At the edge of Witherbloom Manor, in what had previously been a garden beneath the eternal twilight of Vesperis Morghaine’s sunless sky, lay what Dahlia had taken to calling the Profane Hoard. The sole clue to its origin was the signpost before the heap.

  Good riddance to bad rubbish. Beneath the words, the Eye of Horus had been burned into the wood.

  Dahlia read the sign as a threat. Horus could have imprinted his symbol, but to burn it in with such ferocity that wisps of smoke occasionally curled up off the wood? It had been meant to intimidate Dahlia and serve as a warning of the deity's ill feelings. Why did Horus hate the Fey? His portfolio included domains such as sky, weather, war, and protection. Nothing about him made sense for the sentiments; it wasn’t as if Fey had caused the problems with his father, Osiris.

  Whatever sentiments clouded the dumb god’s judgment, he had given her a veritable treasure trove of dangerous, deadly, and surprisingly diverse magical objects. Why would he give all of this to an enemy? Sure, some of it might be cursed, but Fey created sports and contests out of using such items and avoiding the inevitable consequences that brought mortals low.

  Why arm an enemy? Why? It vexed Dahlia. It made no sense. Why would the primary force for removing her kind, by any means from Nantes, make such a blunder as to provide her with tools to fight against him?

  Deities played Games, too, but Dahlia didn’t know what rules were governing the game between her and Horus, and if you didn’t know the rules, how could you remain within them and destroy your enemy by the letter of the law?

  Perhaps therein lay the conflict. Mortalkind seemed to associate him with law and rule. Maybe it merely came down to a bureaucrat deity enraged by Fey's game with words and law. What were those sayings she’d heard in Riverwatch?

  If you ever find yourself talking to Horus, don’t worry—he’ll handle both sides of the conversation. And write it down in ink that takes centuries to dry.

  Horus loves balance so much that he tips the scales to keep them level.

  Horus won't acknowledge it exists if it ain’t chiseled into law.

  Horus wouldn’t know fun even if it filled the proper request in triplicate.

  He’s got a stick so far up his ass that it’s sprouted wings and declared itself a sacred ibis.

  The drunks of Riverwatch had been happy to blaspheme against Horus after Dahlia saved their lives. How risky was blasphemy for mortals? Did the gods strike them down with lightning and wrath for a joke, or did they reserve that for absolute blasphemy?

  Thinking about Horus left Dahlia feeling anxious, as if a clock ticked down to some inevitable confrontation between them, but Dahlia didn’t want anything to do with the god. She wanted to become the best necromancer and get back to the Soulweald—after she trounced that bitch Deborah.

  “Why are we here?” Xeras asked, having noticed the wild and erratic thoughts of his Gloamcaller.

  Dahlia pointed at the heap.

  “Duh,” she said.

  Within the heap? Untold treasures, but also untold garbage—and a bad case of Iron Poisoning if you were a fey. Hundreds of books were interspersed with umbrellas, boots, cloaks, scrolls, a chest of drawers, and so many other items that Dahlia wasn’t even sure where you would begin to take stock of the whole thing.

  One look at the braided iron bindings wrapped around each item to secure its magic, and Dahlia knew she wouldn’t be the one to go into the pile. Even with such lovely contents as what she could see from flying nearby.

  “They do like iron, don’t they?” Dahlia asked. She hissed at the iron. Four or five different chains had bound some of the items—some weren’t even magical, but still, they were bound. Fanatics weren’t known for logic, she supposed.

  “That’s a copy of The Gloaming Cantos, Xeras! The Gloaming Cantos! It’s a sentient book of twilight hymns for ritual magic. Sure, it makes mortals hear lullabies that warp the mind, and reading it will make you experience other people's dreams, but the rituals inside of it are all top-tier stuff.” Dahlia said. Her exuberance for the trash pile pushed her to machine-gun the words at top speed in a high squeak.

  “This one is a Moth-laced Mirror!” Dahlia pointed. Various mothwings surrounded a silver hand mirror worked out of different silks. While none fluttered, you could see the wings flapping when you looked at the mirror out of the corner of your eye.

  “What does it do?” Xeras asked.

  “If you gaze into it long enough, it will reveal how someone else perceives you rather than showing your reflection. It’s the ultimate vanity crusher! A well-gifted Moth-laced Mirror has slaughtered entire Courts, marriages ended, wars started!” Dahlia gushed about the item and repeatedly pushed her hands down to her sides, lest she get too close to the iron-filled mound and reach out to take the mirror.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Knowledge, tantalizing knowledge, lay there, just out of reach. She could know how she looked to Xeras, Lady Nyxaria, or even Zorah. The small, stable voice whispered that she wasn’t ready to understand how Nyxaria or especially Xeras perceived her. She still wanted to know, though.

  “A lot of those items are cursed, Dahlia. That is the Crown of Waning Sovereigns—once the Crown of Aurelian Thryxis. Do you know the story of the Dethroned Sun?” Xeras gestured at a crown made from multiple types of metals and gems. While hideous, it radiated power.

  “No?” Dahlia answered, her eyes growing wide at the power that radiated from the crown.

  “Aurelian was a Fey Lord whose House was destroyed in a conflict between Nobles. He felt wronged by the loss of his future, and so he stole the futures of others with his family's past. The original crown he forged controlled the spirits that had fallen in the attack and defense of House Thryxis. He forged the crown of the last ruler of each house he conquered into the one he had made, each castle and throne he claimed as his own. With his legion of the fallen, he threatened the Queen of Summer, the grandest of all Fey Monarchs.”

  Dahlia winced.

  “Bet that didn’t go well for him!” The fairy predicted.

  “It did not. Titania defeated him with ease. Aurelian had worn the crown too long. Yes, it longed to topple Titania, but it had grown wise enough to understand its limitations. So, it fed upon the power of Aurelian when given the opportunity. Titania cast the wretched thing from the Realms Faerie. A few of those absorbed crowns appear human. It must have feasted well upon Nantes.”

  “What was the part about it controlling spirits?” Dahlia asked, eyes glimmering.

  “It is a weak artifact made to control lesser spirits.” Xeras answered, his voice dismissive of the artifact. “You wouldn’t be interested in an item that does what you do, but worse, would you?”

  “No, I suppose not,” Dahlia grumbled. It would be a lie to say she wasn’t disappointed, and her purple eyes lingered on the Profane Hoard with a hint of wonder despite the latest defeat.

  “The iron is a problem,” Xeras said.

  “Wights aren’t weak to iron, and I have a few remains in my bag. A few minions under Elyssandra’s supervision could sort through the pile while she catalogs it all and sees it stored.” Dahlia puffed up her chest, pride clear as day on her face.

  “I noticed you wove her wrappings out of scrolls. You intend to make her your Librarian?” Xeras asked dutifully. Dahlia pretended not to notice the slight shake of his head or his almost inaudible chortle.

  “I do! Matron Mommy Mummy!” Dahlia cackled.

  “Please, don’t make that my title,” Elyssandra begged. She and Ruth, late to the site, joined the conversation opportunely—perhaps even in time to save Elyssandra from routine humiliations.

  “You don’t like it?” Dahlia asked. The tiny fairy pouted slightly. Her lower lip stuck out, and her purple eyes seemed more prominent than usual.

  “I do not, Lady Dahlia,” Elyssandra answered honestly.

  “Fine. You can be the Grand Seneschal and Warden of the Gossamer Heart. Relic keeper, history recorder, and Profane Hoard sorter.” Dahlia’s playful words turned somber on a dime.

  “It’s a step up from Guild master of the Enchanter’s Guild!” Ruth gushed. The spectral mage practically jumped up and down.

  While Ruth shared her excitement with Elyssandra, Dahlia dumped some bones from her Feywoven Satchel upon the ground.

  “You aren’t worried about interference from the heap?” Elyssandra asked dubiously.

  Dahlia froze. She eyed the heap. She eyed Elyssandra. Elyssandra paled slightly, her already pale skin somehow going even whiter than the silky scrolls that wrapped her lithe frame.

  “That’s a good point,” Dahlia said after a long silence. Dahlia had mental images play out in her mind—sealing Elyssandra’s mouth, punishing her, or lecturing her about how while some pathetic little mage from a backwater prime world might worry about magical interference from a pile of artifacts, exquisite wondrous items, and cursed objects, but that Dahlia was cut from a different cloth.

  Dahlia was a Soul Shaper, a Soulweald Fairy of the Noblest sort, a Disciple of Nyxaria, Inheritor of Lyrindris.

  But Elyssandra was right. It’d be folly to cast any magic next to this profane pile. Even if everything appeared to go right, there was every possibility that one of the viler items in the hoard would corrupt her spells, and that could go unnoticed until the worst time.

  “I’ll conjure them some distance away and send them to get instructions from you. There are three reliquaries in the Grotto of the Gossamer Heart. Sort them by useful, possibly useful if we can negate the cost, and too costly to use.”

  If Dahlia burned her spells for the day to provide Elyssandra with assistance, it would set the goal of getting all the Ebon Chorus to a higher level before leaving back by a day. Yet, unlike Horus, Dahlia felt there was something valuable in the pile of magic he’d treated like garbage. A minor delay now for the possibility of something already being sorted out for her when the time came seemed like an obvious choice.

  But, again, she felt a clock ticking somewhere. A day could change the world.

  “The dance begins when the music plays,” Dahlia grumbled.

  “Toss the thimble, spin the thread?” Xeras asked.

  Both sayings were roughly equivalent, although from different ages of Fey culture. Xeras spoke an archaic and rustic saying, while Dahlia felt hers was more elegant and refined. Dancing and music were far superior to sewing.

  “If I use all my spells for the day, I can create three wights, three spirit allies, and four shades. Will that be enough workforce to begin cleaning up this mess?” Dahlia looked to Elyssandra.

  “That should be more than adequate, Lady Dahlia. Thank you for your vast generosity,” Elyssandra answered promptly, bowing to the fairy.

  Dahlia giggled uncontrollably. Despite the slightly rough start between the two and the awkwardness of Elyssandra having to find out on her own what being an elven mummy meant, the former Guild Mistress was a better courtier than Dahlia expected. Elyssandra could last as Grand Seneschal instead of merely being a temporary position holder.

  A disappointed voice emerged from atop one of the nearby manor walls.

  “Aw, man, does that mean I have to wait until tomorrow?” Drynthor asked and vaulted off the high wall to the ground below. His hooves produced a loud crack against the ground.

  Dahlia flipped a tiny thimble she hadn’t had before. It pointed to the side before she pocketed it.

  “Sorry, Drynthor. I’ll Soulshape you tomorrow.”

  With a bashful grin, the satyr nodded.

  “That’s all right. It’s a bit scary when you stick your hands in me anyway. Can I watch you make the recruits?”

  “Come along if you want to watch,” Dahlia invited.