Sadly, the only way to deal with Hel's Maggots was, as Sael's mother used to put it, "thoroughly and from a distance."

  He descended toward the whimpering Cerberus, the memory of her words settling over him.

  Hel's Maggots were among the rare creatures in this Hel that could not be reasoned with, nor subdued with tact. They weren't intelligent enough for diplomacy. Or social enough to establish hierarchies that might be exploited. They simply hunted, ate, and multiplied in the endless twilight of this place.

  Most creatures could be managed if you were clever about it. Most creatures had patterns, territories they respected, boundaries they wouldn't cross if properly warned. His mother had taught him that too, she had spent years mapping the behaviors of Hel's more dangerous inhabitants, learning which could be avoided and which had to be dealt with more permanently.

  The Maggots fell into the latter category.

  The first time Sael had seen his mother cast [Judgment], he'd been twelve.

  They'd been deeper into Hel than he'd ever ventured before, following some research lead she'd insisted was important. He couldn't remember what, now. The details had blurred with time. What he remembered was the pack of Maggots that had erupted from beneath the snow, drawn by their passage.

  She'd told him to close his eyes.

  He hadn't, of course. He was twelve and thought himself braver than he was.

  The spell had been beautiful and terrible in equal measure. Pillars of light descending like the wrath of something divine. The Maggots hadn't stood a chance. And Sael, watching with wide eyes from behind his mother's protective wards, had thought: I want to learn that.

  That specifically. That exact spell. He'd had no interest in the broader study of magic, or the fundamental theories that governed spellwork. He'd just wanted the ability to call down that kind of power, to make light fall from the sky like his mother did.

  It seemed silly now, looking back. A child's fixation on the spectacular rather than the substantive. He'd wanted to impress his mother, probably, and be able to do what she did.

  The years had a way of changing perspective. He'd learned [Judgment] eventually, of course, as well as a thousands of other spells, until magic became less about individual moments of spectacle and more about the accumulated weight of knowledge.

  Time passed. Things changed.

  His mother was gone now, and he was the one casting [Judgment] at Maggots.

  Being back here felt strange. Not quite like coming home—Hel had never been home, not really—but close enough to stir something uncomfortable in his chest. The endless twilight. The howling wind. The bite of cold that his protective spells kept at bay but that he remembered with perfect clarity from his childhood.

  He'd spent years in this place. Following his mother through the frozen wastes and fiery lands while she conducted her research, catalogued creatures, mapped territories. She'd called them "hunting sessions," which had been a generous description. Most of the time they were long, cold slogs through identical-looking terrain while she pointed out monster tracks or explained the migration patterns of creatures Sael had no interest in.

  He'd hated it.

  The cold, mostly, though the heat was just as bad when they ventured to Hel's other half: the volcanic regions where the air shimmered and breathing felt like inhaling smoke. But even beyond temperature, it was the sameness. The way hours could pass seeing nothing but snow and ice, or nothing but black rock, lava and steam. The time with his mother had been fine—good, even—but he'd been a child, restless and easily bored, counting down the days until he could leave this realm behind and see the rest of the world.

  A rest of the world that had seemed so much more interesting. Temperate, for one thing. Full of people and cities and things that weren't trying to eat you. He'd gotten his wish eventually. Left Hel behind, traveled, studied, built a life elsewhere.

  And now his mother was gone, and he was back here, and all those boring hunting sessions felt like something precious he'd squandered.

  If he'd known then what he knew now...

  Well. He would have paid more attention. Asked more questions. Complained less about the cold. Appreciated that someone cared enough to teach him how to survive in a place like this, even if he'd never planned to return.

  He would have cherished it more.

  Sael felt the familiar weight of regret starting to settle in his chest and deliberately pushed it away.

  His mother had another saying, one she'd repeated often enough that it had stuck: "Don't let the past cling to you so much it cripples you."

  Good advice, that. One he wasn't sure he'd succeeded at lately.

  Sael blinked, the memory dissipating.

  Right. Koleen and Richter.

  He'd brought them along, hadn't he? Two people he'd neglected to warn before casting a spell that could probably be seen from several kilometers away and had almost certainly been deeply unpleasant to experience at close range.

  That was...unfortunate.

  The sweet taste of massive magical buildup had a way of making people nauseous if they weren't prepared for it. The pressure could cause headaches. The light had definitely been too bright.

  "Hmm." This hmm's meaning was pretty obvious. "I should probably apologize."

  Sael glanced back over his shoulder.

  Both men were following, still airborne, Koleen carrying Richter in what looked like a deeply uncomfortable arrangement for everyone involved. They seemed fine. Physically intact, at least. No obvious signs of distress beyond Richter's general tension, which appeared to be more about the flying than the earlier spell.

  So the question became: apologize now, or later?

  Now would be the professional thing to do. Acknowledge the oversight, express regret for any discomfort caused, move on. Clean and efficient.

  But they were still mid-air, in the immediate aftermath of the spell. The landscape below was dotted with smoldering craters and melted snow. The wind was still howling. It wasn't exactly an ideal environment for a conversation about social niceties.

  Later, then. When they were back on solid ground and Richter wasn't being held like a sack of grain.

  That was the rational choice.

  Except... was it rude to delay an apology? Did waiting make it seem like he didn't care about their comfort? Was there an etiquette to this he was forgetting?

  Sael considered the problem with the same careful attention he'd give to a complex enchantment.

  Apologizing now: awkward timing, difficult to have a proper conversation mid-flight, might seem performative. Apologizing later: more composed, better environment for discussion, but might seem like an afterthought. Not apologizing at all: efficient, but probably inappropriate given he'd subjected them to what was essentially a localized natural disaster without warning.

  He really should have warned them.

  A particularly pitiful whimper echoed across the frozen wasteland.

  Sael's attention snapped back to the Cerberus. The creature was still on the snow dune, all three heads turned in his direction now. Six eyes watching him descend. The whimpering was coming from all three mouths at once, a discordant harmony of pain and fear.

  Right. Injured dog with three heads. Probably more pressing than the social dynamics of an apology.

  He could apologize later.

  Sael descended the rest of the way, his boots touching down on the snow with barely a sound. The surface was solid here, compacted by wind and time into something more like ice than powder.

  The Cerberus scrambled backward, which was impressive given it was missing a front leg. All three heads were growling now, low and threatening despite the obvious fear in those six eyes.

  Blood stained the snow beneath it, dark against white. The stump where its leg had been was still bleeding, though slower now. The creature had been running on pure adrenaline. Now that it had stopped, shock was probably setting in.

  Sael stopped about ten feet away.

  Behind him, he heard the soft thump of Koleen and Richter landing. Neither of them said anything, which he appreciated.

  The Cerberus's growling intensified.

  "Easy," Sael said quietly.

  All three heads snapped toward him, ears flat against skulls.

  He held up both hands, palms out, in what he hoped was a universal gesture of non-aggression.

  Sael reached for the empathic bridge.

  The Cerberus scrambled backward. Three heads, six eyes, all locked on him. The middle head's lips peeled back to show teeth. The left head whimpered. The right head just stared, ears flat against its skull.

  Blood darkened the snow beneath the stump where its front leg used to be.

  Sael extended his awareness carefully, the way his mother had taught him. Druidic magic wasn't forceful. It was an invitation, not a demand. He shaped the connection with intent—hello, I'm here, I mean no harm—and let it drift toward the Cerberus like a hand extended palm-up.

  The creature's growling intensified. All three heads snapped toward him simultaneously, a discordant snarl building in three throats. The empathic bridge touched the Cerberus's consciousness and slid off like water on glass.

  Fear. That's all there was. Pure, animal panic that wouldn't let anything else in.

  Sael tried again, gentler this time. It's alright. You know me.

  Nothing. The bridge wouldn't take. The Cerberus was too far gone into terror to accept the connection.

  "Hey," Sael said quietly, abandoning the magic for now. "Hello there."

  Six eyes tracked him. The growling didn't stop.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  "You don't remember me?" He took half a step forward.

  The Cerberus lunged backward, yelped when weight came down wrong on the missing leg, and collapsed sideways into the snow. All three heads started whimpering.

  Sael stopped moving. "Right. Too fast."

  The Cerberus struggled back upright, favoring its remaining front leg. Blood kept seeping from the stump. Not as much as before—shock was setting in—but enough that it needed attention soon.

  "I'm not your enemy," Sael said. "I want to help."

  The left head whimpered louder. The middle head kept snarling. The right head just panted, tongue lolling.

  Sael reached for the empathic bridge again. Still nothing. The creature's mind was a wall of fear.

  He let the magic dissipate. "Are you hurt?"

  Three heads stared at him.

  Sael blinked. "That was...obviously you're hurt. You're missing a leg. Why did I ask that."

  The Cerberus shifted its weight, tried to back up further, realized there was nowhere to go, and settled for lowering all three heads in a defensive posture.

  "I'm going to heal you," Sael said. "Alright? I'll come closer, and I'll fix the leg. Well. I can't reattach it, obviously, it's been eaten, but I can stop the bleeding and close the wound. You'll be fine."

  The middle head's snarl turned into something closer to a warning bark.

  "I know. You don't want me closer. I'm coming closer anyway."

  Sael took a step forward.

  The Cerberus whimpered.

  Another step. "Yes, it's me. We saw each other yesterday, yes?"

  The left head sniffed the air. The middle head kept growling. The right head tilted, uncertain.

  "See? You remember." Sael took another step. "I'm the same person. Same smell, same—"

  The middle head's jaws opened wide.

  Sael had exactly enough time to think oh before two thousand pounds of terrified Cerberus lunged forward and closed its teeth around his torso.

  His vision became teeth and darkness and the wet heat of the creature's mouth. He heard fabric tear—his robes, probably ruined now—and felt pressure as the jaws tried to close properly. The Cerberus shook its head violently, the way dogs did with prey, and Sael's world became a disorienting blur of motion.

  "SAEL!"

  Richter's voice, sharp with alarm.

  The other two heads had his legs now. He felt that, distantly. More pressure. More shaking. The Cerberus was trying very hard to kill him.

  It wasn't working, but points for effort.

  "No—" Sael's voice came out muffled from inside the Cerberus's mouth. "Do not—"

  The creature shook him again, harder this time.

  "—everything's fi—"

  Another violent shake.

  "—fine! I'm fine!"

  The shaking continued. Sael's robes made an unhappy tearing sound. He was fairly certain the hem had just come completely off.

  "Lord Archamge!" Koleen this time, also panicked.

  "I said—" shake "—don't—" shake "—it's fine!"

  The Cerberus slammed him against the ground. Snow exploded around the impact. The teeth didn't let go.

  Sael waited for the creature to realize this wasn't working.

  More shaking. His collar tore free. That had been expensive fabric. Dwarven-made, imported from the eastern cities. He'd liked that collar.

  The middle head released him just long enough to get a better grip, then bit down again with renewed determination. The other two heads pulled in opposite directions on his legs.

  "I approached it—" shake "—while in distress!" Sael tried to explain, his voice interrupted each time the Cerberus whipped him around like a chew toy. "Clearly didn't—" shake "—want to be—" shake "—approached! Will calm down—" shake "—eventually!"

  A particularly violent shake nearly dislocated his shoulder. Well, would have, if his body's durability weren't what it was. As it stood, the motion just made his hair fall into his eyes.

  This was becoming tedious.

  The Cerberus bit down harder. Sael felt his robes tear further. The left head found his arm and chomped down enthusiastically. The right head was attempting to chew through his boot.

  Sael closed his eyes and waited.

  More shaking. More pulling. The Cerberus was really committing to this. He almost admired the persistence.

  Another slam against the ground, hard enough to crack ice.

  Then stillness.

  The teeth were still embedded in various parts of his body, but the shaking had stopped.

  Sael opened his eyes.

  He was staring up at the twilight sky of Hel, lying flat on his back in the snow. His robes hung in tatters. His hair was a mess. He could see his own breath misting in the cold air.

  Three heads loomed above him, still gripping him but no longer actively trying to dismember him. Six eyes stared down.

  Sael looked at the Cerberus, and the Cerberus looked at Sael.

  "You done?"

  The Cerberus released him.

  Sael stood up, brushing snow off his robes.

  "Lord Sael!" Koleen rushed forward, Richter close behind. "Are you—your clothes—"

  "I'm fine," Sael said.

  "Your robes are destroyed," Richter said.

  Sael looked down at himself. "Oh. Yes, I suppose they are."

  "That creature nearly—"

  "It didn't." Sael brushed off more snow. A piece of his sash came away in his hand. He stared at it. "I needed it to calm down first. It was too distressed to allow the connection."

  Koleen blinked. "The connection?"

  "The empathic bridge. Druidic magic." Sael gestured vaguely at the Cerberus, which was now sitting in the snow watching him with all three heads tilted at slightly different angles. "You can't force it. The creature has to accept it willingly. Fear blocks it completely."

  "So... you let it maul you?" Richter said.

  "I had a Cerberus as a child," Sael said. "They have quite a lot of temper. Won't calm down until they've had a good fight. This one needed to work through its panic."

  "By eating you."

  "By trying to eat me." Sael pulled another piece of torn fabric from his shoulder. "There's a difference."

  The Cerberus made a small sound; not quite a whimper, not quite a whine. More curious than distressed.

  Sael turned his attention back to it. He reached for the empathic bridge again, shaping the connection with careful intent. Hello. I'm here. You're safe now.

  This time, it took. Which was nice.

  The bridge slid into place like a key finding its lock. Sael felt the creature's consciousness on the other end—confusion, exhaustion, pain, but the terror had burned itself out. What remained was a tired wariness and the dull throb of injury.

  Yes, Sael sent along the bridge. It's me. You know me.

  Recognition flickered back. Not full understanding—the creature's mind wasn't built for complex thought—but awareness that this two-legged thing had been kind before.

  I'm going to help, Sael sent.

  He approached slowly. The Cerberus tracked him with all six eyes but didn't move away. The middle head lowered slightly as he got closer.

  Sael knelt beside the creature. Blood had soaked the snow around the stump of its front leg.

  "[Heal]," Sael said quietly.

  Green light gathered at his palm and flowed into the injury. The Cerberus flinched but held still, three sets of ears flicking back. The wound began to close, flesh knitting over the exposed bone and muscle. The bleeding stopped. New skin grew to cover what remained.

  The leg was still gone, of course. He couldn't regrow what wasn't there. But the stump was clean now, healthy tissue instead of burned meat and torn sinew.

  The Cerberus lowered all three heads and sighed. The sound was weirdly synchronized.

  Sael sat back on his heels and studied the creature. It wouldn't survive long here with three legs. Hel wasn't kind to weakness, and a Cerberus was a predator. Predators needed to hunt. This one would starve, or something larger would kill it.

  He could take it with him, probably. But that presented its own complications.

  Or.

  Sael held out his hand and began gathering mana.

  It pooled in his palm, formless and shifting. Raw magical energy pulled from the ambient field around him. He shaped it carefully, compressing it down. The mana resisted—it wanted to disperse, to return to its natural state—but he forced it inward.

  Gaseous mana was simple. Any apprentice could manage a gust of wind, a puff of flame. The mana barely needed to cohere before it was spent. It was Easy and cheap.

  Liquid was harder. Water, blood, acid. The mana had to hold together, maintain cohesion. A thousand times more expensive than gas in terms of raw mana expenditure. Most experienced mages could manage it with considerable effort, and generally preffered controlling available liquid instead of creating it from mana.

  Solid was where things got difficult.

  Sael compressed the mana further. It began to resist in earnest now, pushing back against his will. He could feel it trying to escape his grip, to scatter back into formless energy. He held it tighter.

  The mana in his palm started to glow, a soft blue-white light that grew brighter as he compressed it more. It was warm now, almost hot. The air around his hand shimmered.

  Further. He needed it denser. Solid wasn't enough; he needed metal.

  A thousand times harder than liquid. Ten thousand times harder than gas. The mana expenditure was enormous, a constant drain as he forced the energy to maintain a state it fundamentally didn't want to hold.

  The glow in his palm intensified. Threads of light began to weave together, forming structure. Lattices of crystallized mana that locked into place, each one reinforcing the next.

  Koleen made a small sound behind him. He ignored it.

  The mana compressed further. The light was painful to look at now, bright enough that he had to squint. The temperature spiked, his hand should have been burning, would have been burning if he were anyone else. The snow beneath his palm hissed and evaporated.

  The structure solidified. Metal. Not conjured from nothing but woven from pure mana, compressed so tightly that it took on physical form. Silver-white and gleaming, shaped with intent rather than a forge.

  Sael let out a breath and the light faded.

  In his hand was a leg. Or the framework of one. Metal struts and joints that mimicked bone and tendon, articulated at what would be the shoulder, elbow, and paw. Intricate and delicate, but strong. He'd made sure of that.

  The Cerberus watched him with all three heads.

  Sael shifted closer and held up the prosthetic. "This is going to feel strange."

  He didn't send words along the empathic bridge this time. Just intention. This will help. Trust me.

  The creature sniffed the metal framework, then huffed.

  Sael took that as permission.

  He pressed the prosthetic against the healed stump. Mana threads extended from the metal, seeking connection. They burrowed into the flesh—not painfully, but insistently—and found the remnants of bone and nerve. The threads latched on, fusing with what remained.

  The Cerberus whined. All three heads, simultaneously.

  "Almost done," Sael murmured.

  The prosthetic settled into place with a soft click that he felt more than heard. The mana threads completed their integration, and the metal leg became part of the creature. Not truly alive, but responsive. Nerves would fire, muscles would pull against the framework, and the leg would move.

  Sael pulled his hand back.

  The Cerberus stared at its new leg. Raised it experimentally. Set it down. Stood up, wobbling slightly as it adjusted to the weight distribution.

  Three heads looked at the leg. Then at Sael. Then back at the leg.

  The creature took a step, then another. The prosthetic moved smoothly, joints articulating with only the faintest whisper of metal on metal. The right head tilted. The tail wagged, just slightly. The middle head opened its mouth and licked Sael's face.

  Sael laughed.

  He couldn't help it. The middle head pulled back, ears perking up in what might have been surprise. The left head kept licking.

  "Stop now," Sael said, pushing the massive head away with both hands. "I need your help with something."

  The Cerberus sat back, all three heads tilting in that synchronized-but-not way they had. The prosthetic leg clicked softly against the ice.

  Sael reached for the empathic bridge again, deepening the connection. He needed more than simple emotions this time. He needed memory.

  He pulled up the image of Aldric he got Shaye's recollections.

  This man, Sael sent along the bridge. Where did you fight him the first time?

  The response was immediate and visceral.

  All three heads pulled back, lips curling to expose teeth. A growl built in the creature's chest, low and rumbling. The hackles on its back stood up. Even the prosthetic leg tensed, servos whirring softly as the creature's muscles pulled against the framework.

  Easy, Sael sent. I'm not asking you to like him. I need to know where you fought.

  The Cerberus growled again, but the sound tapered off. The bridge pulsed with reluctant cooperation, and then images began to flow across the connection.

  Chains wrapped around the creature's legs, its necks, digging into flesh. The creature was still whole in this memory, four legs, no wounds. But it couldn't move, couldn't escape the binding that held it to—

  Sael frowned. No. Not that. I need to know where you fought him the first time. Before he chained you. When—

  The image shifted.

  There was a portal, and Aldric standing in front of it, looking back over his shoulder. Repeatedly. His movements were jerky, rushed. He kept glancing at the portal like he expected it to close at any second.

  This was recent. Very recent.

  Yesterday, when he was fleeing before Sael arrived, it seemed.

  Sael's attention sharpened. He let the memory flow without interruption.

  Aldric was trying to feed the Cerberus something, meat, probably, though the creature's vision didn't parse it the way a human would. The man's hands were moving, gesturing in what looked like a command. An order.

  Come with me. Now.

  The Cerberus didn't want to. It pulled against the chains, all three heads snapping at the air. Aldric grabbed for the chains, trying to drag the creature toward the portal and the Cerberus bit him.

  The middle head lunged forward, jaws closing on Aldric's forearm. The teeth sank deep, scraping against bone. Blood filled its mouth, hot and copper-sweet.

  Aldric screamed. The sound was garbled in the creature's memory—Cerberus ears didn't process language the way human ears did—but the pain in it was clear.

  He ripped his arm away, tearing flesh. More blood. It sprayed across the creature's fur, across the snow, across Aldric's own robes.

  The creature lunged again, going for the throat this time.

  Magic hit it like a hammer and the Cerberus slammed into the ground, chains rattling. Its heads rang with the impact.

  By the time its vision cleared, Aldric was running.

  Toward the portal. Still clutching his arm. Blood dripping behind him in a trail across the snow.

  He stopped just before the portal, looked down at himself, and his hand moved, a green light washed over the blood on his robes, on his arm. The stains vanished. The wound sealed. Most of the blood disappeared.

  Most.

  Aldric stepped through the portal and the memory ended.

  Sael sat very still. So, this confirmed two things.

  Aldric wasn't in Hel. That was the first thing. There would be no need to search for him here, the second thing was more interesting.

  In his hurry, Aldric had been sloppy. He'd cleaned the blood off himself, off his robes, off the ground. But not off the Cerberus. Sael reached out and touched the creature's shoulder, running his fingers through the thick fur. The Cerberus watched him with the right head, curious. The left head had already lost interest and was licking its new leg.

  There. Sael's fingers caught on something crusty, frozen into the fur. He pulled his hand back and looked.

  Blood. Still clinging to the Cerberus's coat, exactly where the creature's memory showed Aldric's arm had been when it bit down.

  Frozen solid in Hel's cold. Preserved.

  Sael smiled.

  "Bingo," as Bran used to say.

  And Patreon's at 9 chapters ahead now!