“Please welcome this year’s heroes!”

No applause met the dungeon divers. Instead, Faranderan villagers bowed their heads in a single tide. They were sitting at tables under the stars, out in the plaza, and watching with mild smiles as the adventurers left their seats and lined up.

This was the night before the deadly journey. On Darshanna, some dungeoneers spent their night-before drowned in drink and good cheer. Others were serving in villages that made it a big gala—like this, but with an actual party, curious citizens, drinks a little better than starberry water...

It felt weirdly like a black-tie event. One nobody wants to attend.

Elf dude Arnaul stood beside the line and introduced them. Though they’d rested up and had every opportunity to wash their clothes and armor, they still looked bedraggled (it wasn’t like they could bring that many changes of clothes).

Athalie and Ethel: two close friends who, like Beverly and Ethel some time before, were spending all their time together. Hopefully they wouldn’t come to a tragic end in the same way, or else that would imply that Ethel was a serial killer with awfully specific habits.

Linzy: a child monk who would have been cooed over if they were diving at an Arkadian suburb right now.

Catamaug: a local farmer, conscripted because the dungeon promised to be especially spicy this year.

Hue: a warlock who seemed to feel guilty just for existing. Tonight he wore a loose white shirt and vibrant red pants, and the corners of his eyes were dyed red and sparkling gold. This looked beautiful but did not raise his confidence.

Dulcen: a conceited warrior guy.

And Ragnorre: famous among boxers and infamous among everyone else.

...oh, and also Lark Birch, the last entrant. She had power-walked in from a neighboring village, wearing cheap goggles, buffeted by an unexpected sandstorm. She wasn’t a local, though—just a human who had gotten here by hopscotching from place to place. It must have been hard going because, as Arnaul told the crowd, she was a witch who specialized in healing, who only had a few tricks and her bare weapons to defend herself with.

She was an older woman, her hair just beginning to lighten. Nyx/Athalie looked across the line of faces and saw her. She looked stern, focused...hopefully level-headed. No problem here.

Ethel tapped them on the shoulder. Nyx split their attention.

“...and should round out the team,” Arnaul was saying. “She combines practical and physical experience, knowledge of deep-earth herbal remedies, and a healing strain of soul magic. No reason to fear that she...”

“She’s a medic,” Ethel whispered.

Oh... Yeah. But Nyx knew that. They turned away, confused.

Ethel leaned into their ear and said, “You can’t let her operate on you! You know what I mean?”

Uh, no?

The speech was ended. Arnaul bowed, turned to his adventurers, and gestured toward the Cosmopolitan again, where they would be incubated until showtime next afternoon. It was then that Nyx realized...oh damn. Maybe pure-magic healing wouldn’t detect who Nyx really was, but examining injuries, setting bones—it all required a set of illusions that was far too elaborate. Ethel was right about this, and they were both losers for not having thought it through sooner.

The line went inside, and the divers sat at the familiar dark tables. Backed by flutes, elf women performed a traditional dance before them, their yellow-brown dresses edged with deep green X’s and flowers, twirling. Nyx was no professional critic, but the dance felt overly stilted to Nyx—like it’d come from an extremely formal classical period of elven culture, or, like, square dancing.

They kept glancing over at Lark, who had taken the table with Linzy and Ragnorre. Nyx no longer had an appetite for hors d’oeuvres. Ethel was just staring off at the dance, pretending to be purely fascinated by that, as opposed to lingering on the trip to the mountains they’d shared that afternoon.

She only wanted the best for Nyx, and the best in this moment was...getting this Lark thing out of the way.

Nyx approached Lark with their head meekly down. They cleared their throat and said, “Hello, Ms. Birch. Um, welcome...”

Linzy looked quizzically at them. Ragnorre looked vacant, staring beyond the elf dancers at a place no one could guess. But Lark turned her whole body to Nyx and crossed her arms. “Come on,” she said, “out with it.”

“Apologies,” said Nyx. “I can’t talk about it with anyone other than a medic. It’s uncouth and personal.” Decent plan—let them all think Athalie was hiding a deformity.

Lark frowned. She searched the room for doors and hallways. Then she nodded. “Alright,” she said, “but please don’t drag this out.”

They moved to a small, unused, weathered lounge. The creaking couches went unused. Nyx took a deep dramatic breath.

“I would appreciate it if you refrained from healing me. I have sworn a pact among my family in the Tellurom-Barkneys, among the elves in my family, never to be healed by human hands.”

Lark narrowed her eyes.

“Well, far be it from me to assume,” said Lark, “but I’ve never heard of...”

“My lineage isn’t the kindest to halflings, let alone humans.”

“That’s unfortunate, if true, but I’m telling you, I don’t believe you.”

Nyx’s eyebrows twitched. “I can’t well prove it, can I?” they said through their teeth.

“No, but you have a paper trail here,” said Lark with a shrug. “There should be an interview on you. For adventurers, that’s considered an open record.”

“I was given to understand that there were no medics. We had no reason to assume that there would be.”

That argument fell totally flat. Nyx knew how blatant that lie was even before it left the station. Adventurers were never to withhold such vital information, circumstantial or not. Nyx had sworn vows over this.

“Okay,” sighed Nyx. “I’m a demon. You can’t heal me in front of everyone else, they can’t know.”

“I agree,” said Lark. “Can I have some more credentials?”

Nyx glared, their lips pursed tight.

“I refuse to be pushed around,” Lark said with a hint of a singsong voice. “Not even by the likes of you. I’m a witch, remember?”

And I’m too kind to murder you, Nyx thought.