Chapter 4: The Fundamentals

Hell is a sinking tower.

They call it the Middle City to paint pride over horror. There are no slaves in Hell, only the less fortunate citizens of the glorious Middle City. Every demon is free, no matter the chains around their wrists.

Hell is a grand and putrid seven-ringed tower that sinks into the black mire of the Abyss and is devoured. In the lower rings, where the tower has taken sick and flooded with noxious bile, lesser demons toil to dredge stone from the filth like pearls from the flesh of molluscs. They carry those stones to the top of the tower to raise new walls and structures, that the great and wondrous Middle City might never lose that sacred seven in the counting of its rings. Hell is a tower that insists upon itself.

The demon that appears in the summoning circle—Esor’ekalb, it was named—is far from Hell’s finest. It is the gnawed husk of a dargazdrawa, hunched and rotting, its simian shape bound in iron around wrists and ankles. Graying, splotchy scales cover emaciated flesh. Dull red eyes are sunken deep into a reptilian skull. Its lizard-like tail droops listlessly.

Demons of this breed are the brute laborers of Hell—the hands that move the stones of the tower, and sometimes shock troops—but I doubt this specimen could survive the journey from the bile pools to the Middle City’s height. Freshly summoned, the demon shivers. It claws at its own arms without thought, peeling away scaly skin to expose glistening patches of wet, atrophied muscle. Its dull gaze flicks from warlock to warlock to warlock, turning fitfully, before settling on Adama. It bows.

“You honor this one with your call, master,” it hisses obsequiously. “Please, how may this one be of service?” Its tongue is forked, but its teeth are human.

Gobbet snorts. “There’s ‘low caliber,’ and then there’s worm food. I can taste the Abyss on this wretch, Adama; it’s half-devoured already.”

Adama frowns as he studies the creature. “Yes, you’re right. Esor’ekalb, your condition has deteriorated since last we spoke.”

I flick on my second sight. Gobbet and Adama glow warm, their coloration vivid. Their anima tastes healthy and strong, like a hot bowl of broth. The demon is a dim flame, nearly flickered out. Color has leeched from most of its body, lingering only in the eyes and hands, and something about what’s left feels filthy. Melting slush, icy water taking on dirt.

Esor hesitates, claws twitching. “This one has endured. Master, why have you called your humble servant?”

“Its anima is nearly gone,” I comment. “Do you think that’ll be a problem?”

Adama taps his chin thoughtfully. “The puzzle is basic. Even a wretch should suffice. And if not, I can always summon another. Gobbet, if you would be so kind?”

“Thought you’d never ask. Gatekeeper, eat your fill.”

She burns the demon to death. It’s an ugly death. The stench of charred demon fills a chamber with no visible ventilation. The screams echo across stone. Esor’ekalb scratches futilely at the barrier of the circle for mercifully few seconds before it runs out of breath, but it still takes most of a minute for the shuddering to stop. Through second sight, the demon’s demise is even more graphic. I was hoping to steal a bit of its remnant anima, but all of it is drawn into the face on the door.

“That was unpleasant,” Momo murmurs in my head. “I think I’m glad we don’t have fire magic like that. I’m going to remember this smell for a long time.”

“Quite appetite-reducing,” I agree. Forming my words so I’m having a conversation without sounding like I’m having a conversation is tricky. Something to practice.

Adama nods, one hand covering his mouth and nose. “I would pray this is the last time I have to smell burnt flesh, but I know it would be an empty prayer.”

Gobbet cackles. “Smells like breakfast!”

The stone door cracks open. Gobbet pushes it the rest of the way, revealing the next chamber of the gauntlet. We file inside. Adama closes the door behind us to keep the stench from following us.

“Well, this one seems obvious,” Gobbet says.

“Three kinds of warlock magic, three realms in the underworld, and three crystals on the door. Poetic,” I say dryly.

This chamber is triangular, with the door we came through mirrored on one wall and a different stone door set into the third. That door depicts the underworld in intricate carving, and each portion of the underworld is marked with metal filigree and a spherical crystal of what looks like quartz.

For the house of the dead, a crystal in the heart of a silver moon on high. For the city of demons, a crystal set in the center of an iron tower. For the Abyss, a crystal gleaming in the uncarved bottom third.

“This presents a slight problem,” Adama observes. “Two of us are diabolists. Ms. Cat, from your mention of anima, may I take it that you are a necromancer?”

I nod. “I’ve got the top crystal. I guess we’re waiting on whoever’s behind that other door to finish their trial and provide a voidweaver.”

Adama frowns in the direction of the other door. “If the numbers between groups are symmetrical, that has worrying implications. Two diabolists here, one necromancer, so one necromancer and two voidweavers in that room?”

“There’ll be another set of six after this,” Gobbet says confidently. “Twelve is the Lady’s sacred number. Four groups of three, two groups of six, twelve in all.”

It takes a few minutes for the other door to open. Gobbet spends most of that time pestering Adama, who endures it with the patience of a saint. I can’t actually tell if he’s genuinely unbothered by her haranguing or gets some kind of sadistic enjoyment from denying her any kind of reaction. Scratch that, he had to stifle a chuckle at one of her comments, he’s definitely enjoying this.

The trio that steps into the room looks far less cohesive than ours. A drow, a zombie, and a goblin walk into a ritual chamber.

The drow woman is tall and stacked, but there’s something distinctly unnerving about the vacant, vaguely happy expression on her face. She glides into the room, robes fluttering, and ignores everyone else to make for the next door. Stops, tilts her head, stares at it.

The goblin shuffles in nervously, jumps when he sees us, and then gives a little wave. “Hello! I’m Seventh Crest. Are you part of the test?” Short, disheveled, brownish-green skin, and drooping ears, one of which has a bite taken out of it.

“Everything here is part of the test!” the zombie snaps at him. For a dead woman, she’s remarkably well-preserved. She has the signature corpse pallor and clouded eyes, but there’s no rot in her fingers and the stitchwork around her neck is almost invisible. She glares at everyone in the room. “Are any of the rest of you necromancers?”

Of course I’d get one like this. The undead in Telvaria were victims of dark magic and were liberated by dark magic, like everyone in the Covenant. There are plenty of necromancers in their ranks, but plenty more that despise any form of necromancy. I don’t imagine it’s a coincidence that I’ve been grouped with one of the latter.

Adama bows politely. “I am Adama. Diabolist. It is nice to meet the both of you.”

“I’m the necromancer,” I say to get it out of the way. “Name’s Cat. You gonna give us your name?”

“...Clara,” she says begrudgingly. “Let me make one thing clear, necromancer: if you try to get in my head, you’ll have a whole heap of horrors on your hands. I will never be a slave.”

“And I’m Gobbet!” Gobbet cheers. “If we’re done with the empty threats, there’s a door to open and one more of you freaks to get a name from. Oi, dusky dolly, you got a name?”

The drow starts. She turns, slowly, and stares at Gobbet, head still tilted. “I’m Sapphire.” Her voice is soft, ethereal, and distracted in an almost dreamlike manner. “You called me a doll. I like dolls. Do you want to join my family?”

“Well, that’s one voidweaver found,” Gobbet muses. “Bet the other one’s Clara; shadow’s the best defense against necromancy.” Clara, sullen, keeps glaring at the demonblood. “Crest, you’re the other necromancer, yeah?” She clicks her fingers and ignites another fireball. “I’m the other diabolist, in case you couldn’t tell. So that’s everyone.”

Crest salutes. “Yes, ma’am. I should warn you, I have no idea what I’m doing! And, uh, no idea how we’re meant to open this door.”

Gobbet flings a fireball at the middle crystal, which lights up. I harvest a bit of my own anima and shoot a bolt of entropy at the top crystal, to the same outcome. “Like that,” I say.

Adama spreads his hands in the direction of Clara and Sapphire and says, “One of you will have to contribute a bit of power for the lowest crystal, as the only voidweavers in the room. Then we may proceed.”

Clara folds her arms. Sapphire makes a soft noise of understanding and flicks her wrist limply toward the bottom of the door. Tendrils of living darkness crawl out from beneath her robes, slither to the crystal, and pour inside. It lights up like the others.

The door creaks open. Gobbet gestures forward, holding eye contact with Clara, and grins. “After you.”

Clara narrows her eyes. “You don’t like me. The feeling’s mutual.”

Sapphire glides into the next chamber, ignoring their byplay. Seventh Crest scurries after her. Adama starts to follow, but pauses in the doorframe, looking back at Gobbet and Clara. I leave him to mediate and step through.

The purpose of this chamber is immediately obvious: it’s an armory. The walls are lined with swords and staves, the interior dotted with stone slabs that display books, jewelry, wands, and more. I can feel the immense amount of magical energy in this room.

Again, there’s a second door that mirrors the one we entered through, and then a third, larger door with a different design. Our latest trial door lacks the intricate carvings of the previous, but in their place are twelve golden swords embedded in the double doors, forming a circle pointing inward. Each sword has a ruby in the crossguard; one cracked, one lit, ten dull.

Sapphire is already admiring the weapons along one wall. The items in this room run the gamut from completely ostentatious to so simple they might have been picked up off the street. There’s no place of honor, and no obvious rhyme or reason to how the weapons have been sorted, if they’re sorted at all.

The goblin looks around nervously, still twitchy. “We’re not, uh, meant to kill each other with these, are we? Because I am very small and fragile. I mean. Dangerous! I bite.”

“No,” Gobbet answers as she strolls into the room, having finally abandoned her standoff with the zombie. “The first trial had a trap in its wording for anyone whose first instinct is stabbing the person next to them. Second trial kept the disciplines separate so the two groups would have to cooperate, if only a small amount, to get through it.”

“Teaching us to get along with our fellow practitioners,” Adama muses beside her. “Or at least to avoid spending their lives wastefully.”

Clara stalks past the two of them and goes straight for the nearest staff. She pulls it off the wall roughly, gives it a heft, and then slams it against the ground. She nods at the solid thud. On the door, another ruby lights up. “Welp, that’s me. The rest of you should get a move on.”

“Or not,” I say. “This is an important choice, none of us should be rushing it.”

Gobbet pats me on the shoulder. “It’s nice that you think they’ll listen.” She walks off with a laugh. Adama gives me a sympathetic look before turning to regard some of the items laid out on the slabs.

This part of the gauntlet, at least, was in the game. Warlocks get to pick a starting weapon. You can change your weapon later, of course—it’s an MMORPG, you’re kind of expected to be swapping gear constantly—but the lore emphasizes the value of sticking with one weapon, and there are quests in the game to upgrade your first implement into one of the better options at each level bracket.

“Remembering the game?” Momo asks softly. “I am.”

I nod slightly. As quietly as I can, I whisper, “Do you know if it’ll work like it did there? Rewarding you for keeping your original implement?”

“It should. I don’t know everything about the world they crafted, but the Lady briefed me pretty comprehensively about how our powers will work. If anything, this choice should be more important than it was in the game; magic items won’t be lying around with anywhere near the frequency of an MMO, and a lot of abstract concepts are going to matter here a lot stronger than they mattered in the game. Implements grow in power with their wielder, and they grow faster with better materials. Something plucked straight from the armory of a goddess is going to be hard to beat. So, yeah, take your time, love.”

“I love you,” I whisper.

“I love you, too.”

For a warlock—for any spellcaster—the words “weapon” and “implement” are interchangeable. Anything you hold in your hands can be a focus for your power—something to channel magic through to direct it, shape it, amplify it.

In my head, I’m juggling knowledge of the game world and the more “lore-accurate” version of Telvaria that appeared in books and other supplementary material. Games always have to impose certain restrictions that don’t really make sense from a story perspective; sure, a warlock could channel their power through bow and arrow, but that’s hours of work animating attacks and revising item tables, all sunk in for the five sickos who would actually use a bow on their warlock. Not worth it.

Staves and daggers are the iconic tools of the trade for warlocks, with grimoires being introduced later in the game and carrying some weird mechanical baggage. Wands exist, but they’re a holdover from when casters ran out of mana more often and actually had a reason to attack with their weapon instead of just brandishing it as they cast spells.

Swords are a popular warlock weapon in lore, but the MMO splits more martial, frontline warlocks into the dark knight class for game balance. I see a few greatswords in the chamber, a paired sword and shield, and even a scythe on one wall, so it seems like the Lucid Circle’s Telvaria is going to treat dark knight varieties as just another set of warlock specializations. For every necromancer, a wraith knight; for every diabolist, a sulfur knight, and so on for voidweavers and void knights.

Jewelry like the rings and necklaces I see aren’t completely absent in the lore, but they’re rare, and obviously they’re not valid weapons in the game. There are other, more unusual objects in the room, like chalices and masks.

So which one is right for me? I guess that’s asking what kind of warlock I want to be.

It’s not the kind of question that most people would be prepared to answer, but then that’s the advantage of pulling the isekai routine on a nerd, yeah? I’ve spent far too many hours of my life dreaming of getting away from it and going to some other world. I know exactly how many hours I’ve spent in Heroes of Telvaria, and it’s most of an actual year. Nearly a thirtieth of my life, playing that damn game, thinking about characters and roles.

But I’m not sure roleplaying is really the right direction. There’s an appeal to it, certainly, and I’m sure it would help my confidence to inhabit a mask like that. Instead of Cat Bird from the bookstore, I could be Rosekitty, the nine-time savior of Telvaria, or Roselia Vogelkatze, the vampire-smitten bookworm with a haunted past. With my knowledge of this world, I could play the oracle and get close to any of the Covenant’s leaders. With my knowledge of Earth, I could try my hand at introducing new technology and new cuisine.

Once again, the enormity of what I’ve signed up for is dizzying. I’ve been moving on autopilot, saying and doing what needs to be done, but I don’t think I’ve really processed that I’m in another world. I’m that girl.

I have a chance that no one else ever gets. Not just the magic and adventure, but a chance to reinvent myself. Nobody in this world knows the real me except Momo and Nyara. I can be someone new. Someone better.

“Not that one,” Gobbet says to me. I’ve been turning a wand over in my hands while I stew in my thoughts. She’s perched on a slab, no implement in her own hands, watching me with a grin. “Easy mistake, but I don’t get that read from you.”

I raise an eyebrow. “See that in the cards?”

She pulls three cards from her sleeve and flips three copies of the Ace of Wands. “Eh, I see what I want.” She flips the cards back over, shuffles them, and when she spreads them again they have completely different faces: the Page of Wands, the Knight of Pentacles, and the King of Swords.

“Well, now I’m very glad I didn’t agree to play poker.”

She snickers. “There’s still time. It’s the others, see? Look at the drow girl.”

My gaze flicks over to Sapphire, who’s acquired a wand of some pale wood and is waving it around in random patterns. “Huh. Not what I would have expected from her. Figured she’d go for a mask, lean into the creep factor.”

“Page of Wands,” Gobbet says. “Wands are obvious, right? They’re all about creativity and control. A wand lends itself to dramatic flourishes and precise direction, which makes it perfect for someone trying to manipulate forces beyond their ken. The Page is all about potential, usually more potential than you can handle. That girl is brimming with power; the wand’ll keep it focused.”

Gobbet unnerves me. Her street mystic routine pings all my charlatan warning bells from a life on Earth, but I’m not on Earth anymore. I shrug. “Okay, so it fits her. Sounds like it fits you, honestly; you’re the very definition of flourish, from what little I’ve seen of you.”

“The wand is an apprentice’s tool,” she says with a tinge of disdain. “Perfect for someone who can afford to spend a decade easing into their abilities, or for someone who has all the power and none of the control. For people like you and me? It’d just hold us back.”

“Having you been going around pulling lines like that on everyone?” I ask dryly.

“Anyone who’ll listen,” Gobbet says with a wink.

“Fair play. I wasn’t seriously considering this one, I just need to occupy my hands while I thought about it.” I set the wand back down. “Since you seem to know me so well, got any idea what I would want?”

Gobbet leans back and chuckles. “Ah, well, that’s a different matter. But perhaps I can be of use through the pure and virtuous art of comparison. I still have two cards to explain, after all. Take a look at Adama.”

I follow her gaze to the other member of our original trio. I saw him examining a staff, earlier, but he hesitated and turned away from it. Now he’s got a necklace in his hands, some kind of talisman, and as I watch he slips it around his neck and tucks it under his robe.

“Knight of Pentacles, or the Knight of Coins. Active, driven, concerned with material matters. He chooses the talisman because it’s a subtler form of status, one that can be hidden when it isn’t useful and revealed at the opportune moment. Pentacles for diamonds, for the element of earth, for the merchant class that has to stride between their social betters and the common people.”

Well, he did come off educated without being pretentious about it. “Let’s say I believe you. Definitely wouldn’t fit me. I’ve never had much in the way of money.” As soon as it leaves my lips, I’m kicking myself. This woman is dangerously good at getting me to talk about myself.

“Oh, same here,” she volunteers. “Can’t stand the wealthy, yeah? But they make for good marks. Our King of Swords isn’t royal, in case you wondered, but she might be lower nobility; she’s got the pride for it.”

“Clara picked a staff,” I say. “Symbol of power, authority, wisdom. The strongest, purest implement, to a manner of thinking.” The wizards in Lord of the Rings, Discworld, and Earthsea all carried staves. It’s iconic.

“It’s a challenge,” Gobbet says, “and I don’t think she realizes that. That girl’s not hiding the scars she picked up when the lich-lords came to power. She wants to wave around a big stick and scare everyone off because she’s terrified of losing control again, but that big stick invites everyone to challenge her power, her authority, her wisdom. A staff can be broken.”

Do I want to carry around a challenge like that? Probably not. I’ll bite back when bitten, but I don’t exactly seek out confrontation. Maybe that’s cowardice, though. “Alright, what about the goblin? You didn’t draw a card for him.”

Seventh Crest picked up a dagger straight away, then tried to pick up a second and got zapped for his trouble; painful shock, it sounded like, but not physically harmful. Just a warning not to get greedy in the armory of a goddess.

Gobbet grins. “I don’t think he’s long for the world, to tell you the truth. But the knife is a classic. Bloody tool, brutal tool.”

“It’s an implement of ritual,” I say. “For opening the animal’s belly, for cutting the offering.”

“And an implement of treachery. A knife is most at home in someone’s back.” Gobbet scoops up a dagger from the slab, tosses it, catches it, and tucks it up her sleeve. “Still, damn useful thing. Chop your hair, cut your food, spill some crimson. The works.”

None of the rubies lit up when she pawned the knife, but there are five glowing now; one for everyone in the group but me. I frown. “You were the one whose gem was already lit. You walked in with your implement. The deck of cards?”

“My blood,” she says, and then she’s off the slab and moving toward the door. “Company’s coming. Sounds like trouble.”

Adama’s moving as well, and the others react to them and start to cluster at a distance. I hang back.

“She gives me a bad feeling,” Momo murmurs. “Be careful around that one, Cat. I think she’s the most dangerous in this group by a mile.”

“We’re on the same page,” I murmur back. “But I think she’s too useful to stay away.”

The second set of trial doors creak open and everything gets very messy very quickly. A golden-haired elf staggers into the room, clutching at his bloody nose. A drow with a soldier’s build and shaggy hair follows the elf in, still wringing his wrist from the punch, and pulls a sword off the wall.

“Consequences,” he says coldly. “Murder for murder.”

A big, beefy orc lady leans against the open door, clapping her hands and cheering, “Fight! Fight! Fight! Go on, give us a show!”

“Do you know who I am!?” the elf screeches. He’s backed up against a wall, scrabbling for a weapon, but he looks more indignant than afraid. “You’ll have absolute ruin down on your head if you touch a hair more on mine!”

“Unlikely,” the drow says in that same icy calm voice. He takes another step forward and flinches back from the wall of fire that rises in his way. Still intent on his target, he tries to step around it, but the flame spreads until it’s completely circled him and he stops, fury on his face.

The elf finally finds his weapon, pulling a staff free and brandishing at the drow. “Ha! See, fool? You have no idea what you’re messing with!” A second wall of fire springs up and circles him. “What!? Not me, moron!”

Gobbet steps between the two of them, unbothered by the flame, and yawns dramatically. “Right, demonstration made, now let’s all have a nice, civil conversation about whatever’s got you two riled up, yeah? Or would you like that fire to escalate from prison to coffin? Think quickly, boys. As my friends over there can attest, I simply adore the smell of burning flesh.”

Definitely the most dangerous.