CHAPTER 1 — “Unanimous” #2
“You can’t rush something that unravels the fundamental fabric of reality. There are equations involved. Variables. A truly irresponsible amount of theoretical physics that may or may not be heresy in three major religions.”
“You’re such a nerd.”
“The nerd who just killed a Demon Lord. Put some respect on my nerd name.”
She flips me off without looking, which is impressive and also very Sylva.
I’ve known her for fifteen years now—found her as a skinny kid with quick fingers stealing bread in some market town, recognized the talent hiding behind the desperation, took her under my wing.
Trained her myself. Watched her grow from a starving pickpocket into one of the deadliest assassins on the continent.
She’s like a little sister to me. An annoying little sister who could kill me in my sleep, but still.
┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────┐│ PARTY STATUS ││ "The Legendary Five" │├─────────────────────────────────────────────────┤│ LEADER: Dario Valdris ││ └─ Class: Hero (Legendary) --- Level 94 ││ └─ Role: Face, Frontline, Looking Fantastic ││ ││ MEMBER: Velthar Ashworth ││ └─ Class: Archmage (Legendary) --- Level 97 ││ └─ Role: Artillery, Strategy, Carrying Everyone ││ ││ MEMBER: Persephone Ashworth (née Thorne) ││ └─ Class: High Priestess (Epic) --- Level 89 ││ └─ Role: Healer, Support, Velthar Management ││ ││ MEMBER: Gorath the Unbreaking ││ └─ Class: Fortress Knight (Epic) --- Level 91 ││ └─ Role: Tank, Damage Sponge, Loud Friend ││ ││ MEMBER: Sylva Nightwhisper ││ └─ Class: Shadow Dancer (Rare) --- Level 86 ││ └─ Role: Scout, Assassin, Loot Goblin ││ ││ ATTACHED OPERATIVE: Anton Mercer ││ └─ Class: Voidhunter (Epic) --- Level 88 ││ └─ Role: Ranger, Poison Expert, Dario's Shadow ││ (not a public member of the Five) ││ ││ "Against all odds, you're all still breathing.
││ The universe must be off its meds." │└─────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
Anton hasn’t said a word since the fight ended, which is absolutely normal and absolutely unnerving.
The man treats words like they’re made of gold—spends them carefully, rarely, only when absolutely necessary.
Right now he’s leaning against a pillar on the far side of the room, cleaning his bow with methodical precision, watching us all with those pale grey eyes that never seem to blink quite enough.
I’ve never fully trusted Anton.
Then again, I’ve never fully trusted anyone except Persephone and Dario, so that’s not saying much. Trust issues are a survival trait in my line of work. The people who trust easily tend to die young, and I’ve got a real attachment to not dying.
Exhibit A: still alive after forty-two years of making powerful enemies.
Case closed.
An hour later, we’re sitting in a circle on the Demon Lord’s fancy throne room floor, passing around a bottle of wine that probably costs more than most people’s houses.
Persephone brought it. Of course she did.
She packed Valdrassian Red—my favorite, the kind that tastes like blackberries and bad decisions—in her spatial bag before we left.
“Just in case we won,” she’d said, and when I’d asked what she brought in case we lost, she’d just smiled and said “bandages.”
She brought both.
This is why I love her.
Dario’s telling stories, because Dario always tells stories.
He’s got that natural performer’s gift, the ability to take something we all just experienced together and somehow make it sound even more dramatic in the retelling.
His hands move as he talks, painting pictures in the air, and everyone—even Anton, lurking by the door—is hanging on every word.
“—and then Velthar, this absolute madman, he just LOOKS at Karvaxis—”
“I didn’t look at him. I was doing math.”
“You definitely looked at him. Very dramatically. There was eye contact.”
“There was no eye contact. If I’d made eye contact I would’ve lost concentration and turned us all inside out. That’s how the spell worked. Very delicate. No room for drama.”
“You’re killing me here, Vel. You’re murdering the story.”
“The story was already dead. I’m just doing the autopsy.”
Gorath’s laughing so hard the floor shakes, because the man has one volume setting and it’s “audible from three kingdoms away.” Sylva’s smirking over her cataloged loot.
Even Persephone’s giggling, that soft sound I fell in love with twenty years ago when we were both young and stupid and thought we’d live forever.
This is good. This is right. We saved the world and now we’re drinking expensive wine in the rubble of our enemy’s throne room, and tomorrow we’ll be heroes. Actual heroes. The kind that get statues and feast days and probably way too much attention from people who want things from us.
But tonight we’re just… us. Five friends who went through hell together and came out the other side.
Four friends and Anton, anyway.
I take another sip of wine. It really is excellent. Persephone knows my taste better than I do.
Somewhere around the second bottle, I start to fade.
It’s not sleep, exactly—more like my brain finally giving up its fight against exhaustion and settling into a kind of grey fog. I find a corner with some cushions (demon lords apparently appreciate comfort, who knew) and let myself drift, half-listening to the conversation flowing around me.
Dario’s talking politics now. The boring stuff.
Who gets what territory, which kings need to be appeased, how to handle the power vacuum Karvaxis left behind.
Important work, but not work I need to be awake for.
He’s good at this part. Better than me, honestly.
I understand systems and spells and the mathematical underpinnings of reality, but people? Politics? That’s Dario’s domain.
“…should rest,” Persephone’s saying, and I feel her hand brush my hair back from my forehead. “He’s barely conscious.”
“Let him sleep. He earned it.”
“More than earned it. Did you see his mana readings after that spell? He nearly killed himself.”
“That’s Vel for you. Always dramatic.”
“That’s Vel for me,” she agrees, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “Always almost dying. Keeping me employed.”
I want to respond, say something clever, but my mouth won’t cooperate. The wine’s warm in my stomach, the cushions are soft beneath me, and for the first time in months—maybe years—I feel something like peace.
We won.
We actually won.
I let myself slip into darkness.
I don’t know how long I’m out before the voices pull me back.
Not the cheerful chatter from before. Something different. Quieter. Tenser. The kind of conversation people have when they don’t want to be overheard.
“—can’t keep doing this.” Persephone’s voice, stripped of its usual warmth.
“I know.” Dario. Also different. Harder. “But we need to be smart about it.”
“Smart? We’ve been smart for three years. I’m tired of smart. I’m tired of sneaking around, tired of pretending, tired of watching him look at me like I’m—”
“Like you’re what?”
Silence. Then, softer: “Like I’m still his.”
Something cold settles in my chest.
I keep my eyes closed. Keep my breathing steady. The survival instincts I’ve honed over twenty years of combat are screaming at me to stay still, stay quiet, listen.
“You are still his,” Dario says. “Legally. Publicly. That’s the problem.”
“Then let’s solve it.”
“How? He’s the most powerful mage on the continent. If we just—”
“He won’t see it coming.” That’s Anton’s voice, quiet and clinical as always. “He trusts us. Completely. That’s always been his weakness.”
The cold spreads. Down my spine. Into my fingers and toes. I feel like I’m floating outside my own body, watching this happen to someone else.
This isn’t real.
This can’t be real.
“He’s not a weakness,” Gorath says, and there’s something uncomfortable in his voice. Guilt, maybe. Or what passes for guilt in a man who’s spent thirty years solving problems with violence. “He’s our friend. He’s saved all of us more times than I can count. We can’t just—”
“Can’t just what?” Sylva cuts in, bored and practical. “Face reality? He’s been carrying this party since day one. We all know it. HE knows it. What do you think happens when he figures out about Seph and Dario? You think he’s just going to shrug and wish them well?”
“He might—”
“He won’t.” Anton again. Certain. Flat. “I’ve studied him. He’s patient, but he’s not forgiving. When he finds out—and he will find out—he’ll destroy everything we’ve built. Everything we’re about to gain.”
When. Not if. When.
Because they know I’m not stupid. They know I’ll figure it out eventually. The signs have probably been there for years, and I’ve been too busy saving the world to notice them. Too trusting. Too focused on the war.
Too in love with a woman who stopped loving me somewhere along the way.
“So what are you suggesting?” Persephone asks, and her voice is steady now. Calm. The voice she uses when she’s already made up her mind and she’s just waiting for everyone else to catch up.
“We vote,” Dario says. “Like we always do. Unanimous or nothing.”
“On what, exactly?”
A pause. Then, quietly: “On removing the problem.”
Removing.
Such a clean word for what they’re describing.
I want to move. Want to sit up, confront them, demand an explanation. But my body won’t respond—won’t do anything except lie here and listen as the people I love most in this world discuss how best to kill me.
“He won’t suffer,” Dario continues, and there’s something almost tender in his voice. “I’ll make it quick. I owe him that much.”
“And the loot?” Sylva asks. Always practical. Always thinking about the bottom line.
“Split four ways instead of five. His research goes to you—you’ll actually use it. His gear gets sold. And his name…”
“I’ll handle his name,” Anton says. “I have contacts in the Chroniclers’ Guild. A few bribes, a few adjusted records. The Legendary Five becomes the Legendary Four. No fifth member. Never was one.”
“Can you actually do that?” Gorath asks. “Just… erase someone?”
“I’ve done worse for less.”