Madark sat at the end of the bench. The carriage was more of a cart, having only two wheels and lacking any coverings. A simple raised wooden backrest. It was rough and unforgiving. Each bump in the road caused everyone to sway in an undignified manner. Mestin Garr sat across from Madark. Both had their minds focusing on different places. Madark thought about the Well and the distance he was from it. He pondered how many more days would he have to ensure before this sad existence could be finished.

“The hell is wrong with you two?” Captain Barnaby asked, seeing both moping as if departing a funeral.

“The warehouse. They have them. My weapons.” Mestin said in short, sad bursts.
“Yeah, I heard. You’ll get them back. I used to be part of the Guard, back in my glory days.”

Mestin laughed audibly. “You, Captain?”

His response seemed to surprise Captain Bracken. The formality of rank used as punctuation, showing some modicum of reverence felt new and unusual for the captain.
“Yeah! But look at me now!” He laughed. “No, it was a long time ago. Got kicked out because I hated it.”
Madark thought he saw Serif shake his head from in front of the cart.
“How did you get kicked out?”
Serif turned his head to hear the answer, Barnaby didn’t seem to notice the intrigue from the Commander.
“Let’s not get into that.”
Shorne and Captain Bracken sat as far as they could from Madark. As the cart continued its ascent up the narrow streets of the fourth tier, Madark looked at the Well. At night, the Well was a void. A dark pit that swallowed light. Supposedly many drunken merchants, Guard and Tiersmen would unwittingly stumble and fall down its inescapable maw. In reality, it was the primary location where bodies were dumped to erase any evidence.

“We aren’t going out the Sixth’s gate?” Shorne asked, only now realizing the cart was on an incline, ascending up towards the fourth tier of the city. Shorne could still smell hints of the sweat, blood, dirt and piss and the steeper incline reminded Shorne he was slowly sliding towards the foul-smelling travel companions.
“Can’t. The Sixth are acting like children.” Bracken said.

“What about the Sixth?” Mestin asked.

“They can be a real bunch of cunts.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, ever since the first attack on Shrine, they’ve been slow to rebuild their gate. It’s finished. But they say it’s still under repair. They’ve been charging an arm and several legs to get in and out of the city.”

“Why do people even need to leave the city?” Shorne asked.
“Why do you think so? People like meat. People like plants. The druids harvest mushrooms or whatever the hell the Second eats up there.”
Madark grit his teeth at Captain Barnaby Bracken. ‘Another ignorant fool. I hate you.’ “There’s also smaller camps in the wilds.” Madark said in a low voice.
“What? Speak up.” Captain Bracken said.
“Camps. There’s groups of druids living out there.”
“Druids? Why?” Shorne seemed overwhelmed and confused.
“Those not wishing to be part of the city. Outcasts, criminals, usually. Most were originally from the Second Tier that moved out a century or more ago. After the War of Tiers. Others are immigrants from the Strands or Vel.”

Mestin and Shorne shared a look. Shorne then looked back at Madark.
“Aren’t there the Creepies out there though? I heard stories about them.”
“Creepies? They are called Underkin.”
“The things that attacked Shrine?”
“Underkin?” Captain Bracken continued, “pale hunch-backs, big claws? We call ‘em ghouls. Killed a bunch when I was in the Guard. Rootghouls and Dirteaters are what I remember calling them growing up. Dirtwalkers, eh Commander?”
“Soilborne is what they were called, I believe. But I do prefer Underkin.” Serif responded, gently holding the reins from in front of the cart.
“Well. In the tower, in their books, several scholars theorize about their origins.”
Barnaby scoffed. “They’re just mindless creatures. They’re only an issue because they come in hordes and the smell of blood.”
Madark receded into his thoughts and tried to bite a nail, but chewed on his fingertips instead.

“Sure,” Captain Dela Dias said, leaning back, “the Third believes them a curse against us for inhabiting the city.”
“Yes.” Serif nodded in agreement, “they are a curse indeed.”
“Theories are they were an ancient people that used to live in the city, or they are the bodies the Tiers have been throwing in the Well for the past 400 years.” Madark said.

“Well which is it?” Shorne asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Someone else built this city?” Mestin asked, looking around at the rundown and abandoned homes littering the narrow streets and terraces of the fourth tier.
“Well. We built this part. Someone else built all that.” Madark said, gesturing out to the expansive city of Shrine. 

The terraces on the fourth tier of Shrine offered breathtaking views of the city. Even during the night, the silhouette of the Ascari Tower stood out distinctly against the starry sky, with the bridges that spanned from the First to the Second Tier etched in shadowy relief. Scattered lights from small fires and flickering candles partially illuminated many buildings, casting a soft, warm glow. The sharp, geometric shapes of the buildings across the Tiers formed a striking contrast against the night sky, yet it was the Fulcrum that commanded attention. Well-lit and vibrant, it stood at the city’s heart, glowing like a beacon. Its braziers, kept burning throughout the night, bathed the center of Shrine in a perpetual golden light.
“But the Underkin. Where did they come from?” Shorne asked nervously.
“Well, the Well. Maybe. Theory goes that anyone that goes down into the Well,” Madark said pointing at the center of the city, the large void, “you come out Underkin. That they are us, hence the -kin suffix.”
“Is that true?” Shorne exclaimed looking to the front of the cart. Dela had turned around now and was listening to the conversation.
“The ghouls. They live in the dirt. When they smell blood,” Captain Bracket said, pausing for suspense, “they jump out!”
Shornes eyes widened.
“They jump out and grab your feet and eat your toes!”
Madark shuddered and tried to bite one of the last nails on his hand.
“We see ‘em? Out there? Where the Last Tier is?”
“On The Hill? Not usually, no. You don’t really see them. You just hear them on quiet nights during guard duty.”
Shornes eyes widened.
“They are there, swimming in the mud and loose soil. Shapes that move in the night. There used to be a lot more. But as you will soon see, most of the trees on the plains are dead or gone. Their roots were eaten by the Soilborne folk. Shrine had her fair share of dealing with them before, on at least three occasions that I’m aware of.” Serif said.
“Four times?” Shorne asked.
“The first was on the city’s founding. When our people traversed the nether. The second The War of Tears, the third was almost 7 years ago now.” Madark said solemnly, remembering Mira, his mother and his father.

"We lost a lot of people," Serif broke the silence, his voice tinged with somberness.

“That’s why the city looks like this. Falling apart and why the Sixth are being cunts.” Captain Branken said. 

Madark chimed in, adding a note of practicality. "It’s all in the books. Most are in the library of the NK on the second tier."

A moment of confusion rose up in Mestin Garr. “What’s a library?”
“Well, Mestin,” Madark began, “a library is a place where books, scrolls, tomes, all of the knowledge we have is stored.”
“Oh. I don’t even know how to read so I doubt I’ll be visiting one of them anytime soon.” Mestin said laughing.

“You don’t know how to read?” Shorne asked.
“No, why would I?”
“Well, most people know how to read. Only stupid people don’t.”
“I grew up on Vel. Only thing I needed to know is how much a tharik weighs, then count that by the crop we were sending. Oh, and which animals would kick if you came up from behind, eh.” Mestin said with a smile and wink.
Madark tried to ignore the last comment and asked “what’s a tharik?”
“A tharik? The Tharik tree grows only in Vel. Well, at least I think it does, unless it’s here too?” Mestin looked about and saw blank stares as the cart bumped along the road. “Well, It’s a small, ugly kinda tree but they grow everywhere in Vel! And they are always the exact same size. Always. We use them for everything. Building homes, fences, firewood.”
“The same size?” Madark asked.
“Yeah. Same size. Grows about the top of my head with a flat top. It grows in segments, the roots, then the top, where the leaves are, yeah? And then the actual part of the tree, the tharik. We cut between those two points and that’s a tharik. They all probably weigh the same. At least we pretend they do. We use a 10 tharik bundles on our scales. 

“Strange.” Madark pondered. “I’ve never heard of them.”
“Not everything is in a book, brother!”

“But wait, reading,” Shorne continued, “they don’t teach reading in Vel?”
“No. Half tharik of corn, quarter tharik of straw. You know? Why would I need to know anything else?”

“No one takes, I don’t know, records? Don’t you need to write and read?”

“I write the letters! T, Ht and Qt.” Mestin smiled at the last one, just now realizing what it could me. “I know my letters, I just write the letters. Numbers are more important than letters.” Mestin Garr concluded confidently.

Dela cleared her voice. “But to answer the original question, we are going this way because Commander Serif is cheap.”

“Excuse me? I rented this carriage for us.”
“This isn’t a ‘carriage’. It’s barely a cart.” Dela countered.
The carriage then struck a hard bump on the road, causing everyone to rise off their seats. Madark groaned.
“Sorry! But yes. We shall be traversing the once bustling housing district of the Fourth and leaving out of an old smugglers route.”
Dela leaned forward, adding with a hint of warning in her voice, “The Third definitely doesn't like anyone around here after dark.”
As if on cue, the cart went over another rough bump, its wheel snagging a piece of debris. Serif leaned out to examine the object and then sat up straight, shaking his head. Suddenly, a dull thud hit the side of the cart, causing everyone to flinch. An arrow had pierced the rotting wood, lodging itself between the empty seat, between Madark and Shorne. They exchanged glances, the blood visibly draining from Shorne’s face as he turned to Madark.

Serif, passed the reins to Dela. “You spoke too soon, Captain.”
Shorne jumped to his feet, nearly falling over. “Underkin!?” He screamed in confusion.

A hidden voice yelled out for the cart be stopped.
Dela pulled back on the reins, causing the cart to come to a sudden stop. The sudden stop caused Shorne to fall hard onto the wooden floor of the cart.
“See? They call it a cart.” Captain Dela’s voice was little more than a whisper.
Several shadows moved from out behind bushes and long abandoned homes.

“Wait, wait, let's all take a moment to-” Serif said, slowly standing.
At once, the shadows emerged. A tall woman took two large strides and asked in a threatening voice. “Who are you smuggling out of the city?”

“Who am I talking to?” Serif got out of the cart slowly, ensuring his hands remained visible and he didn’t didn’t make any sudden movements. 

‘Phina? Count. Where. Names.’

“Who are you?”
“Good evening. I am the Last Tier commander, Commander Serif Shrine. I am joined tonight by captains--”
“Shut up.” The lead speaker barked.
“There are Seven. Three above the speaker. North-north east. Aiming at Captain Barnaby Bracken and Mister Shorne. Two behind, aiming at Mestin Garr and Madark Madrigal. Another is remaining hidden. Captain Kiana “Key” Al-Keyel is aiming at you. Lead Stalker Cyane Al-Cerys, stalkers Nirelle Ra-Nyelle, Tamberline El-Talissa, Virelle El-Venore, Ryndia Se-Calantha. Unknown assailant number 7. Each has their primary weapons with a minimum of 8 arrows on their backs, two additional quivers on their thighs, each Third Tier member holding a minimum of 20 arrows. Likelihood of party survival: 0%. Recommended course of action: lie.”

Serif sighed and raised his palms towards the sky. ‘Yes. I see that she is aiming at me. Thank you.’

“Who are you smuggling?” Captain Kiana Al-Keyel ordered. The hidden seventh member rushed over and awkwardly fussed with the locking mechanism that secured the cart’s rear gate.
‘Arley Calantha, Sister of Ryndia Se-Calantha.’’

Serif smiled at the young lady, “I would help, but,” he shrugged.

“Move and you die.” Captain Kiana Al-Keyel threatened.
Madark reached over the ledge to assist in pulling pin. His grunted as his fingers slipped.

Mestin stood to assist when a stalker approached with an arrow fully drawn. 

“Stop moving!”

Mestin returned to the seated position with great eagerness, causing enough pressure for the pin holding the rear gate to be removed. The cart felll with a loud crack.
Serif flinched thinking arrows were to be loosed. But nothing happened. He shared a look with Dela whose face was partially hidden behind her cowl.

“Out! All of you. Who are you?” 

“We are all citizens, all citizens but those two there and they have their signed and stamped documents,” Serif said, turning to look at Mestin and Shorne, “yeah? Both men nodded their heads rapidly in agreement.

“Out!” Another voice screamed.
Madark frowned at Mestin and then proceeded to lower himself to the wooden floor of the carriage. He lay flat onto his stomach and slowly, meticulously swung his legs down to the ground in a long, drawn out, awkward moment.

The stalkers moved in close to supervise the strange disembarkment. “

This one smells like piss!” A stalker called out.

“That's me! I apologize, mum. You scared us.” Mestin said pointing at the arrow.
“Not you!” She barked as she kicked the back of Mestin's knee, forcing him to the ground.

“All of you, to your knees, now!”

“Wait. Stop. He’s wounded.” Serif spoke as confidently and calmly as possible while his Warlock worked quickly to release the appropriate hormones to suppress any appearance of emotion on his face. “Let's all calm down.”
Madark slowly rose, shaking in anger. He screamed, lunging from his knees towards the stalker. She backed away effortlessly.
“Do it then!” Madark swiped again, twisting his body in painful new ways.

“Commander?” Mestin asked, slowly lowering his hands, “are we going to fight?”

Serif cocked his head and his mouth fell open. Phina could do amazing feats, but even she couldn’t control his reaction.’Why would he even suggest that in this situation? ‘Is he stupid?’
‘Likelihood of party survival: 0%. Recommended course of action: lie.’ Phina reminded Serif.
Each stalker took a step back, readying their bows.
“Commander?” Bracken asked, reaching for his sword.

The stalker kicked Madark and then stepped on him, aiming her arrow at Captain Bracken.
Captain Dela stood. “Ladies. Key. It’s me. Stop, please.”
“Dela! Oh, dear! How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
The sound of a soft summer breeze and the pained moans from Madark were the only things audible in that awkward reunion.

“I see. If you’re here it must be real Serif this time. Perhaps you don’t know, but there’s a lot of impersonators as of late. Some claiming to be you. But, if she’s here, then it is you. Lucky me! But, why is that? Why are there so many would-be Serifs?”

“Seems like a dangerous game for people to play, no? But! It’s news to me.” Serif concluded.
“Yes. A deadly game.

“May we speak in private?”

“No.”
“I insist.”

She laughed in Serif’s face.
“I’m the Commander of the Last Tier. Some professional courtesy should be afforded?”
Captain Kiana Al-Keyel smirked and moved in closer. “It definitely is the real Serif this time. So brave. So bold. So arrogant. So st-”
“Yes, yes. Stubborn?” Serif interjected.
“Stupid.”

Serif smiled. “Yes, I know. Come, walk with me.”

The captain was going to protest, yet Serif had already turned his back and stepped away towards the crumbling stone that may have been a home or another type of building. He took a risk. Either Captain Al-Keyel to follow or she would shoot him in the back. It was a power-move. Force her to follow him, maintain some semblance of control. He was a commander after all.

Serif whirled around, a defiant spark in his eyes, ready to confront the absurdity of the situation. But before a word could leave his lips, Captain Kiana Al-Keyel was there, startlingly close. 'She must have long strides,' he thought, taken aback by how quickly and silently she moved, as if faster than his own shadow.
“My Commander believes you’re orchestrating this new invasion? Is that correct word? Is that true?” She leaned in, her presence almost intimate. Towering a foot and a half above Serif, she seemed to loom over him. Serif's eyes darted downwards to her feet, seeking any elevation or footwear that might explain her towering stature. But her boots were simple leather, nothing more. He glanced at his own – lifted, expensive, custom-made. Yet still, he was dwarfed. His frown deepened. 

Shaking off the moment, Serif mustered a forced smile. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?”
“Yes.”Her voice was deep and cool. Her breath smelled wonderful, a minty fragrance as if she had just been chewing on the leaf.
“Of course! I couldn't possibly forget you. I'm surprised you didn’t recognize me, even in this dim light.” Serif took a cautious step back, but Captain Kiana mirrored his movement, stepping forward, her hand resting on her waist.
‘She is holding a dagger, Commander. Approximately six and a quarter inch in length, attached to her left hip.’

Serif looked over to Dela who stood on the cart watching with a concerned grimace. ‘At least she’s concerned about me.’
‘Captain Kiana Al-Keyel trying to intimidate.’ Phina said, trying to calm Serif.

‘It’s extremely effective. If she attacks, who will be faster?’

‘She will beat me at this distance.’ Phina respounded nearly instantaneously.

‘I see.’

Captain Al-Keyal advanced, her left hand rising to slam against the stone wall behind Serif. He stood motionless, his Warlock frantically raced to control his myriad of involuntary reactions – fear, excitement, arousal, each vying for dominance. Every muscle in Serif’s face froze, caught in a battle of emotions.

She narrowed her eyes. Serif could see how well done her makeup was. Black eyeliner made her eyes appear orbs absorbing light.  She bent her outstretched arm and moved in closer, intimately closer. Her breasts provided a pedestal for Serif to rest his chin, declining the overt offer, Serif strained his neck backwards and looked up at her, their lips nearly touching.
“I’ll ask you once again. One more time. No evasions. Is it true?”

“Is what-”
She cut him off with a sharp intake of breath, her warm exhale brushing against Serif’s lips. “You’re dodging the question. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.”
Serif swallowed and then licked his lips. He inhaled. As he spoke, he purposely tilted his head upwards, the slightest of movements caused his bottom lip to caress her upper lip. She licked her lips. “It’s not.” Serif swallowed again. And then spoke, this time both of his lips inadvertently brushing against hers as he spoke, “I swear to your commander, I’m not responsible.”
Kiana Al-Keyel breathed hard on Serif’s mouth and sucked in her lips. Serif could feel her moving in closer. She was pressing her body against his. The hand which gripped the dagger loosened its hold and two of her fingers floated along his waist, the softest caress Serif has ever felt. First the fingers and then the rest of the hand first reached down and then gripped his belt buckle.
Kiana tilted her head and pouted, pulling Serif against her. “We’ll see.”
Serif began to breathe hard. ‘Control it.’ He screamed the command in his mind.

‘Get ready. We need to kill the one on Madark second. Let the others die.’’
Suddenly, Captain Kiana Al-Keyel pushed Serif back against the wall and turned on her heels. “Sisters! We are leaving. Dela. Come visit your mother sometime. She misses you.”
Serif exhaled, watching the Captain stride past the cart, where Mestin Garr stood, wide-eyed and grinning as if he were about to start applauding.

‘Next time, focus on my whole body, please. I felt nervous.’ Serif into his mind. While not expecting a reply, he was sure Phina felt the frustration he was trying to convey.

Madark groaned, his discomfort evident.

“Get him on the carriage and the junk from under the wheel. We need to go.”