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INVENTORY:
* STEALTH CLOAK
* IVORY TORCH OF THE ENDLESS FIRE
* MOUSE
=== SKILLS: ===
* SWIM
* FOOTGLIDE
* RESIST POISON
* HAMMER
“No gliding. Walk,” Hemera demands. Max’s dead foot hangs heavily at the end of his stump, so walking ends up being more of a shuffling stagger. Max checks his inventory. Hemera didn’t even bother preventing him from recovering the rest of the items; given how easily she stripped him of inventory before, she didn’t seem worried about surprises.
The walk stretches on. Max hadn’t appreciated until this point how much a gift the glide skill had been. But one step after another, the citadel grows larger on the horizon.
“I have to say I’m a little surprised,” Hemera says. Max keeps his mouth shut. There’s nothing he can gain by talking, but she might spill something important. If there’s one thing Max has learned, it’s that people who hold overwhelming power can seldom resist flaunting it. And in so doing, they often let slip details of their plans and thinking.
“How old were you?” she asks. “Five? Ten?” Why is she talking about Damage? “I knew Hadley had no compunctions about using other people for his little games, but I had no idea he was depraved enough to bring his own son into this.”
It would be better to keep quiet. Talking won’t help a thing. But Max can’t resist. “You know nothing about my father.”
Hemera raises an eyebrow. “He didn’t tell you, did he? I see you somehow continue to hold him in high regard. If you knew even a fraction of what he’s done, you’d be singing a different tune.”
“Project much?” Max says.
Hemera laughs, the sound of breaking dreams and glass. “I don’t let anyone stand in my way. I’m no saint, but everything I’ve done has worked toward undoing the damage that scoundrel inflicted on the world. Those closest to him bore the brunt of it.”
Max scrunches his face into a maze of tight wrinkles. It almost sounds like Hemera is saying she and Hadley were close once.
Hemera stops and curls her long fingers under Max’s chin. Her stare bores holes clean through him. Those intense eyes spark with energy. Yet familiar. No.
“Tell me about your mother,” Hemera says.
NO. “I never had a mother,” Max says. He sets his jaw.
“Oh, come now,” Hemera says. “That’s just biologically impossible. Don’t let your daddy issues cloud your thinking.”
What is she doing? Is this a calculated measure to throw him off balance? To make him more pliant? She accuses his dad of playing mind games, but then goes on to do this?
Worst of all, what if it’s not a ploy?
“Doesn’t matter,” Max declares. “I’m still going to stop you.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re going to try,” Hemera purrs. “There’s nothing I’m looking forward to more.”
Max balls his fists. He’s tired of getting yanked around. He sits, landing roughly when his bad foot doesn’t respond well. On impact, pain arcs up his ribs. “You want the citadel open? Go open it by yourself. I’m not taking another step.”
“You will,” Hemera says. “You want the trophy just as much as I do.”
Max says, “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. I couldn’t hear it over the sound of not caring.”
Hemera smiles. “You are so much like him.” She readies her mace. Max braces himself, but he’s not prepared for what comes next. Not a bone-breaking strike, not electrical wrath, but a sharp punch coming from the ground. The world spins crazily around Max. He’s airborne. The ground rushes away from him, and for a brief moment, he has a clear view of the landscape in all directions. The land below is a giant island, with many paths like spokes all leading to the citadel in the middle. His stomach flips, and suddenly the citadel is much closer and rushing closer still.
Max slams into the tower, knocking the wind out of him. As if in slow motion, he finds his journey is not yet over. He plummets to the ground, scraping along the wall all the way down, landing in a pathetic heap alongside the portcullis gate.
By the time he can right himself, slippery with blood, every joint creaking, every nerve impulse a screaming fire, Hemera is alongside him.
“Let’s get to it,” she says. “Show me how to get in. Or do you need another demonstration?”
Max rubs his eyes until the two visages of Hemera blur into one.
“What makes you think I know the first thing about this place?” Max asks.
“You wouldn’t be here otherwise,” Hemera says.
“But. But you’re here, and you don’t know how to break in.”
Hemera’s face darkens. “I’m not going to kill you as long as you’re useful, but I’m more than willing to make you suffer. Fun fact: there are things I could do in the real world that would make you pass out from the pain, but here you won’t get such a relief.”
How could that even be possible? Wouldn’t every perception need to pass through to the player’s physical mind? A distant part of Max’s brain puzzles over this, but the more immediate part decides it’s not worth finding out.
“I need a bomb.”
“Stop wasting my time,” she replies. “I’ve already tried that.” Hemera hefts her mace, letting the threat settle heavily over him.
Max can hardly think. The frightened little boy part of his brain wants to do whatever it takes to gain approval, but the more rational part in the back seat struggles to put together the final piece of a plan…
“Yeah, when we spoke over that telepathic stone, I saw you trying that. But you only tried bombing the gate. Where else did you plant one?”
Hemera’s face softens into an unfamiliar shape. What’s that? Shame? Embarrassment? Upsetting her isn’t a winning strategy, especially once she thinks he’s no longer of use to her.
“Come,” she barks, and produces a bomb from her inventory. She walks around the curving edge of the citadel. Max keeps his attention on the bricks at ground level. About a quarter of the way around, he notices a brick that doesn’t exactly match the pattern of the others. Max nods. Hemera places the bomb, and they step out of the blast radius.
The explosion leaves disappointingly cartoonish smoke plumes that immediately vanish. And in their wake, a passage to the inside.
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