Archbishop Soren was on his way out of the temple, performing the same duties as the lower members of the clergy. He often took on tasks typically reserved for acolytes and newer priests. As a priest of war, Soren blessed guards and soldiers, granting them magical boons to help ensure their safety during shifts. The chances of serious injury were minimal, but those receiving blessings found comfort in the idea of a deity watching over them.

  The temple’s entryway was lined with battered sets of armor, each displayed on its own mannequin as a tribute to the fallen. Soren paused, taking in the solemn display, letting the weight of so many sacrifices settle over him for a moment before his gaze drifted to the lone figure among the memorials.

  Among the armor stood a solitary woman, her attention fixed intently on the etched nameplate at the base of one display. It wasn’t uncommon for people to visit the memorial—usually guards coming off duty or adventurers who had lost comrades on contracts. Yet, what caught Soren’s eye was that this particular armor lacked enchantments, unlike the others. The armor had been in the temple since before Soren’s time as an acolyte, and he recalled it being made of some kind of cloth, though it felt much sturdier than it appeared. Since it wasn’t of local origin, Soren wondered how it could have protected anyone. His curiosity warred with a growing sense of foreboding as he watched the woman’s stillness—her posture radiated an almost reverent grief.

  The woman wore fitted clothing reminiscent of a craftsman’s attire, her short-cropped hair practical for combat. Beneath her ordinary-looking shirt, Soren could make out the outline of a breastplate by the way the fabric hung on her frame. From behind, she seemed familiar, though Soren couldn’t immediately place her. The iron band around her wrist sparked recognition—he had a hunch about her identity.

  “You didn’t strike me as a person of faith, Miss Monroe,” Soren greeted, his voice gentle, not wishing to invade her solitude. The words startled her from her reverie.

  She turned, confirming his suspicion—it was Katherine. Her eyes lingered on the armor. For a heartbeat, she seemed unable to speak. “Where did you get that?” she asked, pointing at the display, her voice rawer than he remembered.

  “I couldn’t tell you,” Soren replied quietly. “It’s been a fixture here since before I joined the church. A few of us have speculated about its origins, but none recognize the maker. It’s all conjecture.” His gaze lingered on her, noticing the subtle tremor in her hand. He wondered what burdens she carried now—what battles she had fought since their last meeting—and whether he could offer any solace beyond ritual blessings.

  Soren noted several differences from their last meeting. Katherine was alone; he knew she had familiars, and tamers like her rarely left them behind, especially since she fought alongside them rather than sending them into danger alone. She wasn’t using a cane, unlike the last time, which suggested she might have visited a healer. But most striking was her emotional state. When they first met, she radiated a fierce euphoria—the thrill of battle still buzzing in her veins as she commanded thunder and lightning. Now, she seemed on the verge of tears, fighting to maintain her composure as memories pressed against the dam of her resolve.

  “I assume you recognize this piece,” Soren asked softly, careful not to interrupt her silent struggle for stoicism. As he waited, the hush between them deepened—Soren felt the gravity of the moment, bracing himself for whatever pain might surface.

  Katherine turned away, her hand coming up beneath her nose to stifle the sobs threatening to break free. She pressed her fist to her lips, fighting the tremor in her chest as the echo of Andrew's laughter reverberated in her mind—a sound she both longed for and dreaded. Her gaze returned to the nameplate. Like the others, it listed a name, rank, and the army to which the armor’s former owner belonged. Yet to Soren, the information seemed incomplete—a code waiting to be deciphered. The plate read: LCpl A.N. CLARK, 1st MEU MTM PLT, USMC. Soren couldn’t make sense of it, but he wondered how Katherine could. As she stared, her breath caught. Memories surged—voices, laughter, the sharp scent of metal and smoke, the last embrace before dawn patrol—all threatening to overwhelm her composure. The weight of loss pressed down, and in the silence, the emotional significance of the armor became achingly clear.

  After a long moment, Katherine’s voice finally emerged, barely getting past the lump in her throat. “I still hear him sometimes, you know,” she said, her words trembling. “His laugh, the way he used to sing—it was off key, but it did bring the humanity back to us.” The admission cost her, and her shoulders hunched under the invisible load.

  Soren’s expression softened, regret flickering across his features. “I’m sorry if this bothers you, but we only mean to honor them here,” he offered quietly, hoping his words would not feel like intrusion.

  Katherine turned her head to Soren, trying to show him a smile—a fragile mask of reassurance. “Don’t worry, I understand that, Chaplain,” she replied, her voice steadier this time, though her eyes still shimmered with unshed tears.

  There it was again. When Soren met Katherine in the arena, he had picked up that Katherine had strange words in place of what should have been the right one. Originally, after she had accepted the bracelet that was now on her wrist, she had called him father and his excellence. At the time she had explained that they were monikers for a priest in a religion he had never heard of.

  Soren hesitated, searching for the right words before venturing, “Miss Monroe, if I may? What does that mean?” He gestured to the title she’d just used, a blend of curiosity and concern in his tone.

  Katherine hesitated, searching Soren’s face for understanding before answering. “A chaplain is someone like you, but with a few quirks and major differences that you may not agree with,” she explained, her words gentle. She took a steadying breath, the memory-laden air pressing in around her. “A religious figure that goes out with the troops. As I am not a member of your church and do not know your customs, is it safe to assume you go into battlefields armed? With weapons, I mean?”

  Soren nodded in confirmation, though Katherine noticed the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

  “The laws that govern my people’s wars don’t typically allow that,” Katherine continued, seeing the confusion behind his eyes at the question. “They essentially have a bodyguard to protect them.” She spoke softly, her voice carrying the weight of distant rules and lost comrades, trying to bridge a cultural gap that felt impossibly wide.

  Soren looked almost outraged at the thought, but then again it was a cultural difference that Katherine had pointed out beforehand. He forced himself to nod, silently acknowledging the gulf between their worlds.

  Katherine paused, her gaze drawn back to the strange armor. “As for this armor,” she said, her tone quieter, “I assume you were going off the patch?” She pointed at a spot where the base of the throat would possibly be, her finger trembling ever so slightly.

  “I believe so,” Soren admitted. “I was not the one who made the plate, but the one who did ask if the information given was complete or meant to be that way. As far as I can recall, several of my fellows have been trying to figure out what it all means.” He glanced at the encoded plate, wishing he could offer more clarity.

  Katherine pulled out a piece of paper and something to write with, her motions mechanical, as if habit shielded her from grief. She jotted down some information and handed it to Soren. “Do with this information as you wish,” she told him, eyes filled with regret. “I just ask you leave me out of it.” As a final act, she pulled a gold coin from her pocket and placed it at the mannequin's feet before walking out of the temple, the echo of her footsteps carrying her sorrow behind her.

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  Archbishop Soren looked down at the paper. In Katherine’s neat handwriting it read: Lance Corporal Andrew N Clark, 1st Marine Expeditionary Unit, Motor Transport Maintenance Platoon, United States Marine Corps. Died March 7, 2019.

  ...

  Katherine tried to mask her emotions from the archbishop, but a few cracks showed through despite her effort. She hadn’t come to the temple merely for ritual—she wanted to get a sense of the man who’d handed her a piece of jewelry with no explanation, other than claiming it was at the behest of his god—whatever that meant.

  Come on, Crash. You're gonna love it. The familiar phrase floated through her mind—Clark’s voice, not living, but echoing from memory. Lately, those memories pressed in on her more often, friends lost but not forgotten. They appeared like faded apparitions, hovering between comforting daydreams and the sharp edges of reality. In daylight, she recalled Clark’s off-key renditions of Lynyrd Skynyrd or Katy Perry, laughter filling the barracks. Sometimes, as Abbie fumbled with dough in the dorm kitchen, Katherine saw Espanosa’s ghostly form beside her, hands guiding, demonstrating the secrets of perfect empanadas the way his Tia used to make them. Abbie, oblivious to her spectral instructor, worked on, never sensing the presence Katherine saw so vividly. Even Gay—yes, his actual last name—brought music and mischief, coaxing Smith and Doc to light the grills for weekend barbecues.

  But when night fell, solace slipped away, and the memories grew jagged. Dreams dragged her back to the moments she’d lost them—Clark thrown from a hmmwv by an explosion, the snap of his neck echoing in the darkness. Espanosa, shot in the leg during an ambush, seemed safe at first, but blood loss claimed him before help arrived. Gay’s story haunted her deepest; three months deployed, and he ended his pain with his own weapon in the barracks bathroom. The blast, the aftermath, were details she could never forget.

  The laughter faded, replaced by the cold reality of the alley’s shadows. Katherine stumbled into the narrow passage, the rough brick scraping her palms as she slid down to the ground. The distant hum of city life blurred behind the pounding in her ears, mingling with the sharp scent of rain and asphalt. Luna’s fur brushed against her cheek—warm, soft, anchoring her to the present as tears blurred her vision. Shade lingered nearby, muscles tense and protective, growling at any who dared approach, ensuring Katherine could have her solitude and gather herself without interruption.

  Eventually, the storm inside her quieted. The air grew still, and the ache in her chest softened just enough for her to breathe. Footsteps approached, gentle against the alley’s stone. The archbishop knelt beside her, offering a hand to help her rise. His presence was quiet, respectful, as he handed her something to wipe her nose.

  “I take it you knew him?” he asked softly, the words gentle, nearly lost beneath the city’s distant sounds.

  Katherine nodded, dabbing at her eyes before blowing her nose. “I was there when he died.”

  Archbishop Soren’s voice was gentle, threaded with the empathetic cadence Katherine had come to associate with people discussing matters of faith. “Would you like to talk about him?” he asked, concern softening his usually formal tone. “I’ve found that those who’ve survived wars often find solace in sharing memories of those they’ve lost. Sometimes it can ease the pressure on the soul.”

  Katherine hesitated, her gaze fixed on the ground as she fought to steady her breath, the ache of grief still raw. “He would have liked it here,” she finally managed, voice trembling but sincere. A bittersweet smile flickered across her lips as she remembered. “Anytime he wasn’t working on bettering himself—or helping others—he’d be reading. Technical manuals, mostly. He liked knowing how things worked, had a knack for it. If it wasn’t those, it was books about places like this—full of magic and dragons.” Her words hung in the air, bittersweet and wistful.

  Soren tilted his head, curiosity evident. “A historian?” he ventured, perplexed by the idea of someone so scholarly being on the battlefield.

  Katherine’s laugh was faint, colored by lingering sorrow. “No, not really. He only paid attention to recent history and patterns—just enough so we wouldn’t die faster. The closest I can think of is an artificer of non-magical items.” She paused, searching for the right words. “Generally, things like those self-driving carriages.”

  Katherine’s thoughts drifted to the strange mix of worlds she now inhabited, where memories of Clark intertwined with the magical city around her. A flicker of movement caught her attention—on the other side of the alley, a self-driving carriage passed, its driver hauling sacks that radiated subtle magical energy. Shade and Luna, sensing the affinities inside, perked up with interest, their focus shifting to the carriage. Katherine smiled faintly at their reaction, reminded again of Clark’s fondness for the peculiar and mechanical.

  She glanced at Soren, who had grown quiet, deep in thought. Not wanting to stir up her emotions again, Katherine let the silence stretch between them, grateful for the brief respite.

  After a moment, Soren spoke, his tone thoughtful. “Can you explain the armor then?” he asked, gesturing gently to the topic lingering between them. “Most, if not all, of the armor in the entryway is enchanted to protect against various attacks. But that particular set—the one you recognized—doesn’t have those enchantments. Why is that?”

  Katherine met his gaze, curiosity mingling with grief. “I will—if you can answer why a set of body armor, complete with its uniform, exists in a world it doesn’t belong to. And how it came here before I did.” She offered the challenge politely; her voice steady but tinged with wonder at the mysteries that still separated their worlds.

  ...

  Cassandra watched Soren with narrowed eyes, the rigid set of her jaw betraying her irritation. “Why is he so obsessed with that abomination?” she muttered, voice clipped and sharp. Her impatience clung to every syllable; this operation had already tested her patience more than she liked. She glanced sidelong at her companion, distrustful of the priest’s lingering presence.

  Daryl shifted his weight, keeping his tone deliberately low and measured. “He probably doesn’t even know what she is,” he replied, though his words carried a note of worry. Daryl was careful by nature, skeptical of anything that didn’t fit the patterns he knew, and Soren’s involvement made him uneasy. Their mission should have been a simple extraction, but Katherine’s reputation—and her pets—had complicated everything.

  Both wore black, close-fitting armor designed for stealth, their movements honed for covert operations. The job was supposed to be routine: slip into the city, snatch Katherine—the abomination, as Cassandra insisted on calling her—and disappear before anyone noticed. Yet getting close had proven far more difficult than anticipated. It wasn’t just Katherine herself; the dire panther and wolf she kept at her side were far from ordinary. Every step they took was shadowed by the knowledge that Luna and Shade radiated the kind of energy that could warp space and conjure illusions. Daryl felt a prickling uncertainty as he recalled stories of tamers whose familiars protected them even when worlds bent and broke.

  “We wait until the priest leaves,” Cassandra hissed, her resolve hardening. She watched the archbishop, weighing the risks of his presence. Rumor claimed Soren wielded magic and authority that dwarfed their own, and if he chose to intervene, the consequences could be disastrous. Despite her bravado, Cassandra’s heart thudded with unease at the prospect of crossing someone so deeply entrenched in the city’s power structure.

  Moving only when Katherine did, Cassandra and Daryl trailed her at a careful distance, striving to remain undetected. Cassandra kept her mind focused on the task, rehearsing contingencies for every possible complication. Daryl, meanwhile, felt a pulse of anxiety each time Luna’s ears pricked in their direction, convinced that one misstep would expose them.

  Just as they closed in, a hand, impossibly strong and unyielding, seized the backs of their necks. Shock exploded through Cassandra—she’d been certain they were invisible, yet now they were utterly pinned. Daryl’s thoughts raced, dread overtaking his earlier caution; he realized instantly that they had underestimated their quarry.

  A cold, resolute voice murmured directly into their ears, sending a chill down their spines. “So, the hunt has begun. I suppose the whole coven is after me?”

  Panic flared in Cassandra’s chest, mingling with reluctant admiration for their target’s skill. Daryl, for the first time, understood the stories about Katherine—the monster the coven wanted gone was nothing like they had imagined. As she held them immobilized, the illusion she’d created fell away, revealing the archbishop none the wiser, still speaking to a false Katherine. Their perceptions fractured; the real Katherine had been stalking them all along.

  Skill [Double Trouble]

  Create a life-like illusion. The illusion can only copy people you have and can last until you are unnoticed. If the target(s) of the illusion are confused by the presence of two of you, the illusion can cause damage.

  “So, player’s choice, are you going to go with me willingly? Or do I need to stun you two first?”