Bazren's laugh was a sharp, wild sound in the quiet ruin of the study. She shook the crumpled pamphlet in Xayn's face, her new features alive with a manic, predatory energy that felt far more genuine than the flesh it was stretched over.

  Bazren: "What...? What?! Don't you see it? This is it! This is something *real*! Money makes this world turn, Xayn. Influence opens doors that are sealed to ghosts and vagrants. With that kind of prize, we could buy our way to any answer we need!"

  Xayn's expression was one of profound weariness. He shook his head, the dark hair of his new form catching the morning light, the gesture slow and laden with disapproval.

  Bazren: "Ugh. Don't just stand there looking like a kicked dog! I don't see you proposing anything better...!"

  Xayn's gaze shifted, his cyan enso eyes landing on Mola, who stood silently by the broken wall. He gestured towards her.

  Xayn: "Because *she* is our guide. Tentoria's instructions were not a suggestion, Bazren. They were a command. We are to protect the vessel, and through her, we will find our way."

  Mola offered no reaction, her gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the shattered stones, her face a pale, impassive mask.

  Bazren: "She looks more *dead* than we were a day ago. Whatever's fighting for control in that skull is doing a real number on her. You want to place our entire mission in the hands of that... that puppet in human clothing?!"

  Xayn: "She could very well call us the same thing! Would you rather place it on a glorified pub brawl advertised on a piece of parchment you found amidst the rubble? Our instructions were clear."

  At last, Mola exhaled, a long, slow breath that seemed to carry the last of her fight with it. She approached them, her footsteps unnervingly quiet on the debris-strewn floor.

  Mola: "Stop. I'm right here. Stop talking about me as if I'm a piece of furniture... Yes, I'm tired. No, I have no patience for either of you. And, more than anything in this world or any other, I do want you gone... So tell me. What will it take?"

  Bazren pinched the bridge of her new, unfamiliar nose, inhaling sharply through her nostrils. The scent of dust and old stone filled her senses.

  Bazren: "There she goes again... Look, hasn't it broken through that thick skull of yours yet? You're not getting rid of us, girl..."

  Xayn: "... Not until you have fulfilled your purpose. We are bound to you, Mola. I am sorry."

  Mola's brow arched, a single, fluid motion of disbelief.

  Mola: "*Oh*, is that so?"

  She snatched the tattered pamphlet from Bazren's grasp, her movement sudden and sharp.

  Mola: "Well, guess what..."

  She held the parchment up, her finger tapping the crude drawing of a clashing sword and axe. Her voice, when she spoke, was flat, devoid of all emotion, which made her declaration all the more chilling.

  Mola: "Bazren is not wrong. This... this is exactly where your path leads next."

  For a moment, the tower was utterly silent, save for the wind whistling through its broken bones. Bazren and Xayn stared, their new faces etched with identical masks of stunned disbelief.

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  Xayn: "You... you *cannot* be serious."

  Mola's expression was a placid lake, betraying nothing of the desperate, venomous thoughts churning beneath.

  Mola (thinking): "Idiots... What an opportunity! Let them go. Let them march straight into the arena. Sir Vivi will be there... He's unbeatable -- never lost a single fight. He'll tear them apart. They won't stand a chance... and I'll finally be free."

  Her voice remained steady, a tool honed by years of deception.

  Mola: "I *am* your guide. Am I not?"

  Bazren's shock melted away, replaced by a triumphant, ear-to-ear grin.

  Bazren: "I don't know, she looks like she means business to me, Xayn!"

  Xayn: "But... what sense does that make? A *fighting tournament*? Is there truly nowhere else we should go?"

  Mola: "You want answers. Influence. Power. The victor of the Grand Melee will have the ear of lords, the wealth of kings, and the fear of all who stand against them. If you seek a shortcut to the world's secrets, you would struggle to find a faster path. You *must* go. I know it to be the next step."

  Bazren let out a short, sharp bark of laughter, clapping Xayn on the shoulder.

  Bazren: "Well, well, well... Guess you owe me an apology!"

  Xayn exhaled, the sound a gust of pure defeat.

  Xayn: "... Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. To the tournament we go, then..."

  Bazren clapped her hands together, the sound sharp and gleeful.

  Bazren: "Hah! YES! Come on, then, let's get a move on!"

  Mola: "Yes, you should move quickly... Report back once you're victorious."

  The sudden, cool dismissal in her tone made both undead pause. Bazren's smile vanished, and Xayn crossed his arms, his posture hardening.

  Xayn: "We can't leave you behind, Mola. You know this."

  Mola: "My place is here. There is no reason for me to leave. I have... research to conduct. Besides, I don't even have a spellbook anymore."

  Bazren: "BAH! And what good did it do you?! Lost it in your first *real* fight, didn't you?"

  Mola: "Believe me..."

  She said, her voice laced with ice.

  Mola: "... it does not happen so frequently."

  She turned, beginning to ascend the ruined staircase.

  Mola: "Go on. We can have our... chat... when you return. But I really, truly, need to be alone."

  Xayn: "Mola..."

  Bazren extended a hand, and a violent explosion of pink flames erupted from her palm.

  Bazren: "Like hell you do."

  The flail materialized in her grasp, humming with a hungry, destructive energy.

  Xayn: "Bazren--!"

  With a roar, she swung the weapon. The spiked head, a blur of motion, crashed against the stone staircase. Steps that had stood for centuries shattered, crumbling into dust and rubble, cutting off Mola's retreat.

  Mola: "W-what do you think you're doing?!"

  Bazren: "What's it look like?"

  She snarled, her face a mask of predatory glee.

  Bazren: "This tower can't be where you belong if it no longer exists."

  She retracted the chain, the head of the flail returning to her with a menacing whistle as she prepared for another swing.

  Bazren: "I will tear this whole damn place to the ground if I have to... but you *will* come with us."

  Mola: "You vile, rotten creature...!"

  As Bazren's arm tensed for the second blow, Xayn moved. He grabbed the glowing chain mid-air, his flesh hissing at the magical heat, halting its movement.

  Xayn: "This is *not* how we should handle things. Not after all that has transpired."

  From Bazren's hand, a concussive wave of heat and raw will surged down the chain. It was not a simple fire; it was the very essence of her fury, a force that blasted Xayn backwards.

  Bazren: "*Hard disagree*."

  Wrenching his scorched hand back with a pained grunt, Xayn watched as Bazren took another devastating swing. More of the staircase disintegrated under the blow.

  

  

  Mola: "STOP! Just... stop. Please."

  Her voice cracked. She clenched her hands into fists so tight her knuckles were white.

  Mola: "I'll go... Just let me gather my belongings. Alright? At least... give me that."

  A slow, triumphant grin stretched across Bazren's face.

  Bazren: "Deal!"

  The flail dissolved into fading pink embers. Without waiting for a response, she began to climb the stairs, making her way towards Mola.

  Xayn: "Where are you--"

  Bazren: "C'mon! We'll help her. We can even carry her pathetic little pack for her. But let's make it quick! The day's still young, and we have a tournament to join...!"