The drizzle turned into a downpour. Ray watched the rain from underneath his pine tree, but even the pine’s branches were not much safety from the water. Soon he was wet enough that he didn’t really care if he was in shelter or not. He closed his eyes and rested his head back against the pine tree’s trunk, letting the cool rain splatter against his glasses and roll down his face.

Meanwhile the forest was only getting darker as the sun set and the clouds thickened. The wind picked up, rustling leaves and making the rain spray everywhere. It wasn’t necessarily a cold wind, but its near constant blowing sliced through Ray’s cloak and chilled the water on his skin. It came in lengthy, strong gusts and long, gentle pauses. Ray was prepared to sit there underneath the pine tree forever, maybe, or at least for the rest of the night. Let Michael and Gavin take care of themselves. Clearly they didn’t want his help.

The wind paused now. There was a rustling in the bushes much louder than that made by the rain, and Ray looked up just in time to see a gray wolf appear. It took but a few moments to identify it as the huge beast from earlier; it walked with a limp, and the shaft sticking out of its haunch had broken off. Its glittering yellow eyes stared at Ray as five more wolves emerged from the bushes. They seemed to be waiting for something.

“Sup,” Ray said, jerking his head in a nod but carefully keeping eye contact with the injured wolf. “The guy you want is long gone.” Ray had no idea what the wolves wanted—he didn’t even know if they’d be the type of creature to return for revenge—but he figured talking wouldn’t hurt.

The pack of wolves crept forward, their steps light and their heads low. A low growl rumbled out of their throats, the injured wolf at the lead, and they soon surrounded the passive Ray. He didn’t even care anymore. If they wanted to bite his throat out, well, he was sure he deserved it at some point in his life. He was already basically dead back in the real world anyway, so what difference would it make?

The injured gray wolf limped forward and jabbed his nose at Ray’s face. Ray leaned his head back, arching and exposing his neck as the wolf’s cold, wet nose gently nudged and sniffed his skin. The wolf’s breath was weirdly hot, making Ray’s skin prickle. He felt the pressure of the wolf’s teeth rest against his flesh, and he tensed up, preparing for the awful pain that was sure to follow.

But then the wolf pulled away. Ray released the breath he didn’t realize he had been holding and looked back at the beasts surrounding him. The injured wolf had pulled his face away from Ray’s and was now at Ray’s right hand. The cold, wet nose was back on Ray’s skin, sniffing and studying, shoving his nose underneath it. Ray lifted it, showing his palm to the wolf.

A flash of lightning lit up the clearing like a strobe light. The movement of Ray’s hand seemed to startle the wolf, and suddenly sharp, quick pain lanced through his palm. The wolf bounced back as Ray yelped, loud and short. He yanked his hand away, convinced the wolf bit him, and scooted away from the beasts. He leaned onto his left elbow, preparing to kick any other wolf that decided to attack, but the wolves were already bounding away. The injured one stopped at the edge of the clearing to stare back at him with its cold yellow eyes.

A dagger suddenly appeared in the tree next to the wolf with a dull, wet thunk, and the wolf slipped into the bushes in a blink of an eye. Ray had barely registered the dagger when the Rose Thief leaped out of a nearby tree into the clearing, landing gracefully in the mud. He was back in his Venator clothes, his long cape fluttering wildly as the storm’s wind gusted again. A scent of roses followed, but was quickly whisked away by the storm.

The Rose Thief did not immediately retrieve his dagger, but instead turned around and shouted over the wind and the rain. “What the fuck are you doing?” he shrieked.

Ray shrugged. “I dunno. Dying.” He studied his hand that he thought the wolf had bitten only to find it unwounded. He frowned and loosely folded his fingers into a fist.

The Rose Thief threw up his hands and marched across the clearing to tug his dagger out of the tree and back again so that he could yell closer to Ray’s face. “I should have known you would go meddle anyway! What did you think you could fucking do, huh?”

Ray didn’t have the energy to get angry. But his natural state was stubbornness, and he stuck by his previous decision. “You were planning Gavin’s murder. I had to do fucking something, and this was all I could really do. He may not be the Gavin I know, but he’s still Gavin, and I know as much as he might annoy me, I would never fucking wish death for him.” He fixed the Rose Thief with a dark, calm stare. “I think you’re going to regret this, and I wanted to try and stop it.”

The Rose Thief looked at Ray with drowning eyes. There was something there, some old pain, that transformed his entire face in subtle ways and pulled the corner of his lips down and his eyebrows together. It was the expression of pain that he knew the observer could not understand, and that he could not fully explain. Though the Rose Thief turned away suddenly to hide this expression, in that moment Ray had made his decision.

“And I’m still going to stop it,” Ray said. He pushed himself up off the ground and stood. The Rose Thief glanced over his shoulder back at him.

“You know not what you’re trying to stop—what the prince has done…” the Rose Thief said in a voice trembling with fury and angst and, perhaps, stubbornness and doubt?

“Kerry told me that the guy you hired will likely be better than Michael and Gavin can handle on their own,” Ray continued bluntly.

“Michael won’t have to handle anything,” said the Thief defiantly. “They’re there for the prince and only the prince.”

“Do you really think that?” Ray said quietly. “Even if Michael isn’t a target, who is to say that they don’t kill him in self-defense? And who is to say that Michael won’t do everything in his power to protect or avenge Gavin?”

Those had been the right words to say. Whatever doubts the Rose Thief had pushed away rose to the surface again. The flicker of regret in the Rose Thief’s eyes before he turned away again was enough proof for Ray.

“It’s too late to call it off,” the Rose Thief said. His whole body tensed as he straightened his back, adopting a resigned posture. He still seemed to want to stubbornly stick to his plan. Then again, it didn’t take much obstinacy to succumb to inaction. The wind died down again, letting the rain fall in sheets. “If they haven’t arrived at Achievement City by now, they will in the next couple of hours.”

“Well then. We’ve got some walking to do.”

~~~~

About twenty minutes after Ray left the clearing, the Rose Thief reluctantly trailing some paces behind him, the storm died down. A few drops still stubbornly fell from the sky, but by the time the pair reached the outer wall of Achievement City, they were mostly dry and the clouds had thinned out enough that the moon and the brightest stars were beginning to shine through. During the walk, Ray had sensed rather than saw several creatures flitting through the forest around him, but whatever the reason they did not make themselves known.

Ray had no idea what to do at this point. He knew enough to realize that just walking in was not going to work. When the Rose Thief caught back up to him, he took over with a sarcastic and patronizing expression. Now that the Rose Thief was actually at the city, he seemed a lot more willing to act against his original plan, but he still wasn’t happy. Ray figured he wouldn’t be happy whichever path he took.

Ray ditched his travelling cloak in the forest. He stuck as close as possible to the Rose Thief as they jogged around the tall city wall towards the castle. There were guards at the top, and more nearer to the castle, but by hugging the wall and staying in the dark shadows there, these were easy to bypass. By the time they were behind the castle, Ray was struggling to control his breathing so that he wasn’t gasping. Here, the Rose Thief turned to him.

“I’m not following you over the wall,” said the Rose Thief. He held up a finger to make sure Ray didn’t try to talk over him. “This is your mission, not mine. Besides that, my presence won’t help anything, but I’ll hang around so that if you need to escape, I’ll help you out. Just don’t count on me to save your life. Okay?” Ray nodded, his mouth set into a hard, grim line. “Good. Now. On the other side of this wall are the courtyard gardens, and if I measured it right, there should be a shed right there as well.

“It might be a little harder to avoid the guards in the gardens, at least until inside, but stay low and time it right and you’ll be okay. The gardens are overlooked by the windows of Prince Gavin’s and Michael’s rooms, though. They’re both on the second floor—their rooms are connected—and there should be a small servant door near their windows. It’s basically a straight shot from the front of the shed, so you should be able to see it immediately. Go in that door, climb the stairs, and find Michael’s room. You’ll have to deal with any guards on your own. You got it?”

Ray sighed, glancing up at the top of the wall which suddenly seemed very looming. “Yeah, I guess so.” His heart started beating painfully hard—he thought his whole body shook with its thumps. “Let’s do this.”

“Remember,” the Rose Thief added, raising his gloved right hand under which the large magical tattoo hid. “I can only make one air platform at a time. Just keep hopping up and trust me.”

Trust you, Ray thought scathingly. After you turned on Gavin? He didn’t have any other options, however, short of scaling the stone wall—a nearly impossible feat, as the stone was too smooth and the guards would see him as well. Besides, the Rose Thief seemed to feel at least a little guilty, and he certainly wouldn’t take it out on Ray.

They had to time it so that Ray wouldn’t be seen by a guard on top of the wall. He waited for the thief’s nod and took the first step. The glyph on the Rose Thief’s right hand glowed bright enough to show through the glove, and Ray’s foot came down on a sort of force field made out of pure air. After a few awkward steps, it was not too different from running up a flight of stairs.

As soon as he reached the top of the wall, he dropped over the other side. He saw a guard marching away from him out of the corner of his eye, but that didn’t matter to him. The wall was probably about twenty feet high or so. Ray hopped over the edge on the inside and landed on his feet, immediately rolling forward. His ankle twinged in pain, and he bumped his shoulders awkwardly, but it was short lived and soon faded. When he was upright again, he discovered he had nearly collided with the back wall of the large wooden garden shed. The Rose Thief had been right about that placement.

The shade was so dark here that Ray felt practically invisible. He took this moment to massage his ankle and gather his wits. He cautiously peeked around the edge of the shed. Sure enough, there was a beaten dirt path in front of him that joined one paved with cobblestones farther up ahead, which in turn led up to a small oak door. The dirt path was apparently part of a small grove of floral trees, the type that might also be considered large bushes with several slim trunks sprouting from a singular spot. The paved path was far more open and was lined with square hedges, and formed a T-shape from Ray’s point of view. Behind the hedges, Ray could see the edges of several latticed trellises on which rose vines flourished. Right. Straight shot.

Ray crept along the edge of the dirt path, weaving in and out of the trees and watching for raised roots and dry branches. When he reached the end of the grove and the paved path, he crouched in the shade of the trees and watched for any guards. From his position he could see two, marching in opposite directions along the paved path. Ray held his breath and felt his heart beat in his throat. He stayed as still as he could and let the guards pass, so that now both of them had their backs to him.

He almost chickened out at this point. What if he tripped? What if they suddenly turned? Saw him out of the corner of their eyes? What if he was spotted halfway down the path and couldn’t escape anywhere? He took a deep steadying breath. If they didn’t kill him immediately, he would surrender, and that would be that. Now was not the time to let his nervousness and fear prevent him from acting. He swallowed hard and, before he could change his mind, stepped out of the bushes and ran for the door. He crouched down low, so that when he finally reached the hedges, he was mostly hidden.

When he reached the door, he faintly heard a startling cry from a guard atop the wall. The guard was far away, but spotted the small figure and immediately knew it to be out of place. Ray yanked on the door, found it unlocked, and slipped inside before the guards travelling the path looked to where the wall guard was pointing. The inside of the door had an iron lock, and Ray threw it into place. He expected at least one of the guards outside to have a key, but it would give him a minute or two. He turned around.

The space he was in was small and lit only by torches. It was a servant’s passageway, so the hallway winding away from him and the staircase in front of him were narrow. He didn’t waste any time and climbed the steep staircase, taking it two or three steps at a time. When he reached the top, he heard the door beneath him shake vigorously in its hinges as the guards tried to follow him. His heart beat painfully hard in his throat, and he struggled to keep his gasps for breath quiet. He kept one hand on his rapier’s hilt as he opened the door on the second floor.

He peeked out at first. The long expanse of hall was surprisingly vacant. He had expected at least a couple guards to be stationed at some of the doors, but there was no one. Ray decided to not look a gift horse in the mouth and jogged down the corridor. He had no idea where Michael’s room was, but it was imperative that he found it soon. Michael may have rejected Ray in the forest clearing, but he was the only one capable of helping now.

One door rattled as he passed it, startling him. He put one hand on the oaken wood and one on the handle. The iron was cold under his hand, and he pushed it silently open. Immediately, a cool breeze washed across Ray’s face like a silk blanket. He slipped inside and shut the door again without making a sound. Across from the door, the two great windows were thrown open to the night wind, the steely gray curtains fluttering. The moonlight streamed in, putting pools of white light across the stone floor and the bear rug in front of the unlit fireplace. The sounds of guards drifted up through the window, but apparently did not disturb the sleeper.

Michael was sound asleep on a bed, tangled in grey sheets and a yellow quilt. He was clothed in an undyed linen shirt and loose brown pants for sleep. The bed’s entire frame was made of solid metal, but for the headboard and footboard, the shiny iron was gracefully crafted into curling shapes and delicate tendrils. The walls were mostly bare, save for an enormous portrait of the king off to the right of Ray, over the fireplace. A suit of armor stood on a stand on one side of Michael’s bed, and a small darkly stained bedside table was placed on the other. Near the windows was a similarly darkly stained desk and desk chair with an embroidered yellow cushion. A huge wardrobe sat next to the left of the door. Farther to the left of Ray, a second, smaller door was set into the wall, forming a small walkway between the perpendicular wall and the bed.

Ray stood a moment in front of the closed door through which he had entered to catch his breath. He rubbed his right hand with his left, took a deep breath, and hurried over to the foot of Michael’s bed. He gripped the footboard, the cool metal soothing against his suddenly hot palms. Then, he opened his mouth and fiercely whispered, “Michael.” When the sleeper stirred, Ray continued, “Michael, I need your help.”

Those words seemed to jolt Michael into action. He flailed upwards, and before he was even fully upright, one hand swiped down his bicep—the one where the triforce tattoo usually was, though Ray did not know what the new tattoo looked like. There was a flash of silver light, and then some of the designs on the footboard came to life. It was nearly instantaneous, the delicate designs flipping over to cuff Ray to the bed.

“H-hey!” Ray exclaimed. He tried to tug his hands back, but the metal was tight against his wrists, holding him securely to the bed. Michael seemed stunned for a few moments, frozen in his position as he stared, wide-eyed, at Ray. Ray soon gave up on getting free and looked helplessly at Michael.

“Okay, I’m sorry for startling you, but please, you have to help me. The assassins I told you about, they…”

“Shut up,” Michael said in a quiet voice. Ray trailed off awkwardly. Michael began to shift and get off the bed, his movements fluid and lithe. He kept his gaze locked on Ray. Ray shivered and tried once more in vain to get a hand free. “You shut the fuck up. Who gave you the right—who gave you the right to stand where he stood, to say what he said?”

Michael had moved behind Ray now, and Ray had to strain to catch any glimpse of him. Ray had evidently fucked up by coming here. In the clearing, Michael had seemed for the most part composed. But now, in the dead of night, the similarities between the past and present were too much. Ray would have to tread carefully.

“Michael, you have to fucking listen to me. The assassins I told you about are more than…”

“Those guards,” Michael interrupted again. “Are they for you?”

Ray’s ears pricked, and the guards outside suddenly seemed louder than they had been. The phrase sounded rehearsed, or repeated…

“They’re for me,” Ray confirmed in a whisper.

“Get on your knees.” When Ray didn’t respond, didn’t move, out of fear and confusion, Michael kicked the back of Ray’s knees. “I said, on your fucking knees.” His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the stone floor. It felt like his heartbeats were shaking his entire body with each thump, and he began to shake. He twisted his wrists around, his hands sweaty and cold.

“Michael,” Ray begged, his voice trembling, his breathing shallow. “Michael, please…”

“I told you to shut up!” Michael shouted. Ray could hear him pacing behind him. Then, a flicker of silver light, and the sliding metal sound of a sword being drawn. “You beg to me in his voice, but you aren’t him.” He placed something cold and sharp at the base of Ray’s neck and trailed it down his spine. Ray thought it must have been a sword, because the fabric on his back ripped and popped as threads were cut, and then his shirt was hanging loose. The glitter of metal confirmed this when Michael swiped it down Ray’s sleeves as well. Ray’s shirt and jacket fell off his shoulder in tatters, leaving his back bare.

Michael tossed the sword aside, and it clattered against the floor. Michael went silent for a few moments, his breathing labored. Ray could see the sword where it fell; it was made entirely of steel, a monocolored, unembellished sword without even leather on the grip. Moonlight glinted off its razor-sharp edge.

Michael started suddenly and strode over to his wardrobe. He flung the doors open and dug around, searching for something, all the while ranting. “How dare you show up, in my room, guards chasing after you. You come here, you come fucking here, and you rub all of my fucking mistakes in my face.”

Michael was raving. He was a fucking lunatic. Ray watched him pull out a long braided leather whip and thought his heart stopped. His wrists were red from his struggles, and when he tried to stand back up again, Michael snapped at him to “stay the fuck down.”

“I told you to leave,” Michael said dangerously. “But still you come back. I fucked up, I know I did, so why do you keep coming back and reminding me?”

There had to be something Ray could say, something he could do, to calm Michael down. He didn’t know what, but he was willing to try anything. He opened his mouth. “Michael…”

The pain was quick, sharp, and lancing. The crack of the whip sounded a millisecond before the hit landed. Ray jerked underneath the blow of the whip. He sucked in a breath and clamped down his jaw, refusing to cry out even though tears sprung to his eyes.

“I cannot stand the way you speak,” Michael hissed. “You say my name with all of the same intonation, but with half the meaning.” On the word half, he struck with the whip again. Ray shuddered, the pain shooting across his back like a knife, but for now was bearable. It was gone quickly. “I cannot stand the sight of your unmarked back, cannot stand the sight of you, cannot stand this mockery of my mistake.”

Each inflection was another hit, and on the sixth whip, Ray let out a shaking yelp, a single cry of “Michael!” How could this have gone so wrong?

The scent of roses drifted in through the window. Just as Michael raised his arm for a seventh blow, the wind gusted inside with the soft snapping sound of billowing cloth. Suddenly the Rose Thief was there, cape fluttering around him and Michael as he gripped the wrist holding the whip.

“Stop,” he said in a low, smooth voice. “He’s not the one you’re angry at.”

The whip fell to the floor with a dull, piling thump. With a laugh that was half quivering sob, Michael sank to the ground, taking the Rose Thief with him, the cape folding around them in the wind like a loose cocoon. The metal cuffs around Ray’s wrists curled back into their original places, finally releasing Ray. He pulled his hands away and rubbed the raw, red marks around his wrists, curling over them as his back smarted in pain as well. He could hear the Rose Thief murmuring to Michael as the captain complained through choked-back tears.

“You fucking bitch, I fucking hate you,” Michael wailed, though he held on to the Rose Thief as though afraid to let go.

“I know,” said the Rose Thief.

“Why did you have to go and fucking leave…?”

“You know why.”

Here Michael buried his face into the Rose Thief’s chest. “Why did it have to come to that, huh? Why did I—why did I…”

The door connecting Michael’s room to Gavin’s slammed open. Ray immediately hoisted himself up using the footboard to meet the prince’s furious eye. The prince, predictably, was in night clothes, but his shirt was pale green silk, and his loose pants were black. He took one look at Ray, took one look at Michael and the Rose Thief huddling on the floor, and let out a guttural shriek and a yell for “Guards!” A glint of metal alerted Ray to the dagger clenched in Gavin’s fist and the murderous intent in the prince’s green eyes.

Ray didn’t think, only moved. He sprinted around the bed and grasped the hand with the dagger as he collided with the prince. His free arm pushed against Gavin, trying to prevent him from getting to the other two men on the floor. “Gavin, Gavin, stop, stop,” Ray cried. Gavin struggled against him, but Ray held on, using all his might to stop the prince’s forward movement.

“Let go of me, you treacherous double!” the prince shouted.

Over Gavin’s shoulder, Ray saw a flash of movement in the shadows back in the prince’s room. Ray met the dark gaze of Shadles, saw the assassin’s arm move as he lunged forward, and reacted instinctively. He used Gavin’s momentum to his advantage, suddenly twisting them both around and shoving Gavin to the bed.

A fiery pain sliced deeply into Ray’s right shoulder as he spun, and he felt a knife slide in and out of his flesh and muscle. He flinched and hissed in pain. Gavin squawked indignantly, sputtering weird noises that Ray assumed were supposed to be protests. He didn’t really have time to think about that, however. An arm hooked around Ray’s throat and pulled him up off of Gavin. He had time to see Gavin’s expression change from fury and resent to horror and realization before he automatically went limp. Ray supposed it was his body impulsively giving up, but it seemed to work. Shadles couldn’t hold on to him and slit his throat at the same time, though the knife had been on its way there. Shadles was forced to drop him, or else awkwardly end up on the floor, too.

Ray’s shoulder was wet with hot blood, and every time he tried to use that arm, his muscles and nerve endings in his shoulder screamed in burning pain. He glanced up to see the Rose Thief and Michael still on the ground. Michael was in no state of mind to help. The Rose Thief met Ray’s eyes and didn’t react. To Ray, it seemed a challenge, but he didn’t dwell on it. Frankly, he didn’t have the time.

Gritting his teeth through the pain, Ray twisted around and kicked at Shadles’s knees. The assassin had turned his attention back to the prince, but now leaped away from Ray’s attack. Gavin scrambled further onto the bed to regain his wits, his hand a vice grip on his own dagger. Ray rolled to his feet and drew his sword, but Shadles was already coming at him. Ray thrust his left arm up as the square-jawed man brought his knife down, their forearms meeting and glancing the knife away from Ray. At the same time, Ray drove his rapier forward.

Later, he figured Shadles did not properly see it coming, and that the assassin’s forward momentum was too great to stop—and in such a small space, there was not much elsewhere to go. Indeed, where would he have gone? Into the wall to be stabbed later? Onto the bed where Gavin waited with a dagger? But the options did not change the outcome. The blackened blade plunged into Shadles’s gut, sliding easily out his back covered in slimy blood. With a stunned grunt, Shadles slumped forward, limp and heavy. Ray’s right hand turned unbearably ice cold, so he let go of his sword and stumbled back, letting the assassin fall. Shadles was not quite dead yet, but the light was quickly fading from his dark, glittering eyes. A bit of blood dribbled out of his mouth and down into his twisted goatee.

With his last vestiges of strength, Shadles flung his arm forward and grabbed Ray’s ankle. Ray, still stepping backwards, lost his balance and dropped. He landed on his elbows, and he nearly blacked out from the hot pain in his wounded shoulder and icy pain in his right hand. His vision edged with red. Ray kicked wildly and began to scream, hoarsely and as loud as he could. Dimly he was aware of Gavin hopping off the bed and pulling Shadles back, but not before Ray’s foot connected with the assassin’s face.

Ray felt hands slide under his uninjured left arm and around his chest. The flutter of a cape told him it was the Rose Thief, finally choosing to help out. Ray couldn’t seem to stop screaming. He thought his hand was going to fall off, thought it was going to turn to ice and shatter into pieces. He refused to get up, despite the Rose Thief’s best efforts, curling into a ball around his hand.

“Stop being a baby!” the Rose Thief hissed. “It’s just a knife wound, it can be healed easily by a Mage!”

Ray did his best to catch his breath, but it only meant that his screams turned into loud gasping sobs. He could only shake his head and hope for oblivion. Gavin stood up and kicked the body of the assassin aside, declaring him dead. He remained back by the connecting door, though, the body between him and Ray.

At this time, the guards finally decided to show up. They burst through the door, all shouting and clanking metal. “What’s going on here!” yelled one. “Where is the intruder?”

And that was when the Enderman showed up. With a sucking, warping sound, it appeared at the foot of the bed. The shouts of the guards cut off like they were being strangled. The temperature of the room seemed to drop. The Rose Thief backpedaled to press himself against the wall, and Michael, nearest to it and still on the ground, shuffled quickly backwards before freezing in place, his eyes wide and locked onto the Enderman. Ray weakly craned his neck to look at it only to see it striding straight for him.

“No,” Ray moaned. He couldn’t find the strength to move, to get away from the dark skeletal beast. “No, no, no, no!” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gavin raise his dagger and charge towards the Enderman. But just then, the Enderman reached down, curled its long fingers around Ray’s right arm, and teleported.

As soon as the Enderman touched his skin, the cold poison-like feeling spread from the contact. It chilled Ray’s body to the core and sapped him of any will to move. Then his ears were filled with the sucking sound, and pressure pushed down on him from all sides. His vision faded to black. Everything popped back a second later, and the Enderman was dragging him along grass. His shoulder was numb, possibly going into shock, and his vision was edged with black now. He felt close to unconsciousness. The open window of Michael’s room was clear in his vision, and he screamed as loud as he could.

“Help me! Help me!”

The Enderman twisted around and slid its other long, black hand over Ray’s mouth, muffling his cries for help. In order to keep this grip on Ray, however, it let go of Ray’s arm and instead wrapped its narrow arm around Ray’s chest. Wherever the Enderman touched turned icy cold. Ray’s movements were sluggish, and he didn’t know how much longer he could struggle, how much longer he could stay awake. He saw Gavin appear at the window, point, and shout, “There!”

Ray was once more surrounded by the warping noise and the pressure, and he and the Enderman reappeared farther down the courtyard gardens, farther away from the window. But the prince leaned out and continued pointing, though now Ray couldn’t hear him.

Something made creaking and dry cracking noises at Ray’s feet. The soft dirt parted underneath them, and then thick tree roots surged from the earth and wrapped around his and the Enderman’s legs. The Enderman opened his mouth like a skull’s jaws falling open and let out a horrible screech not unlike a record player transmitting white noise. It yanked its legs free as the tree roots around it turned gray and died, the roots shattering into woodchips. But more sprouted and grabbed at the Enderman, and the ones around Ray kept their hold despite the beast’s best efforts to pull him free.

The roots climbed further up Ray’s legs like snakes, some of them reaching for his arms. It slowed the Enderman down for long enough that he saw Gavin rush out of the servant’s door into the garden with his quiver slung quickly over his shoulder, an arrow already nocked on his bow. He had to have been a hundred yards away at least, but still he raised his bow and prepared to fire. But another figure followed Gavin out the door. His vision fading, his breath haggard, he identified it as Ryan Haywood, illuminated by a glowing staff apparently made out of different entwining woods.

Gavin shot off two arrows in rapid succession. The arrows shone with a golden aura, and each one found their mark in the Enderman’s eyes. The Enderman screeched again and fell backwards, letting go of Ray. Ray slumped back as well, but he was caught by the creaking tree roots. He could feel them writhing underneath his back as they formed into a suitable net. He fought to hang onto his consciousness, but he was fading, fading. He blinked, and Gavin was hovering over him. He blinked again and Ryan and a guard or two were there. He blinked once more and a full crowd had gathered, but now Ryan was gripping his hand.

“We’ve got you,” Ryan said with a soft smile. “You’re safe now.”

Ray managed the tiniest of nods and twitched his hand in an attempt to squeeze Ryan’s. Then he promptly and properly passed the fuck out.