the dark when she had neglected to visit for so very long and additions had been made to the platform shelves carved into the mountainous hilltops. The old section of graveyard seemed to have no rhyme or reason to its layout, which led to her brushing away years of grime and dirt to check each tombstone's name once they neared. Nearly an hour of searching twisted Rosalia’s guts with anxiety, the irrational fear that she would never find the grave weighing heavily on her and then—a glint of volcanic glass caught her eye in the moonlight.
Her mother’s marker was an obelisk of pristine obsidian and when the light struck it just right, it shone like a crystal prism. Every angle introduced a new color shadowed by ebony.
Rosalia had never seen it in the moonlight, accustomed to daylight visits when it appeared to be dull, gray stone.
Gloved fingers traced the name for a long moment. Dahlia. Rosalia would give anything to not be here armed with a shovel and a heart filled with dread. She said a silent prayer, asking for forgiveness for the wretched act she was about to perform, and then set to work.
They took turns digging, the process dragging long into the night and wearing on Rosa the deeper they got. They worked in silence until the shovel connected solidly with something. She froze for a moment, feeling as if her throat were closing in on itself as the reality of the situation seemed to finally set in. They were really doing this.
A strong hand curved over her shoulder and squeezed, breaking her train of thought. “Don’t look.”
“But—”
“I’ll do it. Let me do this for you.”
With the spritely agility only an elf—or a thief—possessed, Xavier slipped down into the open grave with the crowbar.
Panic wound around Rosalia’s heart. Part of her told her she had to be the one to do it. Another part, the part exhausted with seeing the corpses of those she’d loved, was grateful for the weredragon’s presence.
The coffin creaked, and a musty smell that was neither pleasant nor repulsive filled the air. There was a steady beat of silence as Rosa fought with her curiosity. She didn’t want to be stuck with the imagery of her mother's corpse, but—
“Rosa, we have a problem.”
“What?”
“Your mother isn’t wearing a medallion. There’s nothing here at all.”
She turned then, careful to not look down into the coffin until Xavier shut the lid. He was covered in sweat and dirt and looked as exhausted as she felt. They hadn’t wasted any time changing or resting after the cart ride, coming right to the cemetery. The last few days of constant struggle had worn them down, and she wondered how much more they would have to take. How much more until their mission was finished and they could rest, knowing the kingdom, as well as the rest of the world, was safe?
“What now?” Her voice sounded small and hopeless, even to her own ears. Xavier didn’t answer right away. He climbed out of the grave first and started to lazily shovel dirt back into the hole. This had been their only lead on the medallion, and without it they had no further direction.
“We could return to Enchantress Elora,” he finally said, pausing to wipe sweat from his brow. Rosalia took over replacing the dirt.
“There’s an army between us and them, remember? Besides, I doubt there’s anything more they can do for us, not when they have their own battle, and we’d be little help. No. They’ve done enough. The rest is up to us.”
He grimaced. “You’re right. Then we should head for my hoard. At least there we can rack our brains in safety. We’ll clean up, track down my contact in the city, and find out if she’s heard anything useful. Prior to our departure, I gave her the control switch to a magic bomb and asked her to detonate it if the guard came poking around my store again.”
“And she agreed?”
“She’s a gnome.”
“Ah.”
Gnomes were known as some of the craziest, most explosion-happy beings across the kingdoms, their love for exploration surpassed only by their drive to create shiny objects and things that went boom.
“All right. Your hoard and baths are in order. We stand a better chance at sneaking around if the enemy doesn’t smell us coming.”
Moiranna had all of the news for them, and none of it was promising.
In the privacy of the gnomish woman’s attic, while the city watchmen patrolled the streets outside with torches and