Page 35 of Level Up for Love

Mortimer’s burial was a quick and brutal affair. Antoni explained that they wouldn’t survive another night out in the open, and they must move quickly to town. The whole ordeal was made worse by the necessity of separating Mortimer’s head from his body. “So he won’t rise again,” Vera said quietly. “It’s what he would have wanted.”

Sindra wasn’t so sure, given the wizard’s interest in necromancy and reanimation, but what could she say? She’d known him for only a day. And besides, all of the undead they’d encountered had risen again because of the kingdom’s curse, not the necromancer’s magic. If his body couldn’t be used for arcane science, then perhaps he would not want it used at all.

Moss and Sindra keep their questions to a minimum as the party begins their journey to Zaska. Sindra recognizes the lines of grief that crease Vera’s and Antoni’s faces—but she sees the signs of tired, long-held resignation, too. She can tell Mortimer isn’t the first person they’ve lost over the course of their campaign to save their kingdom.

And they don’t expect him to be the last.

The land grows flatter as they descend into the valley, and the signs of decay grow worse. Entire fields stretch out brown and barren, stalks and vegetation long since shriveled and dead. For the first time since they arrived in Moros, Sindra’s stomach rumbles, and immediately she wonders, What do these people eat?

Finally, they approach the ramshackle gates of Zaska, where two soldiers stand a little straighter at their approach. After a flash of Antoni’s badge, the dwarf on the left simply grunts, “Captain,” and waves them inside.

The town itself is surprisingly bustling. They’d traveled so many hours without seeing a soul that Sindra is surprised to find them all gathered in one place. It’s necessary for them to live like this, she realizes. To be alone is to make yourself vulnerable. They need community to survive.

And…doors, it seems.

What surprises her even more, though, is that at least a third of Zaska’s population are tieflings.

Sindra has met only a handful of other tieflings. There are some in the druid enclave, but there weren’t many in the kingdom where she spent most of her childhood with her Aunt Bernadette, whose kind features were human and who didn’t share Sindra’s own devilish ancestry.

When Sindra had asked where her traits came from, Auntie said, “It’s devil magic, my love,” and Sindra had gasped in horror. But Bernie had comfortingly ruffled the hair between Sindra’s horns. Bernie had always taught Sindra that it doesn’t matter where your magic comes from—it matters only how you wield it. “And devil magic is a rare thing. Sometimes tieflings are born because their parents bargained with a devil, and their child carries some of the bargain’s influence. Or the magic may simply be in the land itself, changing the people who walk upon it.” Bernie had given her a teasing smile. “Or, in special cases, when a mortal loves a devil very much…”

But Sindra hadn’t been old enough for that conversation.

In fact, it wasn’t until she was a young woman that Bernie told her the truth: Sindra’s parents were unrepentant members of a dangerous devil cult, and they’d lost their lives in the worship of it.

So Sindra finds herself shocked to stillness upon entering Zaska, and she freezes just a few steps inside as she takes it all in. In the shadow of the town’s gate, two mounted guards patrol the street, the taller of them made even more so by the horns curving from his temples. A group of children runs ahead, two with their tails whipping behind them. Down the road, a tiefling blacksmith with sunset-orange skin and his hair in a knot sweats in front of a furnace as he hammers away at a chunk of metal. A throat clears politely behind Sindra, and she quickly steps to the side to allow a wagon carrying a tiefling family to pass, their petal-pink skin dusty from a long journey.

“How?” Sindra wonders aloud. Even Moss, standing at her shoulder, looks surprised.

“We’ll explain it all very soon,” Vera says tiredly. Antoni nods grimly. Sindra can’t determine whether they always planned to bring her and Moss into their circle of confidence, but with one fewer party member, they are running out of options. “We’ll stay in the chapel,” Vera says, even as Sindra’s brows knot in confusion. “From there, we’ll plan our next steps.”

Moss tilts her head to the side. “You live in a chapel?”

Vera’s lips press into a thin line. “Father used to have a house outside of town, but it was one of the first Vadrien targeted.”

Sindra winces.

They pass through the town square on their way to the chapel, and Sindra notes the raised wooden platform in the center. It’s falling apart, the wood near the middle sagging and unsupported.

“What’s that for?” Sindra asks Vera. “Traveling bards?”

She’s searching for a smile, but Vera only scowls and shakes her head. “Before Vadrien, things were…tense in Moros. Plots against the king, unrest in the streets. Criminals were tried and sentenced there, and the whole town would gather to witness. We don’t use it anymore. We lose enough people without killing them on our own.”

Sindra and Moss exchange a glance, and the druid lets out a heavy sigh.

They continue to wander the streets, and eventually, the cramped buildings spread out and thin, making room for the only patch of green that Sindra has seen since entering Moros. Upon the tiny field of impossibly lush grass sits a small gray chapel, its walls weathered but standing strong. Candlelight flickers through its lancet windows, silhouetting several moving figures inside. Above the dark wooden entry doors is a small but beautifully made stained-glass window, its circular design reminiscent of the stretching rays of the sun. Sindra recognizes the symbol immediately.

It’s a chapel to Garren—the god of the sun and of hope. Knights in Sindra’s order often worshipped the more martial deities of duty and strength, but a few had chosen to champion Garren, finding comfort in his teachings of faith, perseverance, and light. Sindra glances sidelong to Antoni and notices him toying with a plain sun-shaped amulet hung around his neck. She had marked him as a paladin—a holy warrior whose chosen god grants them divine powers—from the moment she saw celestial light flash upon his sword. But now, she’s fairly certain he’s made his oaths to Garren specifically. Perhaps for him, this quest is one of duty not only to his kingdom, but to his faith.

Sindra lingers behind Moss, and the druid gasps as she steps through the wrought-iron gate leading up to the chapel. Sindra’s eyes go wide. “What is it?”

“Something’s…different here,” Moss breathes. “Can’t you feel it?”

Sindra takes a hesitant step onto the grass—and the effect is immediate. Here, the air feels lighter and less oppressive. Even some of the wind’s chill is gone, and there’s a persistent warmth that reminds Sindra of the last days of summer. Tiny flowers dot the earth in shades of red and orange, and Sindra feels the ridiculous urge to simply curl up in a patch and fall asleep.

“This site is under Garren’s protection,” Antoni explains. Even some of the wrinkles near his eyes and the corners of his mouth don’t seem as deep here. “It’s the safest place in all of Moros.”

Vera stands at his side and raises two fingers to her mouth to let out a sharp whistle. Lord Gullet sweeps down from above to perch on the chapel’s roof. “Keep watch, my love,” Vera calls before she places her hand gently on Moss’s shoulder and steps past her. “It’s more than that, too,” she says as she drums out a specific rhythm on the door. After a heartbeat’s pause, the doors groan open, and Vera shares a small smile with the group. “It’s the seat of the resistance.”