Quintus tossed back the rest of his wine and trained his eyes on the dusty street five stories below him. Broken down carts and stands a breath away from falling apart littered the area, surrounded by buildings that looked like the rotting teeth of a giant. If he squinted long enough, he could almost imagine a time before the Calamity and the elements swooped in to reduce it to a wasteland even a rat wouldn’t wish to call home.

People would walk the streets, bartering with vendors, talking and laughing with their neighbours. Children would chase each other around the gardens and through the narrow alleyways. And then the netherborne would swoop in, some running on long spindly legs, others flying, more low to the ground—the bottom feeders who’d lick up the scraps of flesh if there were any left behind.

The people would run, but not fast enough. Some would get away only to be picked off later. And the netherborne would take their place, squat in the streets and alleys but only until they ran out of food. Then they’d move on to the next unfortunate town or city.

Unless.

Unless someone stopped them, someone well versed in the ways of sin and symphony. A real hero.

Who was not him.

Quintus turned his attention from the street to his bottle, but it was snatched from his hand before he could pour himself a fresh glass.

Celesta stared down at him, dark eyes filled with the disapproval of a disappointed parent. “I think that’s quite enough, Quintus,” she said, her accent lilting her words into a song-like cadence. “You’re going to need your wits about you.” And she popped the cork back into the bottle.

Quintus held his hand up in surrender and grinned. “As you wish, your majesty.”

She scowled, as she always did when Quintus brought up her royal heritage, and dropped the bottle in his black case amongst his many wine glasses. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. This time.” She turned, the hem of her skirt billowing around her feet.

Quintus rose and dusted off his pants before joining his friends—Celesta with all her regal charm, and Octavia with her silent strength.

The pair of them had the same dark brown skin and bright eyes, but that was where the similarities ended. Octavia was a head taller, and loved black even more than Quintus did. A piercing winked from Celesta's left nostril, a long chain joining it to the one in her ear. Her penchant for flashy jewelry mpaired well with her love of sunny colours. Octavia the more modest of the two, wore only a thin gold chain with a bell charm at her throat. 

The differed in demeanour just as much as fashion taste. Octavia was mild-mannered and soft spoken, even in anger. While Celesta blunt and subtle as an iron bat in her speech, even amongst polite company. The former King of the Summersong Mountains had blamed Quintus for “turning his daughter into a degenerate.”

The Deathless, they called their little group, for reasons Quintus wasn’t entirely comfortable with. One of Celesta’s scrawny little descendants had given them the name, and it caught on amongst the others of their ilk. He hated it.

“Alright,” Octavia said, folding up the map. “I’ll head west over the mountains to see what’s happening on that side. Celesta’s going south to the Archives. And you Quintus?”

He shrugged a shoulder. “I think I’ll hang around the gulf a while longer. I haven’t seen the ocean in a while.” Celesta and Octavia exchanged a look, again, giving him that disappointed parent vibe.

“You’re welcomed to come with me,” Octavia offered. “I don’t mind the company.”

“So you can rope me into your heroic escapades? No thank you, my dear. I’ll be fine on my own.” He put his case atop his cross and belted it in place.

Celesta’s frown deepened. “And what are you going to do? Wander around aimlessly. Rakki has complained to me multiple times that he hasn’t received a report from you in years.”

It took everything within Quintus not to roll his eyes. He’d get to it, eventually. There was no need for Rakki to berate him every six months. “Maybe I’ll find a man or two to warm my bed.” Quintus shouldered his cross. “And maybe I’ll scope out the situation in this region and report back to Rakki,” he added before Celesta could scold him further.

Octavia leaned off the parapet. “Alright. While you’re here, can you check the waypoint north of Ewell? No one’s been there in a while. It might be in terrible shape.”

“Sure.” Quintus extended his free arm for a hug. “Come on, bring it in, you fools.”

“Fools? Excuse me?” Celesta said, but came in for a hug, anyway.

“Only a fool would strive to be a hero in this wretched word.” And he squeezed her tight. “Give King Rakki my best. And you Octavia.” He released Celesta so he could pull Octavia into a hug. “Don’t go getting yourself roped up some nonsense.”

“I could say the same to you, Quintus. May the Death God grant you strength.” She returned his hug with just as much vigour. “Until we meet again.”

Quintus turned to head down the cracked steps to the street, but stopped short when Octavia called his name. He gazed over his shoulder and arched a brow.

“Please be careful wandering around this place. This region has historically not been kind to necromancers. I know you can handle yourself, but still…”

“I understand, and I promise to be diligent.” He gave one last wave over his shoulder and pounded down the east step to the dusty road below.

Little eddies drifted by him as he headed east through the ruins. The sun was still high, and he wagered he had six or more hours to find a town to beg a bed or an old hovel to stow himself away in for the night.

And while he wandered around aimlessly, his friends would make better use of their time and talents. Fighting netherborne and beating back the Calamity that threatened to swallow the world whole. Real heroes. Unlike him.

He fancied himself a cynic, a pessimist. He didn’t see the point of fighting an enemy that would eventually overrun them or saving people who’d rather see them dead unless there was something in it for him. This world could burn to the ground for all he cared.