Since my encounter with Amaranth, I’ve been able to remember the dream. I only keep flashes, but those flashes are incredibly vivid, and they line up with what she described in our brief encounter. I say, “A city of bleached white stone—” “—beneath a bleeding sun,” Ferromancer cuts in. “And beneath that city is a deep, dark pit,” the Morrigan finishes. A pit that might be Hell, Amaranth had said with intensity, just before reverting back to her giggling sadist persona. The dream is the same for all of us. “That place is in the World of Glass?” I ask. The existence of another dimension parallel to Earth—a proper dimension, another world entirely, not just a pocket—seems like the kind of thing that should overwhelm me with the grandiosity of all its implications, but, I mean… I’ve dealt with magic being real for ten years, and I’ve read plenty of stories with parallel worlds and hidden dimensions. Being a nerd has thoroughly prepared me to grapple with a situation one. If anything, I feel energized, so much so I have to stop myself from bouncing on my heels. How many worlds are out there, just waiting to be discovered? How vast is the universe we’ve only just begun to perceive? Why does Halloween matter? Do other holidays have a similar effect? What secrets are waiting in the World of Glass? The Morrigan answers the one question I actually spoke aloud. “Striga has seen it there.” Of course. “Only her, and only once. One of your primary objectives on the other side will be to locate the dreaming place and secure a stable pathway for future expeditions.” Right. This is a mission. The cosmic revelations distracted me from one key detail in the Morrigan’s speech, but now I seize on it. “You said I’ll be traveling to that world with my teacher and ‘four other conspirators.’ Who are they?” Striga, Striga, Striga… “I suppose it is time for introductions,” the Morrigan muses. Then she opens her dessicated, scoured mouth, and for the first time in this whole conversation I hear not her voice in my mind but noise from the Morrigan’s dead throat. This voice—I can’t consider it her true voice, even if it is her physical voice—is cold and ugly and rasping, everything her mental voice isn’t. In that awful, grating, unsettling second voice, the corpse witch speaks a single word, and I know immediately with every fiber of my being that it is a word of power:“Cleave.” For a fleeting moment of frozen eternity, the world splinters: in the center of five gardens, five Morrigans on five thrones speak the same command, and five realities collapse into one. The mazes—the gardens—the thrones—the Morrigans—cleave together and become whole. Where I stood alone, I now stand beside four other witches—no, three witches and a magical girl, though not my precious Striga—most looking as disoriented by the shift as I feel. And Ferromancer, of course, who hasn’t left my side and remains inscrutable. Howl comforts her wolf, Fenris, with scratches behind the ears and soothing babble, seemingly the least affected by whatever dimensional fuckery we just went through. Though her words and actions are sweet, she keeps her vigilant gaze roving between the rest of us. Harlequin manages to trip standing up, falling over themself in a heap and laughing at their own misfortune. As they clamber upright, the clown-themed witch claps for the Morrigan’s trick, calling, “Brava! Encore!” One confirmed dreamer and one suspected dreamer. Was that a criterion for all of us? Delilah is here—the mystery attendee from Ferromancer’s presentation, wearing an urban camo cloak over a black bodysuit and hiding her face behind a spider-themed mask—and clearly spooked by the transition; her fists are raised in a defensive fighting stance, shoulders bunched, head rapidly turning as she takes in each of the conspirators. The fourth is someone I recognize, but not someone I ever expected to see in the Ossuary: Agatha Cain, a recent addition to Visage’s magical girl roster. She signed on close to a year ago after operating independent for only a few weeks, and I was actually in chat during her debut stream. I probably shouldn’t reveal that fact while we’re working together in a secret conspiracy to save humanity from planet-destroying alien cats. I’m a big fan of Agatha’s costume: a corseted black and white dress with long sleeves and a short, poofy hemline over dark tights and heavy boots. Rainbow-colored eyes shine and glitter behind round, oversized glasses, turning an otherwise gothic lolita look into something cute and dorky. A heavy book—more of a tome—is covered in sigils and chained to her belt. Agatha’s power has something to do with information processing, though she’s intentionally vague about the specifics of how it works. What we do know is that it’s tied to her eyes and doesn’t work while she’s wearing her glasses; when she’s solving crimes on her magical girl route or showing off to her stream in puzzle games, she always takes them off dramatically right before she starts figuring everything out. She makes a point to keep them on when she’s streaming visual novels with a strong mystery focus—the bread-and-butter of her schedule—so she can approach each game’s central enigma “without cheating.” There’s a visual element, too; when her glasses are off, her eyes glow brighter and her pupils disappear. The magical girl is frozen in place, eyes wide and staring, grimoire loosed from her belt and clutched tightly to her chest. I give her a friendly wave, which seems to startle her. “Meet your allies,” the Morrigan says to all of us, once more communicating telepathically. “Together, you six shall venture into the World of Glass, locate a path to the city and the pit, and learn everything you can about the Jovians and their design.” Delilah crosses her arms. “Six is very conspicuous. Is everyone here truly necessary?” She sweeps her hand between me and Agatha, her focus firmly fixed on the Morrigan. “Two of them aren’t even blooded, Morrigan. They’ll break on the other side.” Harlequin laughs. “And shall we trust you on the other side, sweet Syndicate spider? Your knife hand twitches for our backs, dear Delilah.” My breath catches. That’s why I didn’t recognize Delilah; she must be one of the Syndicate witches who keeps out of the spotlight, a crime lord operating from the shadows and pulling mortal strings. But why— The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. “Why would someone from the Syndicate work with Lady Striga?” asks Agatha, sounding earnestly baffled. So everyone got the Striga reveal, I can assume. “She’s got a point,” I add to back her up. “I trust the Morrigan’s oath, but the Syndicate have a history of active hostility toward everyone who isn’t Syndicate, and that goes double for Striga. What makes you different?” I ask Delilah directly. Delilah doesn’t look at us. “Do you see?” she asks the Morrigan, sounding annoyed through her mask. “Children and a partisan. They are unfit for a mission of this significance.” “You’re being obstinate,” Ferromancer sighs. “Just answer their concern, Delilah. Don’t be a brick.” What do you know about her, teacher? What’s your history? Ferromancer must have known who Delilah was when she came to the demo. Have they worked together before? Official source ıs 𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹·𝗳𝗶𝗿𝗲·𝗻𝗲𝘁 After a moment of silent seething, Delilah hisses, “If I must,” and adjusts her cloak before taking a step back, turning to face the rest of us, and launching into a speech. “Yes, I’m part of the Syndicate. I assure you, however, that I’m nothing like those insipid fools playing warlord and picking fights they stand no chance of winning. My ‘peers’ are trapped in the old game, and they see this conflict as just another phase in an endless struggle over land and wealth and armies. Idiots. True power cannot be found in the material resources they so covet, nor in the influence that Visage and Vanguard and the Coterie all vie for. Striga has power. The Morrigan has power. And their power is the ability to do as they wish, confident that none can stop them, because they have better magic. No, I don’t care about ‘undesirables’ or putting on a crown; I’m after a much bigger prize. The Syndicate is a tool, one I intend to use like any other. Satisfied?” It suddenly occurs to me that every faction in the PNW has a representative in this conspiracy. Delilah for the Syndicate, Agatha for Visage, Harlequin for Coterie, and absent Striga for Vanguard. For full coverage we’re just missing an independent magical girl and a witch working under Visage… and I know a way to solve one of those problems. “Self-serving to the last,” Harlequin criticizes with a smile full of hate. “How typical.” “Self-interest is the only real motivation,” Delilah bites back. “Be grateful I’m honest.” “Enough of this,” Howl snaps, finally rising from her wolf to glare at the bickering pair. “We’re wasting moonlight. We only have a limited window to explore the other side before the portal becomes unstable. Striga built this team, right?” My heartbeat quickens. That’s right. Striga is the mastermind, so she must have at least had input. Which means… she knows who I am. She rifled through her mental file on Archon, accepted Ferromancer’s sponsorship, and put me on the team. Of course, that also means she put Delilah on the team. Does that make Delilah trustworthy? Or is it another of Striga’s cutthroat gambits? Delilah could be a sacrificial pawn, a piece of material to be traded away. Howl’s question was directed at the Morrigan, who answers, “Correct. As Delilah wondered, you all have something to offer this quest. I would appreciate it if you could introduce yourselves properly and efficiently.” “I’ll go first,” Howl grumbles, “if only to get it over with. I’m Howl, I’m not from around here, and I’ve made my way in and out of that other world more times than any of you have years. I’ll be your guide, and if things go really wrong and we lose the portal back I’m your best shot at making it home.” “Elaborate on that last part,” Delilah demands, though I’m more curious about the absurd number of times Howl’s been to the World of Glass. “No. Your go.” Howl returns to petting her wolf, and Delilah gets no sympathy from the rest of us, so she throws up her arms and relents. “Fine! I’m Delilah, and I’ve visited that world twice. I have a kind of danger sense that keeps me warned about everything from faraway snipers to cursed amulets and tripwires. I’ll be the final say on if something is safe to touch. Now, why is the clown here?” Harlequin cackles. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m the muscle, my morose malcontent. Harlequin of Coterie, at your service.” “The meat shield, more like it,” Delilah mutters. “I’ve also spent a lot of the past year hunting down the monsters that have been escaping from that side,” they add with a wider grin and a crack of their knuckles. I need to get them alone and ask them a billion questions about that. “Monsters?” Agatha asks, having inched closer to me while all this has been going on. “What kind of monsters?” There’s a hint of fear in her voice, but she mostly sounds curious. “Terrors untold without rhyme or reason!” Harlequin cheers. “Horrors and worse, no matter the season!” “What the loon means,” Delilah interjects, “is that there isn’t much of a pattern.” “Clock ticking,” Howl reminds us. “Glasses girl, who are you?” Agatha blushes, and then she curtsies in apology and introduction. I adore her. “Sorry, sorry! Um, hi! It’s lovely to meet you all. My name is Agatha Cain, and I’m a magical girl with Visage. My power lets me see the connections between, well, I guess objects and people is the simplest way to describe it. It’s kind of a complicated power, but I’m confident it’ll help us decipher any clues we find on the other side. I’ve never been, though, sorry.” “Neither have I,” I share, taking an immediate liking to this girl—immediate because I definitely haven’t watched her streams before or spoken in her chat or d to hear her say my internet handle, nope. “Hello, Archon here!” I raise my hand and give a little wave. “I can copy things and transform them.” I burn Thunderclap’s melted axe into existence and just as quickly dismiss it. Ferromancer speaks up. “Archon’s ability is able to perfectly duplicate objects with magical properties. It may allow her to copy objects native to the World of Glass. It will also prove useful in other ways.” She raises a gauntleted hand to her mask and removes a silver earpiece. “Demonstrate, if you would. A full set.” I take the device, add it to my furnace, and copy it. Then I copy it five more times, once for each of us. Ferromancer’s object limit, surpassed. “These earpieces are paired to my suit’s comm system, allowing me to monitor locational data and connect us to each other even in the absence of a signal network or in the presence of radio wave interference, details that I can confirm from experience are true to the other side. My name is Ferromancer, and I’ll keep us in touch with home base.” Each of the conspirators takes an earpiece, with Ferromancer setting hers on the glass table where the oath paper has vanished. Even Delilah accepts one, though reluctantly, and slips it inside her hood. “It is time,” the Morrigan announces, and then once more she contorts her ruined mouth and utters a word of power: “Open.” In the middle of the garden path, reality rips apart. There is a hole in the world, and it grows. A pinpoint becomes an inkblot becomes an abyss, and then that abyss is trapped and caged inside an archway of flowering bone. The portal churns. “You have seven hours,” the Morrigan tells us. “When dawn breaks and All Hallows’ ends, the portal will collapse. Go swiftly. And good luck.” “Finally,” Howl says with an eye-roll, and then without another word she strides through the portal, wolf following, and vanishes. Harlequin and Delilah are next, the two continuing to snipe at each other even as they cross the threshold and disappear. “See you on the other side,” Agatha says, and then she’s gone too. Ferromancer pats me on the shoulder. “Be ready for anything.” We cross together, stepping into blackness— —a flash of golden eyes in the dark, a whisper unheard, a rough hand on my wrist— —and out onto soft soil, sparse grass, and a scattering of twigs and leaves. A forest of dark trees, and a starry sky just barely visible past the thick canopy. I smell the earthy tones of the vibrant natural world. But there’s no sign of any of the others. No Ferromancer. I’m completely alone.