The pile of yarn gave Alan the shivers. Moments ago it was an exact replica of himself—like looking in a mirror—and it told him he’d become the very thing he feared.

  A part of him believed that had already happened. His compassion was rapidly becoming a thing of the past. Fear of loss and failure strapped around him like his void armor, forcing him into action he never thought he’d have to take. What did Nalathgir foresee before he unraveled?

  What can’t I see?

  Afarus stepped to Alan’s side, sword sheathed. “It was a wise move to call me. The goddess of patterns has to appreciate our succinct strikes.”

  “Still looks like an angry goblin to me.” Alan nodded her way. The fierce snarl and metal fangs gnashed as she commanded her gloves to gather her yarn and return it to her. “This was a colossal waste of time.”

  “Nonsense. You are a realm wiser. And now when Jaeger comes to march on these lands, they will know someone formidable stands against him.”

  Alan didn’t want to hear about the silver lining. He needed allies. The Red Pact could come hunting for their lost General Foretta at any moment.

  “You have made a fine mess of my creation.” Orevella held up the tangled yarn between her fingers. “Be gone!”

  WAR-TIME OFFER REJECTED.

  Reverence with Hutten Fie depleted to 0/100.

  Alan shook his head. “Ten thousand witnesses know I did everything you asked and bested your copy in true methodical form. All you will do by sending me away is create more fear in your citizens’ hearts.”

  She bared her fangs. “On the contrary, Alan Right, you begged my attention to show me a failingly rehearsed routine. You have disrupted a goddess and her mood for months to come. The destruction you caused to our budding realm is catastrophic.”

  “Gods and their extremes,” Alan rebuked. “That’s why the men and women hanging clothes and trimming grass have to intensely ritualize all of their duties. They fear you, Orevella. Because you turn on a dime, they worry you’ll smite them for one wrong move.”

  Alan noticed in his periphery Kablo bowing his head. “Your precious watcher knows I’m right but would never admit it. Your soldiers—whichever of them are real—would vouch too if they weren’t afraid. If I had to guess, the nameless one who sent me here would frown on what you’ve become. He spoke of Hutten Fie as fierce and honorable. A power to contend with. Not a rigid prison.”

  “Bah!” Orevella’s fangs reduced back to teeth, but her eyes remained angry. “A mortal could never understand a god’s responsibilities, or the shifts required to contain oneself. You speak as if I possess a mortal mind like yours. Foolish. Short-sighted.”

  Alan shifted his jaw. He never thought of that. Did being a god actually shift thinking patterns? He always figured it was just the rush of power that got to all these realm owners’ heads. Alan was all the more thankful that he’d rejected the offer in Token. To become a god was poison.

  “Dear Kablo, escort these intruders out of Hutten Fie and brand them never to return.” Orevella waved her hand for the gloves to take her away.

  “The nameless one holds great sorrow for what you’ve become,” Alan called to her back.

  Gizmo and Gilfa stopped rolling her.

  “Surely you know it must be true,” Alan said.

  The clinking armor of ten thousand soldiers might’ve meant he was pushing too far, but this was his last-ditch effort to speak reasonably with her.

  “Who is this nameless one you continue to parade into conversation? Hm? My soldiers are near and dear to me, every last one. After all, what is a pattern without the first thread?” Orevella snapped her fingers. “Fine then. Come with me. Kablo, escort them.” She flung his staff back into its original size and placed it in the watcher’s hands. “Now, watcher. Chop. Chop. I have many formations to construct. And now thanks to this… Merchant, I have to do so in a mood.”

  “O—of course, madam.” Kablo bowed and begged Alan’s crew to form a line behind him.

  Alan’s coin pouch was jumping at his side. He imagined Figro angry and beside himself, even though such an image was hard to picture from such a solemn creature.

  As they marched toward the outdoor museum of statues Alan first noticed when they ported to this location, he decided to try and pluck the history of this madness. He focused on Orevella’s yarn first, only to receive the blinding light of unknowable history. This was a common occurrence whenever peeping into a deity’s past. He tried her knitting sticks next. More of the same. Then he moved onto the gloves rolling her.

  Here we go.

  His vision faded into a trance—of a little girl being struck with a stick for playing a wrong note on the piano. This was very clearly Earth. The image made Alan wince with every slap. He begged the vision to fast forward… to the little girl practicing in the night, twitching every time she messed up. She’d yelp with no one around her, playing with tears dripping down her face. The same gloves that rolled the old lady around wrapped around her little hands. They were hiding wounds, Alan realized.

  Whether her hands were stuck into a furnace or whacked to the point of scars, he couldn’t know, but the pain in the little girl’s heart was palpable. The trance fast-forwarded into teenage years. Her expression was nearly straight now—almost militaristic—as she played from memory at recitals. Then in adulthood, she filled entire theaters with the spotlight on her. There was an anger in her expression. Fierce, passionate anger.

  Everything clicked the second Alan came back to reality. The little girl was Orevella, and she revered methodical perfection because she found success from the abuse of her caretakers. That was her demon. Alan had to play it cool with his newfound knowledge. Further fighting her would do nothing.

  She seemed to respond to not only patterns but to the dismay of her disciples. She’d said it herself—her soldiers were near and dear to her. Figro was no exception. Bringing him up irked her to no end. And if he was thinking right, he believed he was being escorted to the statues to prove that such a dishonorable nameless figure was not among them and therefore deserved not an ounce of Orevella’s time.

  The ground transposed from sand to interlocking marble squares as they stepped foot into the glorious outdoor museum. Golden sculptures of soldiers hurling spears mid-throw overwhelmed the first section. A unity group with perfect form—no doubt.

  Down the way, a woman hoisted a shield to the sky, expression determined. Three Wizard statues flanked her in perfect casting formation, all protecting a forger with his anvil. Was it symbolic? Or an actual mission? Alan didn’t think too deeply about it, but failing to revel in its beauty was impossible.

  “We can pace for hours, Alan Right, and I surmise we will never find this nameless one you speak of. Because the nameless are pitiful creatures who abandoned their duty to the realm. This here, Anasha Bovlesh, became the unity group leader who treaded the Crimson ocean and brought great wealth to Hutton Fie. She was brilliant enough to realize some of a forgers smelting needs require expiring ingredients best harvested on the spot. I’m sure a warrior of your stature understands the dangers of the crimson fog and that it has no room for tourists. Bold and amicable, she returned to make us better.” Orevella continued down one of the rows, explaining in articulate detail each of the statues by off-the-cuff memory, like she was close with all of them. There was a deep sense of care, even though she was presenting merely to make a point.

  A perfectionist created through abuse, repeating the cycle on a universal scale. She thought her practices noble and worthy. Of course… look at her forces, even if many are imitations, they’re strong.

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  Kablo directed the group, explaining that the statues were in order of fog accomplishments, which gave Alan an idea. “Take us that way, please, to the blue fog explorers. They look interesting.”

  It was a shot in the dark, and Figro’s story about disobeying orders and breaking formation to save lives may not have been revered in terms of realm rules, but the people who lived because of him… surely they saw it differently—assuming they weren’t all knitted into existence.

  “How did you become like this, Orevella?” Alan asked as they perused.

  She closed her red eyes, blinking almost back to her pleasant self for a fraction of a second. “There is no other way to thrive, Alan Right. A mortal can never understand the truth of it.”

  That’s when it happened—Alan’s chest weakened when he saw him. A bald, burly man with a solemn expression, held his shield over his back like he was lugging the weight of the world. It was the same man Alan had released from his Soul Collector on his first day in Token. It was him. Figro. The nameless man who took a new form in the giant golem.

  His pouch quaked beside him as he touched the soldier. “You were wrong, friend,” he whispered. “So very wrong.”

  The group stopped once noticing Alan stuck on the statue.

  “You are breaking the pattern once again, Alan Right. I do not like this defiance,” Orevella seethed.

  “Tell me about this one, and I will be out of your hair forever,” Alan said.

  “Brondof the Brave,” Orevella sighed. “Second command in leading dangerous raids into underwater caves not even thought to have existed if not for their grand exploration. And in true heroic fashion, Brondof called for the great rotation during a hopeless situation, knowing his shield was the only defense enough to withstand a great and powerful minion. He perished in battle using perfect harmony.”

  “A lie,” Alan said.

  “You dare tamper with Hutten Fie’s history? A lie?” Orevella clenched her blanket.

  “A white lie, yes. A necessary one… because the realm knows at its core that its goddess is broken.”

  Orevella lifted her chin. “I thought I wouldn’t have to tell such a sly Merchant, but with the snap of my fingers, I can have you pulled apart in a very organized fashion. Though I’m not sure you’d unravel as cleanly as Nalathgir.”

  “Is that what Mother told you when you got the stick for failing to play the right melody, Orevella?” Alan said, holding firm. “Is that why you punish so violently? Because you, in fact, were punished?”

  The gloves holding her wheelchair trembled.

  “I see you, Orevella. So very clearly.” Alan narrowed his eyes.

  “A Merchant’s trick.” Kablo pointed his staff at Alan. “Say the word, my lady, and I will teleport him into the swirling pits of Hashov’ier.”

  Alan pushed the staff out of his face, focusing only on the conflicted old lady. “It was long ago. Your teacher fibbed on your behalf about playing a perfect recital, even though you missed two tiny notes no one would’ve ever caught. The audience cheered, yet you were sick to your stomach, refusing to bow out of shame. Your teacher must’ve known what your caretakers did to you. What they would do if they knew. Tell me, Orevella, do you recall that white lie that saved your already misshapen hands?”

  This play of his was risky. But this was the most diligent and powerful army he’d ever seen. In any reading of Earth history and any trance he’d ever fallen into—Hutten Fie was a realm that could contend with Jaeger.

  Orevella turned sharply away, saying nothing. So Alan went on.

  “Brondof the Brave did indeed die heroically, but it was outside the orders of your precious pattern. Your warriors knew this and still believed his sacrifice worthy of statue, even if you—knowing the truth—would not.” Alan reached into his coin pouch and held up Figro’s trembling coin right up to his own statue. “Figro, my friend. You are not forgotten. You are not dishonored. Stop trembling now as a sign if you don’t wish to see.”

  Kablo held up his staff, perceiving Alan’s raised voice as a threat.

  Alan swung his arm around, presenting the shaking coin. “Do you shy away from the cycle of your methods, Orevella, goddess of patterns? Or do you wish to see the duality of power and shame you provide?”

  The angry gloves unraveled string from their insides, readying to strangle Alan like some invisible hitman. Kablo began conjuring a spell, all while Orevella remained silent.

  “Do you cower amidst your valiant army watching? Or will you face the one who abandoned his name in fear of you? I hold Brondof the Brave, a lost soul repurposed into Figro. My friend.”

  The gloves encroached quickly with the string—Kablo’s spell pointed right at Alan. Fate Chasers tensed into defensive stances.

  “Or will you just bury the truth under your anger?” Alan faced death, and not for the first time. He’d take out as many as he could before he went, but he couldn’t contend with the power of a goddess in her own realm.

  It was a form of surrender.

  The gloves abandoned their hesitation and rushed to strangle him—string stretching wide as they moved to tighten around Alan’s neck. Kablo’s spell was about to dislodge from his staff.

  “Stop!” The goddess’s anger retreated fully into the pleasantness of the old lady she originally entered as. “Stop,” her voice soothed everyone and everything back into a state of relaxation.

  Alan kept his guard up, refusing to back down, holding the coin high so the god couldn’t shy away without killing him.

  “You say you have the soul of a hero. Show me.” Orevella nodded.

  Alan averted his gaze to the coin. “Figro, hear me. I’ll say it a different way this time. If you do not wish to return, continue fighting and I will put you back, as promised.”

  The coin stilled in his grasp, confirming the truth—Figro wanted to be let free.

  “Stand back, everyone.” Alan stepped out from the row of statues off to the side and flipped the coin with a powerful flash of red lightning. Giant boulders quaked the ground as Figro formed on one knee, holding a pose similar to his statue. With magnificent shield hauled over one shoulder, the stone golem stood to face the replica of his old self. His breathing was solemn as he bowed.

  “My comrades thought me noble for my dishonorable act…” Figro’s deep voice was a whisper. “I could never have imagined, and never would have known, if not for you, great Alan.”

  “Once I saw the citizens of this pristine realm carrying out small tasks with immense fear, I had a feeling there was more too them. They weren’t all rigid puppets for Orevella to toy with. They have hearts, like you have heart, Figro. That being said, if you want to renew your name in the eyes of your god—”

  “No. This is closure enough for Brondof the Brave. I am a new soldier now, Alan. I fight for you.” Figro turned to face the god, standing tall behind Alan.

  “Dare you show your face after such a heinous admission? Her Majesty Orevella can crack you in half with one flick of her finger,” Kablo said nastily.

  “Then I will die my third death defending what is good.” Figro pounded his shield.

  The gloves wrapped their string around their palms once more, ready to fight. Kablo brightened his staff to do the same, all waiting on the goddess’s go-ahead.

  “It doesn’t have to come to that.” Alan held up his hands, focusing only on Orevella. “My mentor is right, there are lessons to be gained out of all this, if we’re open enough to receive them. We can learn from one another before the universe falls to the Red Pact.”

  Orevella chewed on her cheek, holding back her words for some reason.

  “You’ve taught me something invaluable here—gods wrestle with changes we mortals simply cannot understand. I get that now, and only hope you can remember what it was like to be one of us.”

  Orevella pursed her lips, her expression still kind.

  “You’ve built something tremendous here, there is no doubt. But now it’s time to loosen the hold so your people can breathe. Remember what your caretaker has done to you.”

  “My dear Alan.” She smiled with quavering lips, shrugging hopelessly. “Within a universe in peril, what would you have me do? This is the only path for survival.”

  “Hold your esteem for the military but do not punish so harshly. As for your citizens, let them live freely. Give the soldiers something to fight for.” Alan clenched his fist.

  “This is how you govern?” she asked, seemingly genuine.

  “It is.” Elkire stepped forward, stamping his staff down in proclamation. “Everyone who enters Token… calls it home.”

  “Aye!” another chaser said.

  “It’s true, ladies and gents.” Tenger snapped his whip, earning a scowl from Kablo. “Alan’s a fierce warrior, growing a powerful army, and people love going home. Eat your heart out, granny.”

  “Hmm. Mmm. I see. Maybe a part of me needs to temper the reputation of Hutten Fie, just a little.” She peered up at Figro. “You dishonored yourself to save your squadron, warrior?”

  Figro nodded without saying a word.

  “How many other statues stand here in defiance of my rules, I wonder? Such a sad, sad fate I have constructed.” Orevella shook her head.

  “You pathetic mountain of rock.” Kablo bared his teeth. “Coward. You do realize by affirming your crime, you have just sentenced your entire squad to death.” Kablo pointed his staff up at him. “Falsely erecting a statue, failure to report broken patterns, all of them will suff—”

  Wshoo!

  Orevella tossed a snip of yarn that wrapped around Kablo’s mouth. “We must loosen the strings around here a bit if we are to ever make Hutten Fie a better place to live. I have indeed grown too rigid over time, and only exacerbated my expectations since war has been declared, I’m afraid. Can I count on you to aid me in this quest, dear Kablo?” She unraveled the string and commanded it back into her lap.

  Loosen the strings, Alan thought, considering for sure he’d been too hard on Trish, despite their past. If a rigid old goddess can change her ways… then I’d surely be the fool if I can’t change mine.

  “You have humbled me this day, Figro.” Orevella shed a tear. “I will honor your new name and your old. What would you ask of an old god?”

  “Majesty.” Figro bowed. “We have prepared for this day, the lot of us.” He opened his free arm to showcase the Fate Chasers. “Because we have grave news. I only ask that you hear Alan out, and hopefully at the end of it, you can call him a friend.”