Stitch studied her reflection in the polished mirror shield of an animated suit of armor. The surface returned her gaze perfectly, almost cruelly honest. The cloth mask hid her mouth and jaw, leaving only her eyes visible, dark and alert. Every seam, every part of her distinctive patchwork skin had been wrapped and concealed. For once, she looked almost ordinary. Almost.

  Beyond her reflection stretched the third floor of the dungeon, visible through the arched stone passage behind the armor. Unlike the upper levels, this floor did not brood in shadow. Wide halls opened into one another without pillars or clutter, their pale stone walls inlaid with veins of enchanted crystal that glowed with a steady white-gold light. There were no corners to hide in, no comforting darkness. Everything was visible. Everything watched.

  Animated suits of armor patrolled the open spaces in slow, deliberate patterns. Their boots rang softly against the stone, metal footsteps echoing in disciplined rhythms. Mirror shields and polished armor caught the light and scattered it across the walls, sending moving reflections skating over the floor like restless eyes.

  Gweldagren raised a hand, and one of the idle suits stepped forward with smooth, mechanical precision. It extended a long-handled warhammer, the weapon plain and heavy, its head nicked and worn from countless impacts.

  “You may keep that,” the dungeon fairy said. “Normal, unenchanted weapons are something we have in abundance.”

  Stitch accepted the hammer, testing its weight. Simple and solid. She glanced around the staging cavern, where dormant armors stood shoulder to shoulder along the walls, motionless statues awaiting orders.

  “And what exactly will be my job here?” she asked.

  Gweldagren turned, gesturing toward the open floor beyond. “The third floor is designed to test reaction speed, dexterity, and cleverness. Strength alone is rarely enough.” Her wings shimmered faintly as she spoke. “Our primary monsters are the shieldknights. Animated suits of armor equipped with mirrored shields and armed with swords or warhammers. Slashing weapons struggle to damage them, and most spells fare even worse. Blunt force works best. They have a purposefully limited field of vision, but once they’ve detected an enemy, they gain a tracking ability and can follow them until they leave the floor or the suit is destroyed.”

  She pointed toward one of the patrols. “They do have a weakness. The faceplate, made from blue crystal. A precise, powerful strike there will shut them down instantly. Though that is easier said than done.”

  As if to illustrate her point, a faint shimmer rippled through the hall as a test projectile launched from a hidden trap. It struck a shieldknight’s mirror and rebounded instantly, ricocheting off another shield, then a mirrored wall panel, before embedding itself harmlessly in the far stonework.

  “Their shields reflect spells and most projectiles,” Gweldagren continued. “Some patrols are trained to return attacks directly back at their attacker. Others even use the environment for ricochets. Walls, allies, angles. A careless delver can be struck by their own magic from behind.” A thin smile crossed her face. “Traps on this floor fire magical projectiles for exactly that reason. Many delvers thought they’d avoided an attack, only to have it returned by a shieldknight.”

  Stitch followed the dancing reflections with her eyes. “And mirrors brought by delvers?”

  “Useless,” Gweldagren said flatly. “The enchantments do not recognize them.”

  She paused, then added, “Shieldknights are slow. Methodical. That is where you come in.”

  A folded cloak floated toward Stitch, settling over her shoulders. The fabric drank in the light, its edges blurring as though reluctant to exist.

  “The floor is open and bright,” Gweldagren said. “Stealth is difficult, but not impossible. You will accompany our skirmishers. Get in while the delvers are focused on the shieldknights. Strike fast. Withdraw immediately. Disrupt their rhythm.”

  Stitch tightened her grip on the warhammer, eyes tracking a patrol as it turned in perfect unison.

  “Hit them while they are distracted,” Gweldagren finished. “Then run. The first five floors are well documented. We have to spice them up once in a while.”

  * * *

  Stitch waited until the shieldknights had fully engaged.

  Steel met steel in the center of the hall, mirror shields locking into a slow, inexorable advance while the adventurers struggled to hold their ground.

  Gweldagren had informed her that this delver team was new to the third floor. They had defeated the third-level guardian merely days ago. Still, they seemed to know what this floor was about. An elf in a white robe standing at the back of the group even took out a notebook and reminded his team to aim for the crystal faceplates. They carried no useless blades or daggers, but had instead armed themselves with an assortment of differently sized warhammers.

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  While they had prepared their equipment, they hadn’t trained much with heavy weapons. Badly aimed strikes hammered uselessly against polished armor. Spells flashed and screamed as they rebounded, scattering light and panic in equal measure.

  A female healer at the back crouched low, hands glowing as she tried to keep pace with the damage. A mage stood just in front of her; eyes narrowed in concentration as he searched for a safe angle that would not come screaming back into his own skull.

  That was the moment Stitch moved.

  She slipped up from a hidden trapdoor, her cloak blurring her outline just enough that the eye slid past her. The floor offered nowhere to hide, so she used what it did offer: distraction. Every mirrored surface pulled attention forward, toward the shieldknights and their lethal geometry.

  She crossed the open stone at a diagonal, boots whispering. No sprint. No hesitation. The warhammer hung low in her hand, its weight steadying her stride.

  The healer never noticed her, still fully concentrated on the battle in front of her.

  Stitch stepped in close and swung once, hard and precise. The hammer struck between shoulder and spine with a dull, meaty crack. The woman folded without a sound, magic guttering out as she hit the floor.

  The mage spun, too slow.

  Stitch was already at him, cloak flaring as she drove the hammer into his ribs. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs and sent him sprawling back, staff skittering across the stone.

  Shouts erupted. Someone pointed. A throwing hammer hurled toward her.

  Stitch ran.

  Not away from the fight, but through it.

  She darted behind a shieldknight just as a panicked spell rebounded wildly. The mirror shield caught the blast and hurled it sideways into the delvers’ own ranks. Smoke and screams followed. The shieldknights never slowed and barely acknowledged her presence, only holding their strikes long enough for her to pass through their formation.

  Stitch slid out the other side and vanished into the glare of reflected light. Then she circled back again. The fight continued, the delvers now on the back foot.

  While the healer had already disappeared into sparks, as revenants did, the mage had downed a health potion and rejoined the fight, though he was still visibly unsteady. He raised his staff, its crystal tip glowing a deep blue.

  Stitch appeared behind him.

  His eyes betrayed a moment of déjà vu.

  Then the hammer hit him.

  One swing. One body down, sparkling away.

  Then she was gone again, retreating into the brightness as the shieldknights closed ranks and advanced, their mirrors pristine, their formation unbroken.

  The adventurers broke ranks and fled, retreating toward the floor’s entrance.

  * * *

  Gweldagren greeted her in the staging cavern. “Well done! Two kills are just right to show them we don’t mess around. Can’t have delvers claiming we’re too easy.”

  Stitch sat down on the floor, her feet weak not from exhaustion but from nerves. “That was a lot more stressful than my work at the library. I’ve never killed someone there. What if it had been a local? He’d be truly dead! I don’t know what I’ve been thinking, just going and hitting them.”

  Gweldagren scoffed. “I wouldn’t send a skirmisher after locals. Almost every one of this group has died at one point or another. Revenants never mix with locals. After seeing someone go up in sparks and return later, it’s easy to tell which groups are safe to challenge.”

  “Don’t they mind being targeted?”

  The fairy shrugged. “They probably don’t notice. They compare stories with other revenants. They mostly don’t listen to locals.”

  Stitch sat down on the only chair in the room and began to relax, when Gweldagren gave a signal and one of the armor suits moved, kicking the chair out from under her.

  She hit the ground hard, though her body was tougher than it looked and she wasn’t hurt. At least not physically. She looked up at the fairy in confusion.

  Gweldagren gave her a stern look. “Do you think you’re finished already? For today, you are mine. There’ll be a new group entering the floor in a few minutes. Get ready to take out their bard. That woman’s wailing is driving Meklang even more mad than he already is.”

  Stitch grimaced. “You could have informed me in a less violent way.”

  “Where would be the fun in that?”

  “What if I complained?”

  “To whom? Do you think there’s a Dungeon Retainer Guild or something?”

  “Meklang? The dungeon’s soul or something?”

  Gweldagren chuckled. “He doesn’t speak to anyone except dungeon fairies. He’s very old-fashioned in that regard. Now get up. The next delver team is almost in.”

  Stitch hurried to retrieve her hammer and ran out of the cavern, following the fairy’s directions. “How will I know which one is the bard?”

  Gweldagren flew beside her, dropping slightly as she laughed. “You’ll see…”

  * * *

  The delver team entered through the portal directly onto the third floor. The portal snapped shut behind them with a polite shimmer. They immediately fanned out and took up positions that looked suspiciously like posing for a heroic group picture. It looked like something they’d trained… because it was.

  Bambam charged two steps forward, boots slapping hard against the marble, and planted himself at the center like a thrown anvil. The halfling barbarian rolled his shoulders, axe already resting against one scarred pauldron, knees bent in a stance that dared the dungeon to try something clever. His grin was all teeth and anticipation. If something rushed them, it would break on him first.

  To Bambam’s left, Gronk melted into motion rather than stepping. The half-ork thief silently slid toward the base of a broken column, back to stone, his silhouette instantly seeming smaller. Daggers appeared in his hands as if they’d always been there, angled downward, ready to strike. His eyes tracked reflections instead of corridors, already mapping where mirrors might betray his position.

  Behind them, claiming the high ground without any climbing, Rhea straightened to her full half-giant height. Her boots thudded into place like punctuation marks. The bard’s massive frame should have made her clumsy, but instead she stood with a performer’s poise, bagpipe cradled in her arms. The long drones rose like banners, the blowpipe at her mouth, fingers resting on the melody pipe. Confidence radiated from her like stage light. Even if things went poorly, morale would not be one of their problems.

  A ripple of heat and ozone marked Furoras’s position as the half-elf sorcerer took the rear-center, staff angled for casting. Arcane sigils flickered briefly around his fingers before fading. His eyes glowed with magical sight as his gaze skimmed the floor, the walls, the ceiling, searching for foes or traps.

  Last to take position was Chigaru. The half-anubian ranger flowed toward the right flank, bow raised but undrawn, nose lifting as he tested the air. His ears twitched, tracking sounds too soft for the others to notice. The dungeon might hide scent as well as sight. He crouched, tail still, eyes sharp.

  Five figures. Five angles. No overlap.

  For a heartbeat, they held the pose.

  Then five voices rose as one: “Half-Brothers. Assembled!”