Lord Pelslow crossed the clearing with long, confident strides. His magic grew thicker with every step, and I fought the urge to recoil from the sour taste. It was if he’d been bathed in lemons as a child, even his magic and soul were suffused with the same sour flavor.

  Dorin and Samara tensed, and I spied Tei’lian’s ears flatten against his head as his magic sparked with fury. Even L’aera, though clearly unfamiliar with the lemon-flavored lord, huffed and tipped her head to look down on him. The only one who seemed pleased to see him was Feydian, who’d been standing quietly during the negotiations.

  He rushed forward, bowing slightly. “My lord! You made it safely! I’m so glad you found us.”

  “It wasn’t hard,” answered Lord Pelslow. He reached out and pat Feydian fondly on the shoulder. “Civilians don’t hide their tracks, and we are skilled hunters. I daresay it was more difficult for you to escape the monsters than us.”

  Feydian laughed slightly. “I…uh…yeah. I’m not as suited to acts of heroism as my lord is.”

  “Oh, I disagree,” growled Tei’lian. The cait stepped forward, leveling Lord Pelslow with a hostile glare. “I think you were quite heroic. You risked your life to save Jaden’s, and faced a dozen shamblers to do it.”

  Lord Pelslow raised an eyebrow before examining him up and down. His eyes locked onto the cait’s arm.

  “You look familiar. Tell me, if I were to lift that sleeve, would I find the Pelslow slave brand?” he asked, his voice cool as the night air.

  Curious, I focused on the arm in question. Tiny traces of mana escaped Tei’lian’s clothes. Between that and the man’s bitter hiss, I knew the answer.

  “I am no one’s slave.”

  “Yet, I seem to recall my cousin losing a little, black kitten a few years ago. I wonder what she’d think to find you here.”

  Tei’lian lunged forward, clawed hands reaching for his weapon, only for Feydian to leap between them. Their eyes met, and the servant put a steadying hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  “Please. We’ve had enough violence for one night, don’t you think?” he whispered. “We’re all trapped out here together, with an army of monsters between us and civilization.”

  He was right. There was no telling how many shamblers would form between us and help. Despite the harpies’ efforts, the dryad had fallen. Without her, the forest would likely decay rapidly. High Ridge was now an oasis of life in an endless, death-filled desert.

  “Well said, LaVerre,” Pelslow praised, entirely unfazed by the aggression directed at him. “Which is why I’ll not let my people make such a terrible mistake as what might have happened had I not graciously intervened.”

  Now it was Samara’s turn to glare. “You don’t speak for us, my lord. Your family hasn’t been to Felsporo in decades.”

  “Not for lack of desire.” Lemon Lord’s words were honey sweet as he stepped closer to Samara and took a strand of her hair into his hand. “You’re our beloved subjects. We could never turn our backs on you.”

  Dorin growled and moved to grab the lord’s hand on his cousin’s behalf, but she raised a hand. Her magic flared inside her, and though it wasn’t nearly as bright as the more powerful individuals around her, it was still impressive for her level.

  “If you really cared, you’d have governed Felsporo directly, level drain be damned.” Her voice was cold and strong. “Instead, you sent thieves and exiles to play at being governor.”

  Pelslow’s tone turned sour. “Do you dare question the wisdom of my great and noble house?”

  “Oh, I do more than question it.” She seethed.

  I wobbled frustration and tuned out their conversation. The shamblers I’d eaten during the day hadn’t sustained me long, and I was starving. I hopped away, eager to find anything that wasn’t tainted by the lemon lord’s foul mana. However, even at the foot of High Ridge, I could still taste it. It clung to my membrane like a disgusting film, and even eating several rocks didn’t relieve the taste of lemon on my slime.

  My frustrated wiggles turned more violent, not that the humans or harpies would notice. I flashed words for “danger” and “bad eating” before digging into the ground to try and figure out a solution.

  The harpies were rivetted to the argument between Samara, Lemon Man, and Dorin, who’d joined on his cousin’s side. The humans were invaders, and without an agreement, the harpies couldn’t be sure if it was friends or foes they were hosting on their doorstep. In the end, only one person here belonged to neither group.

  Far be it from me to interfere with human politics, but hunger was a far more pressing concern than their petty squabbles. I rolled myself quietly across the ground until I was within reach to tap L’aera with a pseudopod.

  “Wing Mother, the title of Vi’yera gives me respect amongst harpies, right?” I asked.

  She nodded. “It does. Did you have something in mind?”

  “I was thinking a light snack,” I answered.

  She tilted her head in confusion, but didn’t push the question. The argument had escalated to shouting. Dorin’s fiery mana clashed against the rising temper of Lemon Man, giving off a nauseating smell.

  This slime has had enough. I thought darkly.

  It took three hops and a roll to reach my target. After taking a moment to steel myself against the coming taste, I engulfed it.

  “What in the—ouch!” squealed Lord Pelslow as he tried to shake me off his left boot. “Get it off! Get it off! Get it off!”

  It was disgusting, but I focused on the leather of his shoe. It was supple and chewy, dissolving well beneath my slime.

  [Substance Consumed:

  Chrysoar hide: 1/10]

  Only once the boot had fully dissolved, leaving his sock bare, did I allow myself to be dislodged lest the salty sweat from his foot burn my slime. I bounced once before righting myself.

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  Pelslow drew his sword and thrust it in my direction, only to stop when half the camp jumped to my aid. Seeing how he was outnumbered, he paused but didn’t sheath his sword.

  “Why do you defend a slime of all things?” he asked.

  I wobbled my irritation. “Because I’m adorable and friendly.”

  The incredulous look on his face was almost worth being near his disgusting mana. The shock quickly turned into a distasteful sneer.

  “A talking slime. Now, I’ve really seen everything.”

  If I had eyes to roll…

  “Look. I’m hungry, so I’ll only say this once. Your bickering gets you nowhere, and I can’t go find food until you come to an agreement,” I said. “Lord Pelslow, what was wrong with the deal Samara made?”

  The Lord sneered at me. “Do you think you scare me? That boot was worth more than every possession on this rotten cliff! Just because you’re the favorite pet-—”

  L’aera stepped forward, chin raised and calm. “Show Vi’yera the respect he is owed. He is the agent of the Great Mother, and the only one who can stop the sickness.”

  Samara, Dorin, and Lord Pelslow all glared at one another. The tension between them was so high that sparks of mana whisked between them. Eventually, Dorin sighed, closed his eyes, and relaxed his shoulders.

  “You make a point, Suri. I’m sorry we made you hungry.” He offered a slight, but precise bow to the lordling. “Lord Pelslow, would you please help represent our people’s best interests?”

  He thought it over, scratching his chin in thought before he came to an answer. “Since you finally see the value of one trained in contract law, I shall assist.” He pointed to L’aera. “As I walked in, she said that the harpies would defend the skies, and humans would defend the earth. However, this is inequitable, as even the shamblers born of harpies do not fly. We would be defending the ground alone.”

  L’aera rolled her eyes. “Pedantic semantics.”

  “Big words for an uneducated monster,” he sneered.

  “Our language is formed from centuries of Las’hik joining the colony. We gain many words in this way,” she explained calmly, a look of superiority in her eye.

  Pelslow twitched, having failed to get a rise out of the harpy leader. “Regardless, I would have the agreement corrected before I agree to it. We will not shoulder the responsibility of defending your colony without help or compensation.”

  “That deal was made with Miss Samara,” L’aera corrected. “I did not make this deal with you.”

  “I am the lord of this region. Be grateful that I consult you at all.”

  I waved a pseudopod. “You’re wasting time. The more time you waste, the more of your clothes I eat. Let her speak.”

  His magic became even more sour, but his mouth shut. Was he humiliated? Probably. Did I care? No.

  The fact of the matter was that he needed us more than we needed him. Powerful as he and his allies may have been, they needed the shelter of High Ridge in order to survive. Laws and noble titles wouldn’t help them without a government to back it up, and they knew it. Unless they wanted to traverse back through plagued lands—risking life, limb, and soul in order to make the journey—they needed to get along.

  Pelslow jerked his head towards her, urging her to continue. L’aera nodded her thanks to me.

  “I will agree to your terms, but I will not deal with you. You look down upon monster kind. I will not work with those who look down upon us,” she began. “You may form a council, just as we do. So long as Miss Samara is one member, she may speak with me on your behalf. I care not who else is on this council.”

  Lord Pelslow’s face twisted as if he wanted to speak but stopped as I hopped toward his other shoe.

  “Fine, fine. Leave me be, you wretched menace,” he relented. “Fine. Feydian and I shall be the others.”

  “My lord!” Feydian’s eyes went wide, and his magic shone just a bit brighter. “I’m honored to assist. Thank you for this opportunity.”

  “It’s only until we get back to Kolossus.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Great, then I’m hungry. If anyone needs me, I’ll be eating a hole to give K’esil more space in her nest.”

  As I began to hop toward my stairs, Dorin jogged to join me.

  “You know he’s going to steamroll every vote with Feydian’s vote, right?”

  “Survival is all that matters right now.”

  He sighed. “I suppose that’s true. Speaking of, why did you only eat one of his shoes?”

  “If I ate them both, he’d forget the threat,” I explained. “Now, he’ll look at his one shoe and remember. I don’t have the patience for politics. I’ll eat him and all his shoes.”

  Dorin snorted once before throwing his head back in laughter. “Slime logic. I love it.”

  “Do you know what it’s called?”

  Zaryk turned to his brother. “I think you mean ‘what it used to be called.’” He paused, fighting back the nausea growing in his stomach. “And no, I don’t. It was too small to be on any map.”

  Smoke hung in the air over the hamlet. With no walls to protect them, and scarcely ten houses in total, the farmers who lived here never stood a chance once the corpses came calling. The necromancer brothers knew without searching that no corpses remained in those buildings. The plague spared no one; not even the children.

  “It’s getting worse,” he said.

  “What’s the next town from here?” Vesiel asked.

  “Felsporo. I think it’s the provincial capital.”

  Zaryk suddenly wished he’d paid closer attention to his father’s lessons on the geography in human lands. Thanks to an isolationist culture, his elven education failed to prepare him for this mission beyond the basics of map reading. There could be dozens of hamlets and villages in the area that were too small to appear on their map, and they’d never know.

  “Let’s go. Its destruction might help us to triangulate the source.” The older brother started down the hill, only to pause when his brother did not follow. “What’s wrong?”

  “If, Vesiel,” Zaryk repeated. “If it’s destroyed, then it might help us.”

  “Of course.” Vesiel walked back and nudged his brother playfully. “You know that’s what I meant. It’s not like I want to find a provincial capital full of shamblers, right?”

  “Mmhmm,” Zaryk hummed softly.

  But as his brother turned to start his investigation of the dead hamlet, he wasn’t so sure. Vesiel was always more playful, more flippant, than Zaryk. He’d gotten into trouble with their grandparents enough times to prove that. He was reckless, and held a lot more of their father’s adventurous spirit, but he was a kind spirit at heart. Zaryk would follow him into the jaws of a dragon if he asked because he knew that there was likely some poor soul somewhere who needed the help.

  That just made it harder. For a little over a week, the younger brother had noticed strange behavior from his sibling. The only time Vesiel’s smile reached his eyes was when he spoke of the cataclysmic plague affecting the forest. Even the small jokes between them didn’t seem to spark more than a superficial resemblance of joy.

  It’s probably the stress. I’m overthinking it, Zaryk scolded himself.

  The two brothers were under a lot of pressure to find the source of the sickness and find some way to combat it. Vesiel was just focused on that goal. Everything would be fine once they did their job and returned home.

  “Hey Zaryk!”

  The younger necromancer jogged ahead to see what his brother had found. He was pointing to a nearby tree with rotted, gray leaves.

  “The decay is getting into the trees, now,” he said. “How fascinating that it can corrupt even something with as little magic as a mundane tree.”

  Zaryk rubbed the back of his neck. “It likely affects denser sources of mana first, then moves on to weaker ones once it’s strong enough. That’s why monsters are hit before people, since this area was in the drained zone for so long.”

  “Then why aren’t you and I walking around as mindless corpses? You’re Level 19, and I’m level 21.” Vesiel leaned back against the tree, his eyes closed with thought. “If denser sources decay first, then we should be just as vulnerable as a Tier 3 monster, but we’ve seen several shamblers born of Tier 2s, so why are we fine?”

  “Tier 3s tend to have more control over their mana,” Zaryk mused. “Maybe that’s the point where they can actually fight it off themselves?”

  The two brothers remained silent as they grappled with the problem. Eventually, Vesiel smiled and pushed himself off from the tree.

  “Well, that means we can fully rule out inhalation as the transmission method,” he said cheerfully.

  “Mana infection through touches, bites, and spell contact is more likely, I think.”

  A cruel smirk crept onto Vesiel’s face and a shiver of fear shot down Zaryk’s spine. His brother gazed at the dead hamlet as if it were a brightly wrapped solstice gift.

  It’s just the stress. It has to be.

  Because if it wasn’t just the pressure to find a cure, then Zaryk would have to admit that there was a hole in their theory. He wasn’t ready for that, yet. If it wasn’t stress, then he would have to face the fact that Vesiel was likely infected, and if that was the case, then mana dense creatures weren’t safe, after all.

  And if that was true, then it was only a matter of time before the entire forest was lost, Zaryk and his brother included.

  And this is where I'd like to ask for your help in exchange for a bit of story interaction.

  If you would like to contribute a cool leather that will be featured in the story, all you need to do is leave a review, then make a comment on this chapter with the type of material his boots could be made out of*. I will cross reference the reviewers with the comments to ensure that they match. Advanced reviews will receive priority within the context of the story**. Already left a review? Firstly, thank you very very much. Updating the review or making it an advanced review will also count towards qualification. As always, please be honest in your reviews, but keep any criticism constructive, as that's the best way to help me improve.

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