“Are you okay in there?” Rowan asked, standing outside of a cell. He knew Morrigan had already set a deadline and didn’t want their new partnership to start off on the wrong foot, so he was doing his best to keep an eye on the time.

  “Almost done.” Achaia called back. “Why do I have to change again?”

  He considered how best to explain it to Achaia. She hadn’t experienced anything beyond the labyrinth; maybe this was all unnecessary to her? But Rowan knew the importance of giving this kid some normalcy, and that started with garb beyond the scraps Mogrim provided.

  “It’s normal to change your clothes pretty regularly, is all.”

  Rowan looked himself up and down, happy to be back in his Scholar’s livery once again. He pulled lightly at his tunic, ensuring it was cinched properly at the cowl neck. Recovering his cloak and tunic would have been serendipitous enough, but even his pants and boots were recouped. Mogrim had placed the value of Rowan’s attire so high, no one would be able to acquire it. Perhaps this was done purposefully, so Rowan could regain his equipment—that sounded like the sort of backward generosity Mogrim would provide. The offscape stole the terms from his mind, but he knew his uniform was crafted from special materials—they’d be an asset in the offscape. Though the black clothing always felt so drab to him, it made his vermillion cloak stand out all the more so. He smiled to himself, caressing the outer layer of the cloak and lightly kicking the cavern wall with his boots. Another minute passed and Achaia stepped out from the cell.

  The labyrinth was all Achaia had ever known and the scraps of cloth she wore were much the same. Though she had her fair share of tickets, she never used them for anything beyond food: there never seemed to be a need for anything beyond sustenance. So picking out clothes and trying them on was a first for her.

  “Is this right?” She asked curiously.

  “Oh, hold on, do a quick spin.”

  Achaia slowly spun around, arms out as her white poncho caught the air and flared outward. Beneath her capote was a gray tunic not unlike Rowan’s, though it clearly wasn’t of Scholar origin. Nonetheless, it ought to have been capable of keeping her warm and protected from the elements—or lack thereof—the offscape would throw at them. Below the tunic, a simple pair of brown shorts and turnshoes concluded her garb. Her cheeks were flushed, reminding Rowan he was overdue regarding feedback on her accoutrement.

  “Oh, sorry." He said. "You look great, Fig. Let’s go find Morrigan: it’s about time to go.”

  Rowan gestured for Achaia to follow him; the duo headed in the direction of distant animal-like sounds to find a bunch of stalls knocked over. The food stalls in particular were upturned and their contents scattered along the ground. Sitting atop one of the tipped over stalls was Morrigan, her face full of foodstuffs.

  “You are careless with your time,” she grumbled as she chomped into some dried meat. “Are you prepared to leave?”

  Rowan quickly covered Achaia’s eyes and his own. “Law, Morrigan, you—”

  “Are you prepared to leave?”

  “Morrigan, you’re—”

  “Ridinr?,” she snarled, the food standing no chance against her powerful incisors. “What of it?”

  “Morrigan, you can’t walk around like that.” Rowan said, his embarrassment creeping up his face.

  “Like what?” Achaia asked, attempting to look up at Rowan, to which Rowan moved his hand to keep her eyes covered.

  “Nothing, nothing. Hold on, Fig.” Rowan said, turning his covered face back to Morrigan. “Listen, you can’t just walk around…like that. For Law’s sake, what about armor?”

  “There is no stronger armor than my own flesh.”

  “Okay, okay, fine." Rowan squeaked. "Maybe just for modesty’s sake?”

  Morrigan tossed an empty food container. “Tsk.”

  “Maybe just a simple tunic and trousers?”

  “Accessing my forge and flesh is of the highest priority.” Morrigan said, stuffing her face like a beast.

  She’d already eaten eight meals by the looks of it.

  “Mayhap we can come to a compromise?”

  Morrigan exhaled and kicked another empty container as she slid off the side of the food stall. “You have five minutes.”

  Rowan raced off to the stalls of armaments in search of something that would work. He found a loose tunic; if Morrigan wore the tunic and kept it unfastened, she could easily pull it up or get underneath it and—

  “No.”

  Rowan sighed and tossed it, looking for other articles of clothing that would suffice; he found a pair of leggings next. They were a thin material and she could rip right through them to access whatever she needed to, theoretically. Certainly, they wouldn’t hold up for too long, but surely it was better than—

  “No. Three minutes.”

  Rowan grabbed a handful of garments and jogged back over to Morrigan, dropping them at her feet—this seemed like the simpler option versus sifting in front of the stall.

  “That is far too much to wear.”

  “I know, I know.” Rowan stammered, a smile breaking on his face from the makeshift game. “Can you make a sharp shearing tool?”

  Morrigan cocked her head in confusion. Rowan sat down and pulled his bag back out, doodling a tailor’s shears. He was pretty sure five minutes had come and gone, but Morrigan didn’t say anything, so neither did he.

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  “You simply need a saw-like instrument, yes?” Morrigan said, looking at Rowan’s poorly drawn rendition of shears.

  “Yeah, but you want to make it sharp enough to cut without leaving any frayed ends.”

  “Hush.” Morrigan broke a finger bone free of her hand. With vi lacing her fingertips once again, she shaped the bone into a knife with a razor-sharp edge. Morrigan tested it against her skin, a trickle of blood running down her finger. “Bunir?.”

  She smiled, her sharp teeth on display for Rowan as she admired her work like an artisan would their maintained tools. Rowan had never really noticed her teeth before—were they naturally so sharp or did she alter them like she did so many other facets of herself? Was Morrigan Queen some sort of vi-exuding powerhouse, a human-adjacent superior creature, or perhaps the two notions weren’t mutually exclusive? He noticed her catching his stare and looked back to the trousers he held.

  “Can you cut along here?” Rowan asked, making a horizontal segment along the trousers.

  “Tsk, the length would still be cumbersome.” Morrigan said, watching Rowan straighten the pants out against the ground.

  “No, I noticed when you take a bone from your body, you tend to do it from the joints where bones meet and you tend to take the straight bones: I assume this is because you have an affinity for blades.” Rowan looked to Morrigan, seeing her raise an eyebrow at his words.

  Was he being weird? He cleared his throat and tried to get to his point.

  “So if we cut it right here, the only covered bones you’d likely procure are your femurs, but you can still access them right from the hinge joints at your knees. See?”

  Morrigan snorted at Rowan’s assertion. Or maybe it was a scoff? He couldn’t really tell, but she didn’t argue with him. In fact, she effortlessly cut the trousers at his recommendation.

  “This is wasted effort.” Morrigan said, slipping the shorts on.

  “I know you feel that way,” Rowan said, his eyes doing everything they could to avoid her nudity. “So I appreciate you humoring me, anyway.”

  “Tsk.”

  “Can I open my eyes yet?” Achaia asked.

  “Not yet, sorry, Fig. Almost done, though.”

  “‘Kay.” Achaia responded flatly.

  Rowan grabbed a tunic, his inspiration flowing as he traced more segments along it for Morrigan’s perusal.

  “And if we cut this part out of the tunic, your chest is covered, but you still have easy access to your ribs.”

  “Uncomfortable. N?n.”

  “Okay, no problem. We can just…”

  “It is time to leave.”

  “But you’re still—”

  Rowan’s mouth was left agape amidst his sentence as Morrigan stood up, ripped nearby vi out of the air and punched a hole through space. Her hand vanished into the hole before returning with a weathered cloak. The cloak was not unlike his own, though it was a darker shade of red and much shorter. She tossed it on, the end of the cloak above her navel—cloak didn’t seem like the proper term as it lacked the sleeves and length Rowan was accustomed to with such attire.

  “This will suffice, correct?” She said, standing before him. The hood of the cloak laid flat against her upper back and the cloak itself covered her shoulders, tied at a singular point of her sternum, leaving her chest covered. Aside from its obvious alterations and aged appearance, it was not only a cloak, but a Scholar’s cloak.

  “You’re really Morrigan Queen. The Morrigan Queen.” Rowan said, finally letting the awe of the situation crash upon him.

  Morrigan rolled her eyes. “Ridinr?, let us be off.”

  “Come on, Fig.” Rowan smiled, waving Achaia over. As she scampered over to him, Morrigan put her hand out between them.

  “The child stays.”

  “What?” Rowan said, his face puzzled.

  “I shall not repeat myself.”

  Rowan looked at Morrigan’s face: she exuded resilience. He looked back at Achaia: she was already on the verge of tears.

  “I can’t leave her here.”

  “Ridinr?, you waste more of our time.”

  “The pact, you said I get a demand, right?”

  “Tsk,” Morrigan grimaced, her nostrils flaring. “I said for every three demands I make, you may make one.”

  “Then call this my one. Surely you’ve made three demands of me by now, right?”

  Morrigan growled, her fists balled up. “You mock my manner of speaking; a demand is different from a directive or order. You demanded clothing of me.”

  Rowan hesitated: she was right. It’s just as easy for her to throw the situation back in his face. She was animalistic at times, sure, but she wasn’t unwilling to collaborate—she was wearing evidence of such a fact, after all.

  “Let’s make a rule and say you have to specify when you’re demanding something, starting now. And I’m sorry if you felt like I was taking advantage of you: that wasn’t my intent.”

  Morrigan considered his words, took a deep breath, and released it with her fists. “Then say it again.”

  He knew what she wanted, but the idea of talking to someone else—let alone Morrigan Queen—so authoritatively left him a bit embarrassed. Still, Achaia was worth more than a flushed face.

  “Morrigan, can Achaia come with us?”

  “Tsk. Again.”

  He furrowed his brow and realized his mistake. “Morrigan, can Achaia come with us as a demand?”

  “Denied. Again.”

  “I demand Achaia come with us, Morrigan.”

  “You demand it?”

  “I do.”

  Morrigan smirked. “Very well. But you will be without a demand until I make three.”

  “I understand.” Rowan said.

  “But before we step a foot forward”—Morrigan pointed a finger in Achaia’s direction—“your pet: her hair is too long.”

  “What?” Achaia asked, embracing her locks protectively.

  “Surely that’s unnecessary, right?” Rowan said, noticing Achaia’s reaction to Morrigan’s words.

  “Long hair makes for an easy target. Her hair caresses the ground.”

  Rowan considered her words. The most experienced combatant present was unquestionably Morrigan Queen: who’d know the dangers of such a journey better than her?

  “Your hair’s long too.” Achaia whimpered, pointing a shaky finger back at Morrigan.

  “And I dare a single soul to try and pull on it.” Morrigan snarled, her nose twitching in annoyance. The conversation was breaking down fast and Rowan couldn’t necessarily see a feasible argument against Morrigan’s claims.

  “I don’t want to.” Achaia whispered, tugging on Rowan’s sleeve.

  “Tsk,” Morrigan roughly grabbed Achaia’s hand, separating her from Rowan. “I have been nothing but merciful and that time has passed.”

  “Morrigan wait—”

  “This is a demand: do not interfere.”

  Rowan felt the symbol on his palm burn with fury, holding him back from further interjection. Was this a factor of the Pact of Providence? He didn’t sense any reaction on Morrigan’s end when he made his demand. Perhaps it was because she didn’t push back on it after the phrase left his lips. Morrigan Queen was a series of layered mysteries and another was added to her visage.

  “Stop.” Achaia cried out as Morrigan pulled her by her hair.

  She forced the child to arch backward, controlling her head by her hair like a puppet master would manipulate a puppet’s strings. Achaia screamed and sobbed, but Morrigan paid no mind to her pleas. Rowan tried to yell for Morrigan to stop, he tried to talk her down again, he tried to do anything other than stand there, but his flesh cooked at every thought of dissension. The matter was settled within seconds: Morrigan gripped the same shearing tool she used to alter the garments and swiped it across Achaia’s neckline, leaving the majority of Achaia’s white hair lifelessly on the ground. Morrigan’s demand had concluded, but Achaia’s tears had not. She fell to her knees, clutching at the locks on the ground, sobbing and calling for Rowan. Yet he still couldn’t move a muscle.