The devil cab’s door snapped open like a trap. Neon bled across immaculate stone, signs glowed in perfect gradients, everyone was scrubbed, sharp, expensive. Not a scrap of graffiti anywhere.

  “This is your destination. As mentioned, no need to pay. I should’ve respected your privacy.”

  “Just don’t do it again. You’re pretty good for a possessed cab, could you—” SLAM. The door shut in Oz’s face before he could ask for a pickup.

  “I see another fare, good day!” The car accelerated away.

  “That was odd. It must really not like that you have a patron.” Angie came to stand beside him, watching as the cab lurched into the busy road to an explosion of honking.

  “Is that what you call the source of someone’s Authority?”

  “Most commonly. It’s an old term originating from Warlocks and…” Angie paused, taking a deep breath, visibly restraining herself from starting another lecture. “Let’s focus on getting you something more suitable to wear.”

  “Alright, first though I’ve got to go by the bank. Should I let Chops out of the tattoo?” Before they’d left, Oz, following some instructions Oxley had given him, had managed to use his power [The Mutt] to shift Chops into a magical tattoo that crept up his side. It took the form of a collection of thick black swirls which formed the raw impression of the two-headed dog without quite depicting him. It gave the sense of a watchful hound, waiting to go hunt.

  “While familiars are legally welcome anywhere, I’m not sure. Do you want to risk Chops running around the bank?” Angie’s question was answered as Oz rounded the corner and found the bank waiting for him.

  No matter the realm, no matter the culture, banks were designed to make you trust them, to promise you that they’d be there no matter what might come. Draped in marble, or built on vast scales, exploiting a strange paradox of trust, that said, look how much money we wasted on this building, that proves you can trust us.

  [You have entered Atronax’s Horde, Opaliath East Branch]

  Oz ignored the pop-up as he strolled through the ornate doors. He immediately felt the desire to clean his boots and smooth down his hair. The dungeon’s design aped that of the powerful banks of the mortal realms. Great marble pillars opened up to the central hall that seemed stolen from some grand cathedral. The air held the hush that you got only at places of great belief, or in the presence of vast wealth that wasn’t your own.

  Atronax’s bank added to this air of reverence by reinforcing exactly who owned the space in its design. The marble columns were finished with a pattern of scales, the floor featured a mosaic of interlocking dragons, and the walls were lined with portraits. In other places this might’ve included former managers of the bank, but here it instead showed pictures of the bank’s many guardians, and how many delvers they’d vanquished over their careers.

  Oz watched as the numbered dials beneath ‘Grazald The Golden Terror’, a smart, well-put-together woman in a pink suit with reptilian eyes and black glittering horns, began to spin, going up by one, before starting to tick up rapidly.

  “Oh, someone’s team had a death spiral.” Angie commented, noticing Oz’s gaze.

  “What’s… That’s where one person dies and then all goes to the Nether?” Oz shifted his head, relying on the whispers from his blessing. The strange ability to understand other languages he’d been granted helped him understand words, but sometimes he needed the extra context to really apply it.

  “Yes. It’s more a problem in highly specialised delver teams, but it can happen to anyone. In most cases it happens if a team’s tank or healer goes down. Tank is the worst, because if they’re down there’s no one to eat up damage to the glass cannons or squishies. With healers it can be more gradual, as the group just doesn’t have the support to stay up, and if the healers were countering debuffs the deaths can rack up fast. Really though, anything that screws with the action economy too hard has the potential to cause a spiral.”

  “I knew some of those words.” Oz nodded.

  “It’s alright, I’ll teach you. I’m looking forward to our sparring. I’m going to need to get used to working my were-form into my fighting style.”

  Oz felt a little lost. His local bank branch was not a dungeon, it wasn’t even the nicest building in town, losing out to the town hall. It did all its business by courier or armoured car, and withdrawals of anything other than small amounts had to be filed a couple of weeks in advance so they could bring the cash down on an armoured train car.

  Oz did his best not to look like some hick and marvel at the marble walls and ceilings. A stop at the bank was essential. His current cash amounted to whatever he’d had in his pockets when he’d been yanked from his home. He asked Angie how much cash he should get, but Angie explained that there was a card of some sort that’d be better.

  “So it’s a mana-flux relay. It’s a kind of enchantment based off one of the more technological worlds. There they use some kind of wireless technology that tracks it all in real time. Here though it’s more like a way to load up your cash into a single format rather than carrying around coins.”

  “But the thing that makes the coins have value is the magic in them, right? So does this carry the magic?”

  “No, it’s just the idea of magic.” Angie seemed about to explain, but the Ozzer jumped in. His world had something similar, and that was all Oz needed to know. He politely waved off her explanation. As they reached the front of the queue she peeled away to give him privacy.

  “Hello, Sir, how can I help you.” A bank teller, a neat elven man in a pinstriped waistcoat with a golden dangling chain hanging between his pockets, called him forward to the rich mahogany desks. Iron bars separated the pair of them. As he stepped up he felt the sounds of the rest of the bank drop away. Looking about, it seemed he was in a bubble of frosted glass, his Awareness telling him it was some manner of barrier.

  A polite cough brought him back to himself, and Oz shook off his interest in understanding what had just happened. “I’m no Sir, I’m just Oz. I need to look at my account.”

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  “Well, Mr Oz, do you have your account number.”

  They exchanged pleasantries. Oz had it all memorised. His dad hadn’t trusted paperwork all that much, muttering about forgeries. Something Oz now worried wasn’t quite as paranoid as it had seemed. It isn’t paranoia if they are really out to get you.

  “Ah, Mr Oz, your balance is…” The man paused, checked his screen and his eyebrows rose. The elf took out a polished fountain pen of black wood and brass and wrote down a number on a piece of paper and slid it over the table.

  Oz looked at the number. He looked back at the man. He looked at the number. He tried to keep his voice steady.

  “Is there a decimal point missing?”

  “No, Sir.” The man pronounced Sir with much more clarity now.

  Oz rubbed the back of his head, scowling at the zeroes, hoping that he’d miscounted the amount. He hadn’t. This was real. His mouth became dry and only years of experience commanding an unchanging visage of minor threat kept his face under control.

  “Is there a recent transfer?” Oz’s voice was quiet.

  “Yes, Sir. Several. All from the Veteran’s Bureau. The first sum has a note stating it’s an outstanding pension. The second and most significant sum is listed as bereavement gratuity. My condolences. Finally there’s another sizeable sum, which just has ‘The Veteran’s Bureau apologises for the late transfer of these funds. Now please call her off’ in the notes.”

  Oz nodded. Now it made sense. This was Venna’s doing.

  The bank teller was looking at him with professional interest as Oz tried to scrape his brain together. He’d known that the payout for his mother’s disappearance would be significant. Otherwise how would you motivate people to go to dangerous unexplored realms.

  He looked at the zeroes again.

  Putting money to her sacrifice didn’t feel right. The amount felt like far too much, and yet nowhere near enough. His fists clenched. They were meant to receive this money two years ago. If they had, what would’ve been different.

  He could’ve got doctors for his dad, and the bodyguards required for them to get close to him.

  He wouldn’t have needed to spend all his time scraping by on his dad’s pension. He could’ve bought nicer things and wouldn’t have needed to work part time fixing runes.

  Oz could’ve just left Greywater. Got on the train and left.

  “Sir. Would you like to arrange a meeting. I’m sure a manager would be happy to—”

  “I’m told I need a card. And can I get a copy of the accounts, please.” Oz cut him off. He realised his nails were drawing blood from his palms and unclenched them.

  He needed to talk to someone about what to do with this much money, but he wasn’t about to do it in dungarees. The teller nodded, and then headed off.

  The teller returned with a slim, velvet-lined case and opened it with the kind of reverence usually reserved for relics or curses. Inside, resting on black satin, was a metal card that shimmered with a dull gold-red hue, like a polished bronze reflecting a sunset. Ornate Gnomish runes curved along the edges, shifting subtly as Oz looked at them, trying to escape his focus.

  “This is an Orichalcum Card,” the teller said, straightening his lapels. “It allows access to your vault, initiates transfers, tracks asset flows, and may be used at any recognised merchant bearing the Atronax seal.”

  He picked it up delicately and placed it in Oz’s hand. The card was cold to the touch and had weight to it.

  “Please prick your thumb. A single drop of blood is sufficient to bind the card to your aura.”

  Oz nodded and calmly pulled out his knife.

  The teller blinked and put away the small lancet he was about to offer. Oz ignored him and touched his thumb to the edge. It was so sharp he didn’t even feel it, the only evidence of the cut was the beads of blood which appeared. Oz smeared them across the central glyph. The runes flared momentarily, then settled back into their slow, eerie crawl.

  [New Binding Registered. Orichalcum Card Issued to Oz Grimbrow]

  “The card is now yours, Mister Grimbrow,” the teller continued. “It is, ah, a token of status, available only to account holders with reasonable vault deposits. Though I should clarify…” He lowered his voice slightly. “Among our premium clients, Orichalcum is the introductory tier.”

  Oz raised an eyebrow. “There are more?”

  The teller nodded solemnly. “Yes, of course. Above Orichalcum is Aetherium, which many respected delvers and Champions enjoy. Above that is Mythril Tier, a rare distinction held by Keepers, Titans, and a handful of the most successful delvers.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “More than a misplaced decimal point, Sir. Perhaps, as someone at the beginning of your career, you’ll have the opportunity to rise up the tiers.” The teller gave him a thin smile.

  Oz nodded. He slipped the card into his pocket and left the teller to his work.

  Outside the bank, Oz stayed silent, walking a bit till he found a quiet bit of green space with a bench, which he slumped down onto, and groaned.

  “Is there something wrong with your account?” Angie asked from beside him. She’d remained silent as he’d walked out, no doubt picking up that something was wrong.

  “No, it’s very healthy, healthier than I am. It’s just… My mother’s death duties came through.”

  “I thought it was your dad…”

  “My mother went on a realm expedition when I was eleven,” Oz said, his voice dry and words clipped. “It was meant to last an absolute maximum of three years. Still no sign of her. We’ve been trying to sort out the payment from it for years. It’s just, I knew about it, but now, with it turning up suddenly.” He didn’t need to say anything more.

  “Oh, Oz, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s just…” Oz felt a lot of thoughts. Too many thoughts. He wanted to drown it out with some rune crafting or something. But here he was in this teeming city with a person he barely knew, with money that he’d been fighting to get for years and equally found almost repulsive.”

  “I need to summon Chops.” Oz rumbled. He felt a deep desire to hug something.

  “Of course.”

  Oz focused on [The Mutt]. He could feel a warmth spreading under his shirt. The slick, flowing tattoo that stretched from ribs to his hip felt like it was swirling. Ink flowed out like smoke. Blocks of shadow broke apart into spirals, as if stirred by unseen wind.

  A ripple ran through the ink.

  The tattoo pulsed, and the thick plume of black smoke condensed. Dense lines unfurled like three-dimensional calligraphy. The smoke coiled downward, weightless and serpentine. It pooled into a familiar shape.

  From the mist, muscle took form. Limbs shaped themselves in the vapour, one massive paw at a time. Fur sprouted, glossy like wet paint. Twin heads emerged, jaws yawning wide in silent stretch, until Chops stood whole, shaking off the last clinging wisps of ink-smoke like water from a bath.

  As the final tendrils of magic faded, a pair of collars clicked into place around both necks, matching bands of arcane steel inlaid with glowing runes that pulsed once, like a heartbeat. No buckles. No clasps. They had arrived with him.

  “There you are,” Oz muttered, grinning.

  Without hesitation, he dropped to one knee and wrapped his arms around Chops’ thick, shaggy necks. The two-headed familiar gave a happy, gruff chuff and leaned in, nearly bowling Oz over. One tongue went straight for each ear.

  “Alright, alright, you’re here, I get it.” Oz laughed, trying in vain to fend off the enthusiastic licking. “You’re lucky I missed you.”

  Both heads gave happy huffs in stereo, tail wagging like someone had cast Haste. Eventually Oz pulled away.

  “Thanks, Chops. Angie, I need a distraction. I need clothes.”