This was the worst-case scenario:

  Everyone in Granavale gathered in one pce.

  A whole lot of high-ranking dignitaries visiting.

  Trained noble youngsters exhausted by a day of py fighting.

  The usual soldiers and guardsmen wiped out.

  Monsters on the warpath right for them.

  Archmund had thought the tournament had gone great.

  He’d been in control for every moment of it.

  All of a sudden, he no longer was.

  Everything was going to shit.

  A bunch of men rushed out of the stands.

  “Sir Garth!” one of them shouted. “We’ll go avenge our comrades!”

  Garth shook his head. “Lads, I appreciate your ardor — but you can’t. You’ll die as brutally as they did. None of you are ready.”

  “How many,” Archmund said. “How many dead?”

  “Only four on duty, d,” Garth said. “Gave most of them the day off for this. I thought it’d be fine.”

  “So did I,” Archmund said. Everyone he’d talked to had believed that the Dungeon was going to build up its reserves slowly before exploding violently. Mary and Raehel had reported they’d only found a meek, ineffectual pony when they’d delved into the Dungeon. He’d gotten the impression he’d have at least a year until they needed to do more culling or build a real defensive position.

  “And where are they now?”

  “Hot on my heels,” Garth said. “I came straight here. They want manflesh. But they’re mindless ghosts. They’ll spread as far as they can.”

  He resisted the urge to shout at Garth, ask why he hadn’t diverted them, distracted them. The man had done a great service fighting for as long he had, from his clear injuries, and came to warn them. To give them a fighting chance.

  “How many?”

  “Didn’t get a good count. Six, ten, twenty?”

  That was a huge range.

  “And are more coming out of the Dungeon?”

  Garth hung his head. “I don’t know, d.”

  He wanted to scream. To fall to his knees and burst into tears. How could everything he’d worked so hard on end so badly and wrongly? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all.

  A bck-gloved hand fell on his shoulder. He whirled towards it, intent on telling whoever it was, his father or otherwise, and damn the consequences —

  To be met with the ice-blue eyes and stony face of Mercy Stirpstredecim di Omnio in his bck-robed hood. Princess Angelina Grace Prima Marca Omnio in disguise.

  “What are you doing here?” he said. As if he needed the reminder that the Omnio had sent an observer to see his great failure. And wouldn’t people notice that the princess was missing?

  Or maybe... Was this not a coincidence? Could this have been sabotage? Could she have set him up to fail? Did she really need to come watch a series of pyground fights, personally? Was she here to gloat over his failure, and tell him to know his pce?

  Mercy quirked an eyebrow. “Control yourself. Tragedy is a part of the job, Granavale,” she said, her voice half an octave lower, battle-hardened and weary. “We can make it not go worse.”

  He couldn’t afford to worry about that now. And he hated himself for thinking it, almost. The Princess had gone far to help him. She’d been nothing but helpful. What did she possibly gain from sabotaging him? How could she possibly have magic to provoke the Dungeon and make it worse? And she just wasn’t that kind of person. He thought.

  (A lot, a suspicious part of his brain whispered. But much more to gain from raising him up as a useful ally. This was, frankly, too soon for a betrayal to be logical, if she was no fool.)

  He looked around. His father and Raehel had joined them, but he was silent. Beatrice Bckstone, Rory Redmont, and Gelias Greenroot had also descended from their seats of honor. Sister Catherine, too, had joined them.

  His father swept him into a hug. This was uncharacteristic for nobles, but Archmund welcomed the warmth. “You’ve done well so far, son,” his father said. “No one could have predicted this.”

  He could have. If he’d time to develop measurements, or learn divination, or even push deeper into the Dungeon and learn more of the profound secret magics that so obviously existed, he could have stopped this. Maybe he could have jury-rigged his Gemstone Tablet into a tragedy-monitor for when the Dungeon would go kaput. Or even if he’d asked the Princess for more details, for her estimate, when she’d st been there. He could have.

  “I have to fix this.”

  His father held him at shoulder length, rubbing his arms comfortingly. “No one demands that of you.”

  Archmund couldn’t help but gnce at Mercy. His father sighed.

  “The Omnio notwithstanding.”

  “I can still fight,” Archmund said. “I refuse to stand by while—”

  “You heard Garth, those beasts are dangerous!”

  “Even still, I—”

  Archmund’s voice broke. What could one man do?

  His father sighed. “I don’t think there’s anyone here who could stop you from doing what you so desire.”

  How could that be? He didn’t feel strong at all. He had a few trinkets and a few spells, but he’d failed to anticipate this macroscopic event, and now everyone would pay the price.

  “Garth!” his father shouted. Garth looked up unsteadily.

  “You’ve done well, old friend,” his father said. “How many here were trained by you?”

  “At least three-score,” Garth said. That was about 36. “But they’re not ready. If they go—”

  “You men, who have trained for battle!” his father boomed, fully leaning into the role of a noble lord. “Are you willing to y down your lives, and stand in defense of your wives and children?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Then though I regret to waste your lives, I must ask you to stand in the line of duty!”

  “They’re not ready, my lord,” Garth said.

  “They’re far more prepared than those they wish to defend,” his father said. “I will bear this regret, as I have before.”

  Garth closed his eyes. “You will, Reggie, but so will I.”

  “If I may,” Mercy said. “I came here with a small contingent of elite troops. I can lend them to your defense. If you wish it, I shall call for reinforcements from Omnio — though I can’t guarantee they’ll arrive with any due haste.”

  “We fall ever deeper into your debt,” the Lord Granavale said. Archmund winced again.

  “You can rest, son,” Archmund’s father said to him. “We’ll be able to pull together a militia and keep this pce safe for as long as we can. We’ll st until the Empire comes ”

  “I can’t stand by while all of these others are risking their lives out there.”

  Letting the Monsters rampage was also a bad idea. His people would leave the tournament and the Harvest Festival to return to ruined fields and ruined homes. More Monsters would keep pouring out of the Dungeon. At the very least, the ones that had already emerged would trash the camp. A natural disaster of this scale would completely derail his pns for economic development, or at least put him fully in debt to the Empire — how detestable was he, to think of his own freedom and wellbeing when his people were going to die?

  Stopping it would be a heroic undertaking.

  “If you need help, I’ll give it,” said Rory Redmont. His jocur air was gone; now he was grave. “I get it, Granavale. This stuff’s important. Right, guys?”

  He shot a pointed gre at Beatrice and Gelias. They shifted uncomfortably, but ultimately nodded.

  “Don’t press them into risking their lives!” Archmund said.

  “I’m just asking them to stand on guard here,” Rory said. “They can do that much. But I can tell you want to do something more.”

  “Don’t be hasty,” Mercy said, interrupting. “Granavale, whatever you’re thinking is… you are unaware of the whole situation.”

  “What’s the whole situation?”

  “You, mage! Priestess!” Mercy said, pointing at Raehel and Sister Catherine. They started, before stumbling forward at her commanding tone.

  “I thought you would have set up magical suppression around the Dungeon,” Mercy said to Catherine. They really did look alike, though Archmund heavily suspected there was some magical haze that obscured that to everyone but him.

  “The church mothers would have,” Catherine said. “We know full well the seriousness of a Dungeon, and we used the best magic we were able. The usual standard forms for every nascent Dungeon. I… can’t expin this.”

  Upon hearing that, Mercy’s eyes narrowed slightly, and her jaw tightened. But just for a second. Immediately, it was gone.

  “Are you trained in warding magic?”

  “Somewhat.”

  “And you, mage?”

  “I’m a prodigy,” Raehel said, though very seriously this time. “I don’t have to worry about lock-in and my magical flux is sufficient to fill small Gems in about ten minutes. If you need me to spare magic for a working, I can give it.”

  Mercy nodded. “Granavale, I have what I need to restabilize the warding magic on the Dungeon. The three of us can stem the outflow and keep the escapees manageable. But that won’t do anything about the ones that have already made it out.”

  “How long will that take?” Archmund said.

  “Within the hour,” Mercy said. “But until then, they’ll keep flowing out.”

  Two options were obvious. Let them run wild, keep the people safe in here, and wait for the Imperial Army to come in and do a full extermination campaign — or go and stem them at the source himself.

  “I’m going,” he said.

  He was healthy and more than capable of magical combat. And yes, maybe this was suicidal. Maybe going alone or in a very small group to the jaws of hell to fight undead monsters was irrational, impulsive, and ill-fated. Maybe he put a very small value on his own life, against everyone else’s assessment. He had to consider that possibility.

  But the fact was that next to the Princess Angelina Grace Marca Prima Omnio, Raehel, and Weaponsmaster Garth Avant, he was quite possibly the most powerful, most magically-adept person currently in Granavale County.

  “I’m with you,” Rory said.

  “I’m going too,” said Xander, pushing forward. He stumbled and dragged his feet, yet he endured.

  “What is this?” Archmund said. “You won. You’re exhausted — you can feel it, right? The sword draining you. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

  “That’s not it, Granavale,” Xander said. “My brother was guarding the Dungeon. I want to find him.”