Three buildings down from Kelfloss’s warehouse of stolen goods, sat a sizable bird coop. There, a runner tied a note to a raven’s leg and released it into the sky. It soared over Ingcaster, and I gave chase with Void Seer.

  An azure hue flashed along the raven's wings and its speed doubled. Void Seer kept pace as we flew west over the Regal Plaza, the heart of Ingcaster's ruling elite. Bleach white stone towers loomed, eclipsing the city's lesser structures, rivaled only by the stern facades of government buildings.

  The raven dove toward an isolated estate on the southeastern side of the district. Karma’s Gaze rattled off too many statuses as I surveyed the small army patrolling the estate's landscape. Finally, the raven landed in a domed aviary of wrought iron in the garden.

  A level two servant hobbled over, collected the letter and flicked a shining gold coin into the air. The raven snatched it out of the air and carried it to a perch atop the dome.

  I parked Void Seer in the servant's shadow and followed him into the mansion. Karma's Gaze unveiled status after status of the morally bankrupt scum Daven kept on his payroll. It was like taking a stroll through a wax museum, but every sculpture was Stalin.

  Going from the east wing to the west wing took twenty minutes and even the servant made two wrong turns. The deeper he went, the density and levels of the guards increased.

  He strode down a corridor with level sixes lined in opposition along its obnoxious length. The poor servant nodded, mumbling, "Excuse me, sir," until his throat ran dry and he arrived at two grandiose double doors guarded by a level eight with a neck thicker than a stack of encyclopedias.

  "I have an urgent message for Lord Murpharion." The servant bowed so low it hurt to watch.

  "You wish to interrupt the lord's dinner?"

  The servant extended his hand, passing off the letter. "No, that is your responsibility. I'm only the bird handler."

  The bird man scurried away, and I hopped hosts again like a virus, shifting from one shadow to another. The level eight looked like he wanted to slit his own throat with the dagger sheathed at his side. Instead he hopped up and down, pumping up his circulation as he faced the intimidating doors. He reached for the gaudy gold handle then turned and handed the letter to one of his level six subordinates standing guard in the hall.

  "Deliver this to Lord Murpharion, immediately."

  "But..."

  "Immediately!"

  I swapped shadows again, tapping into Norman’s, the level six whose newfound duty aged him a decade. Fear hollowed his cheeks. The level eight gave him a pat on the back and pushed him toward the door. Norman knocked twice, then let himself in when someone on the other side grunted.

  Daven Murpharion sat at the head of a table, joined by four others. The table was long enough to seat the entire population of Vaulter, and chandeliers placed too close together washed the massive dining room in a warm orange glow.

  One look and I hated him. I was taught in school not to judge a book by its cover, but this cover had a punchable face with a -22,260 karma justification hanging around his neck. Gaudy, jet-black silks with streaks of gold draped over his shoulders in cumbersome layers.

  While the noble weighed in at level seven, his four subordinates outclassed him at levels 10, 11, 12 and 12, respectively. I skimmed over their statuses in no particular order.

  I was disappointed to learn the Herald of Chains was only level 10 and his real name was Gunder. His bushy black beard draped over his neck. It collected crumbs as he licked duck fat from his fingers.

  Daven dropped his knife and fork, offended by Norman's presence as he knelt in the doorway, head hung low.

  "My lord, we've received urgent correspondence from Kelfloss regarding the phantom."

  "Carry on then, meal ruining vermin."

  Norman rushed to the noble's side, handed off the letter and bowed. Daven thanked him by plunging a salad fork into the side of his cheek. The guard bit his tongue, stifling an instinctive yelp. The noble smirked, then pointed to the door.

  "Don't look at me. Turn around."

  Norman complied, burying the rest of his dignity underneath a final, "Thank you, sir."

  The noble read the note and sighed.

  "Kelfloss claims the phantom is returning tonight to steal from us again. He's requesting reinforcements in addition to what's already been dispatched."

  "Is that so?"" The Herald of Chains rose from his seat.

  "Sit down. We are having a nice meal." The nobleman clapped twice and a butler swooped in with a bottle of wine, topping off everyone's glasses. "Toom and his crew are more than capable of dealing with the phantom.”

  "I wish to fight the man who toppled the Sanguine Syndicate." The Herald of Chains hopped over the table and landed beside Norman with a resounding thud. "I'm taking 50 men. Tonight they shall witness greatness."

  They'll witness something.

  Tether.

  Gunder left the room, and I set a tether point in the corner of the ceiling for quick access with Void Seer in the future. Though, I wasn't looking forward to navigating this 100 room monstrosity of a mansion next time I wanted to drop in for an episode of Daven Abuses His Staff.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  "You two are unusually quiet," the noble said, swirling the wine between measured sips.

  Alone, the level 12s were Humphrey and Octavian, together they were known as the Fated Twins, despite being cousins. Both wore matching white robes adorned with ruffles, a terrible choice for a feast with hot and cold soup courses. Pale skin stretched over their thin bodies, cheekbones reminding me of Jag’thar's skeleton.

  Their statuses offered zero insight into their abilities or hinted at how they reached level 12 and earned their respected ranks in a major criminal enterprise when they looked like a light sneeze could topple them.

  "Since this messenger's arrival, a dark cloud has festered," Humphrey croaked.

  "I feel it too, brother," Octavian added.

  You're cousins.

  Daven launched a butter knife at the back of Norman's head, but it went low, bounced off the top of his chest piece and landed on the floor. "Bastard, your entrance brought the whole room down. The Herald was in the middle of a captivating tale of how he made a warlord from Durotai eat a dagger. Now he’s gone."

  "My apologies sir." Norman bowed so deep I thought he'd split in two.

  The noble wore a malevolent grin. "Swallow that butter knife.”

  Owen, the level 11, was halfway through a sandwich of his own creation. For some reason, his bonus information only chronicled his luncheon habits, detailing how he pre-packed every meal, three per day. He sat between the cousins and Daven, hiding his displeasure behind his ham and cheese.

  Norman gulped as he bent over and picked up the butter knife. I expected some form of resistance, but clearly he feared asking Daven for forgiveness more than throwing some cutlery down the hatch. He opened his mouth, tilted his head back, and lowered the butter knife, rounded-edge first. The blunt instrument hit his gag reflex and the guard recoiled, retracting the silverware, choking with watery eyes.

  "Oh, come on it's not that hard," Owen proclaimed.

  He picked up his own butter knife and dropped it into his throat. An after image flickered and the butter knife was back in his hand, cutting through an apple.

  A mirage?

  "I can't," Norman coughed, dropping his hands at his side, pink saliva ran down the butter knife's edge.

  Unimpressed, Daven dabbed his glossy lips and greasy goatee. "Someone assist him."

  Owen stepped up onto the table, walking through a meatloaf, kicking roast potatoes across the floor in pursuit of the quivering guard.

  “I’ve told you before, just go around me,” Daven said.

  “I could never inconvenience my Lord. What if you scootched your chair too fast and bruised a rib on the table’s edge? No, my Lord, taking a direct approach is better.”

  I lacked sympathy for Norman. Nothing in his status suggested he was here against his will. No, he was paid twice a month and spent it all on hookers and booze.

  The Fated Twins couldn't watch. Even Owen, the one forcing Norman's mouth open and the butter knife down his trachea, turned away.

  But Daven watched with sadistic glee. Being a psychopath was one thing. But combined with his terrible taste in interior decoration and fashion, I could only draw one conclusion.

  Daven Murpharion will die a painful death.

  The chandeliers and magelights affixed to the walls dimmed and I felt the hunger stir—a deep anticipation. Flickering lights stalled Norman's fate, everyone's attention stolen by the room's sudden chill.

  Their uneasiness strengthened whatever was taking control of the room. The chandeliers sputtered and died with a cascade of sharp pops. I felt myself sinking away as the darkness spread, snuffing out every source of light.

  "An omen?" Humphrey whispered.

  His cousin nodded. "Yes, brother. I concur."

  Daven opened his mouth only to be cut off by a mangled piano chord. The horrendous tone sliced through the room. Wine glasses shattered, dishes shook, and the tablecloth rose with a strong breeze from nowhere. Everyone jolted back from the table, and I melted out of Void Seer, becoming one with the darkness as it rolled across the ceiling.

  No one dared speak or breath.

  Who am I?

  I wondered my purpose, knowing whatever it was had been important. Where was my body? A familiar starvation tugged me in all directions and my capacity to resist faltered.

  "Cyprus? Are you OK?" Wake up."

  Cold water splashed in my face, ripping me out of my trance.

  "You were seizing," Viessa said. "I warned you about using Void Seer for an extended duration. Leaving your body while it remains—"

  "Quiet."

  I grabbed my chest, heart pounding like it wanted out. I wiped the cold sweat from my brow, remembering everything. Viessa and I were posted up on a rooftop outside of Gearward Row's perimeter. Thunder sounded in the distance and a mist fell across the city.

  Muted mutterings transmitted in from the tether I had set with Void Seer. In one ear I heard Daven Murpharion's crew debating whether they had experienced the aftershock of a powerful magic attack or if the mage who imbued the mansion's lightning needed a stern talking to.

  In the other ear, I heard dampened laughter—a card game unfolding in Kelfloss's warehouse, Veigan winning hands. When I originally gained Void Seer's tether upgrade, I had assumed Void Seer’s tether function was limited to one place at a time.

  It was a cool feature, one I may have been excited about, if I wasn't being smothered by an unknown monster that even had Chaos shitting his pants.

  "I was losing myself. I don't know what would've been left of me if you hadn't snapped me out of it."

  "You need—"

  I shushed her. "Our words must be chosen carefully. This is the one case where ignoring a problem is the best case. From now on, let's discuss the food poisoning I've endured instead."

  Viessa pulled back her mesh face guard, emerald eyes beaming with confusion.

  "You know, the bad burrito I ate that's been wrecking my bowels as of late."

  At last, the loophole clicked for her and she raised a finger. "Speaking to Justice about this bad burrito may have been wise."

  "I thought about that, but the bad burrito threatened to blow out my guts then and there if I mentioned it." I leaned back against the stone ledge, more rattled than I wanted to admit.

  While the flawed allegory provided a temporary shield, I sensed it wouldn't hold up long.

  Fayador's head popped out of the shadow at my feet, almost startling Viessa over the edge.

  "Master of Darkness—hero, I'm sorry to interrupt you and your mistress's evening."

  Viessa splashed the decaying dog with water and the hound cocked its skeletal head in confusion.

  "Holy water..." she muttered, then stopped, taking another disappointment from her religion to heart.

  "Why are you topside? If anyone else saw you, it would cause me problems."

  "I overheard your concerns, and I spoke with, uh, the bad burrito. Your intuition is correct to ignore it. But you must feed the burrito. Overfeed it and it will consume you. But if you starve it completely..."

  "It will still consume me?"

  "Exactly. Increasing your level will give you more control over the, you know what." Fayador glanced behind me, ears perking up.

  A chill ran down my spine and I knew it was catching-on. I nodded and Fayador dismissed himself, disappearing back into my shadow.

  "I had much to say, but speaking the banished tongue is too strange." Viessa grimaced. "As is the Divine Framework's automatic translation."

  "I don't know what to do."

  "In hours of uncertainty, let your spirit guide you."

  "Is that an ancient elvish adage?" I asked.

  The elf smirked, brow relaxed. "It's only part of the phrase."

  "Well, what's the rest of it? I could use some ancient wisdom that’s not from hell.”

  "Let your spirit guide you... To a Moonflower Delight and you will taste the light in every bite. Oo-la-la, the sweet's just right." The jingle ended on a bittersweet note, carrying the yearning for her homeland.

  She slid her mask back over her face and stared up at the clouds backlit by the moons. "Trust yourself.”

  I laughed. “You’re just regurgitating what I told you before.”

  “If we had delayed the quest longer, maybe Justice would've arrived in time. Maybe Onadell's existence wouldn't be threatened."

  “No, Chaos always would’ve found another useful idiot.”

  The hunger pulsed again, and I accepted that it was feeding time.