(54) Come On, Man

Nephthys floated atop the pillar in the center of her hall, surrounded by the starry void beyond. She felt comfortable here, serene. She could not put her finger on exactly why, but she found it easy not only to relax but also to focus her thoughts, which was exactly what she needed right now.

Swirling through her mind were a host of variables that felt like they should connect, yet she was struggling to tie them together.

Sardvend wanted information on Nemesis, and they had tapped the count of Gloamview rather than the marquis to obtain it.

Simultaneously, the count was involved in some capacity with the Taolu Trading Company’s dirt operation. Possibly, his involvement only extended to turning a blind eye while dirt was harvested so that his scouts could use the tunnel through the Gloam, but she could not confirm that yet.

Grantwell had informed Nephthys that the buying, selling, and possession of dirt was illegal in the Sardvend Kingdom, which the Marquisate of Radaar was a part of, but it was also an open secret that many in positions of power partook of it while punishing others for it.

She had even heard from the count’s chamberlain that the Marquis’ son used it himself, which was one of the chief suspects in his untimely death. Many who disregarded the Wraith’s existence suspected that he overdosed on dirt, or possibly died due to some maligned combination of substances he imbibed.

Yet, even these disparate threads were just the beginning.

The Halfords’ farm had been raised, their livestock slain, though that was a generous description of what was done to the animals. She had found the perpetrators and, from the talkative one’s own mouth, learned about the dirt operation in the Gloam, which was seemingly unrelated to the Halfords entirely.

The facts of the attack that stood out to Nephthys were how brazen it was, and that the perpetrators seemed unconcerned with Baron Buchanan retaliating. This seemed to suggest a highly placed sponsor, which immediately brought the count to mind.

But what would the count want with the Halfords’ farm? Why would he send such an aggressive, obvious message?

While looking for a source of lower-level food, Nephthys had become aware of how rare such resources were on Ashreach, requiring importation from Vadenlaud. She was positive that this special case was the reason behind the attack on the Halfords’ farm.

The Halfords had been rearing low-level animals for food, growing low-level crops, and selling them to passersby and, occasionally, the Gloamview markets. Someone wanted to corner the low-level food market, and they were powerful enough to disregard discretion.

If this was the count’s doing, which she was not positive about, how could it possibly benefit him? And what connection was there to dirt, if any?

Nephthys sighed, opening her eyes and gazing around the hall. This place was wonderful for pondering, but she could not get around the limitations of thinking itself. She could only smash her mind against a single task for so long before she would start seeing diminishing returns.

She would have to do something else for a while, come back to this problem with a fresh mind later. Perhaps Tara would be arriving back at the inn soon. She could go see—

What the hell?

Nephthys stared, unblinking, at the large red doors on the right side of the hall. They stood at least ten feet high and were pure crashglass, standing out starkly against the otherwise stone hall.

I don’t recall making a room that connects to this hall.

Immediately, her arms were covered in goosebumps, and a chill ran down her spine. A visceral discomfort pressed her shoulders down as she uncrossed her legs to stand atop her plinth.

Something, someone, had invaded her realm, her most personal space. Who could have done so? Her guild members only have access to this place when she creates a gate for them. This is an entirely separate space, some sort of separate dimension, maybe, from the external world.

How had someone not only entered, but modified her world? What violation was this?

Purple lightning crackled around her body, and a wind suddenly picked up, tossing the roof off the audience hall and sending it spiraling into the air. The moon looked down in disapproval, as if mirroring Nephthys’ disgust at having her world invaded.

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With a wave of her hand, the doors flew open, offering no resistance to her demands. She descended the stone stairs at a relaxed pace. This was her domain. She was in control here.

The stairs did not descend very far, and she could see a crimson glow lighting the bottom of the staircase. It seemed to pulse and writhe, as if the source was moving.

Nephthys reached the last stair and gawked. An empty, domed room lay before her, suffused with the blood-red glow of the writhing liquid in the center. A pool of what looked like viscous blood swirled, occupying most of the room’s floor. It was the source of the glow.

She felt more than heard whispers rising from the liquid, like fog from the surface of water.

Come the fuck on, man.