of rum hovering halfway to his mouth. "I am still processing. Your father is the god of death, and he visited you? But you are still alive, yes? You are not dead?"
"I'm definitely alive," Eusacles said. "He visited in a dream. More like a daydream where you're not completely asleep. Anyway, I asked him about your mom, and he didn't give me a straight answer. He just burst out laughing. He asked, 'Did Hermes not tell y'all? What an epic prank!'"
"He said he didn't want to ruin the surprise," Eusacles continued. "Which means if we do nothing and stay here, you'll never find out who your mother is."
Pierre's jaw dropped, then snapped shut in exasperation. "I don't know why you are even asking about my mother! I know who my mother is! She is very intimidating—she is like an Italian mafia boss! When I say 'Do you know who my mother is?', it is an intimidation tactic, not an honest inquiry!"
Eusacles stared at him, incredulous. "Bro, you have got to work on your intimidation! I thought you were asking honest questions the entire time!"
Pierre drew himself up to his full, aristocratic height, his dark eyes flashing with wounded Parisian pride. "I am exceedingly intimidating!" Pierre declared, snatching his bronze javelin from against the bench. "My presence commands absolute terror! If you require proof, I will demonstrate with some spear practice before we depart!"
Without warning, Pierre lunged forward, thrusting the bronze javelin straight at Eusacles' chest.
Before the blade could touch denim, Eusacles' left arm snapped up on pure, divine reflex. The engraved pocket watch at his wrist caught the bronze spearhead with a sharp, resonant *clink*. The bronze point glanced harmlessly off the crystal face, leaving not a scratch or a dent upon the glass.
Pierre stumbled back, blinking at his weapon in absolute awe. "See, that is precisely what I require! You did not even flinch, while I would have been skewered! You must instruct me in these defenses!"
Alfie hopped down onto the gravel path outside, drawing his sewing-needle rapier with a sharp, authoritative flourish. "Down on the grass, mate!" Alfie commanded, pointing the needle toward the lawn. "If you want to be properly intimidating, it begins with physical discipline! Push-ups! Let's get down to business!"
Within minutes, the sanctuary courtyard was transformed. Down on the dewy lawn, Alfie perched like a diminutive green-cloaked drill sergeant atop Pierre's shoulder blades as Pierre grunted through shaky push-ups in the grass. Then, switching positions, Pierre rested his weight upon Alfie's shoulders, watching in open-mouthed disbelief as the two-foot driftwood duelist effortlessly pumped out one-handed push-ups against the gravel without breaking a sweat.
With spirits renewed, gear repaired, and their tactical roles hardened, the party gathered their rucksacks on the porch. The lead was clear, the anomaly was identified, and the expedition to the nation's capital was set to begin.