Lich for Hire

The powder had been given to Ambrose by the Lady of Mists herself. It was a means to enter the dream of the Dreamveil Barrier at any time and from any place.

It had originally been meant as a private invitation, a way for her to have a tryst with Ambrose in her dream. She hadn't expected him to share it with someone else.

Though Ambrose had notified her in advance, that didn't stop her from voicing her complaints.

This was a crystallization of her divine power. It had taken considerable effort to produce even this small amount, and replenishing it would take a long time.

Leyla wasn't one to hold a grudge, though. A few words, and she let it go.

Once they confirmed that Domina Lowry had fallen asleep, the two of them retreated into Ambrose's extradimensional space, the safest place to enter a dream, and one that no one could track them to.

Powerful mages could create their own demiplanes, but even Mr. Misfortune was taken aback by the sheer scale of Ambrose's space.

"How did you build this? The stability alone is absurd—wait, is that a field of temporal stasis?"

He moved through it like a villager seeing a city for the first time, exclaiming at everything.

Only a true mage could appreciate just how unreasonable this space really was. Mr. Misfortune's own created space was barely a third the size, and he had no control over time within it whatsoever.

"Settle down. I'm a lich. It's perfectly reasonable for me to have a few cards up my sleeve."

"Reasonable? I'm genuinely jealous. Arthas, are you an illegitimate child of the Goddess of Fate?"

"That's blasphemy, you know."

"Then fate made me blaspheme!"

"...Fair enough."

Ambrose could hardly compete with Mr. Misfortune in terms of divination. His senior had not only mastered more of Fate's power, but also studied it far more deeply and understood it at a level Ambrose simply didn't.

"Right. Find somewhere comfortable to lie down and let the dream take hold of you. Time stretches within the dream, so don't worry about her nap running short."

Ambrose chose a surgical table, lay back, and placed the dream powder on his tongue.

Mr. Misfortune looked around. The surgical tables that lay scattered everywhere, reeking of antiseptic, were the only option. The daily life of this lich was bleaker than he had imagined.

With no better choice, he picked a table, lay down, and placed the dubious powder in his mouth.

It was only then that the thought occurred to him: could liches even sleep?

But the question dissolved before he could voice it. The moment the powder touched his tongue, his eyes closed on their own.

When he opened them again, he was standing in a magnificent hall, surrounded by tiflings in formal dress, all offering him congratulations.

"This... this is the day I was appointed court mage?"

Mr. Misfortune was astonished. Was this really a dream? It was indistinguishable from memory. Even he himself had changed, his aged body replaced by the face and form of his younger years.

Then a dark-haired boy appeared in the crowd and slapped him across the face. The world shattered like glass and collapsed into darkness.

Mr. Misfortune turned to find Ambrose standing there, looking entirely unapologetic.

"What was that for?!"

He had been enjoying the memory. What gave this wretch the right to interrupt it with a slap?

"Stop wasting time. We're here to uncover the devils' plan."

"You just told me there was plenty of time! You did that on purpose!"

"I did say that, but... actually, I can't think of a way to spin this. Yes, I did it on purpose. I can't stand that smug look on your face. Why should you get centuries of wealth and comfort while I spent my whole life broke?"

Mr. Misfortune was about to challenge him to a duel when the surroundings shifted again. They were now in a room saturated in deep reds and fiery hues. Domina Lowry sat at the edge of a bed, her face stricken, as though she had just woken from a nightmare.

With the subject of their investigation now present, the two of them set aside their bickering and turned their full attention to the devil lords' informant.

Mr. Misfortune frowned. "Where is this? Her bedchamber doesn't look like this."

"You've been in her bedchamber?"

"None of your business!"

"Never mind, let me look around."

Ambrose drifted through the room like a ghost, invisible and unnoticed, until his attention snagged on the bookshelf.

One glance was enough. "This must be about eight hundred years ago," he said. "Look at these books. By our time they're ancient texts, but here they're fresh off the press."

Mr. Misfortune, no stranger to old knowledge, confirmed it with a look of his own.

Eight hundred years ago, Mr. Misfortune hadn't even been born. And Domina Lowry, who in waking life carried the polished allure of a mature woman, appeared here as a girl in her twenties, her youth lending her a freshness she no longer possessed.

Mr. Misfortune stared, slightly transfixed. Domina Lowry, entirely unaware of either of them, began to writhe on the floor in agony.

Sheets of flame erupted from her body, burning her clothes to ash. She cried out in pain, as if she were being flayed alive, though her flesh remained completely unharmed.

She rolled and convulsed for a full ten seconds before the fire finally died down.

"Hellfire?"

Ambrose recognized it. Hellfire was devastating to the soul. Another ten or twenty seconds of that, and it could reduce a person to a hollow shell.

Domina Lowry dragged herself upright, drenched in sweat, and sank to her knees. She began to weep and confess in a torrent.

"I am a traitor. Great angel, please forgive my wretchedness. Please pardon my sins..."

Both men stared in stunned silence. The angel she was addressing could only be Sariel, the fallen angel who ruled the first layer of Hell. The infernal knights had betrayed her, and she had hunted them ever since—that much was common knowledge. But to think Sariel could reach through the planes and punish her former knights with hellfire directly...

That was something neither of them had ever heard of.

Ambrose felt like he had genuinely learned something of value. No wonder that infernal knight had once begged him to shred his soul entirely rather than let it descend to Hell.

But Mr. Misfortune wasn't satisfied with the scene. "Something's off. Why was I given a pleasant dream while Domina Lowry is trapped in a nightmare?"

Ambrose smiled with quiet satisfaction. "This is a divine projection from a certain god's divine realm. Nightmares on command, if that's what's called for. We're here to excavate her deepest memories and reconstruct the devils' full plan from the start, so we're naturally starting there."

"A divine projection," Mr. Misfortune repeated flatly. "You must be making that up."

"Believe what you like. You don't have to watch. Although..." Ambrose paused. "She's not wearing any clothes, you know. Are you sure you want to leave?"

"You are a thoroughly rotten individual."

"Thank you kindly."

......

They bickered, as was their habit. But the truth—and the view—was something neither of them intended to miss.

Ambrose was a lich, and Mr. Misfortune was an old man with one foot in the grave. Neither of them truly harbored any improper thoughts. They had simply been apart too long, and their old habit of sparring with each other had reasserted itself the moment they were reunited.

Meanwhile, Domina Lowry finished her confession and slumped against the bed in exhaustion.

She had endured this punishment more times than she could count. Each time she confessed, and each time it changed nothing.

The fallen angel's fury showed no sign of abating. It would not end until every last one of the traitors had been tormented to death.

Domina Lowry had considered ending her own life more than once, but suicide would send her soul straight to Hell. What would that change?

As she sat wondering when this existence would finally have an end, a pillar of hellfire ignited before her.

From it emerged an angel of breathtaking beauty, her wings blazing like living flame. She looked down at Domina Lowry with contempt. "Can't take it anymore? The suffering I endure in Hell is a million times more intense than what you're suffering now."

"Sariel?!"

Domina Lowry scrambled back in terror, shoving the heavy bed across the floor with a grinding screech. Even so, she still felt she hadn't put enough distance between them. She squeezed her eyes shut.

This was Ambrose's first time seeing the legendary ruler of the first layer of Hell. She was sacred and malevolent at once, the twin attributes coiling together in such a way that his mind swam just attempting to perceive her.

Sariel's gaze, fixed on Domina Lowry, suddenly swept sideways to Ambrose and Mr. Misfortune.

Ambrose met her eyes. The fallen angel's face was cracked, like fine porcelain that had been smashed and reassembled.

One look at that face made the centuries of torment she had suffered clear. It was said she had endured untold years of breaking before she finally yielded and fell.

The cruelty of devils was something mortal minds couldn't fully conceive. That she had held out as long as she had said much about Sariel.

"Why can she see us?" Mr. Misfortune asked quietly.

This was meant to be a dream reconstructed from Domina Lowry's memories. The two of them hadn't been present in the original scene. So how was Sariel looking directly at them?

"It's normal," Ambrose said. "Even a Sariel conjured from memory carries a residue of divinity. Perceiving us isn't surprising. But that's all she can do. A simulated god is still a simulation."

As if on cue, Sariel turned her head back toward Domina Lowry, as though the moment had never happened.

"How do you know so much about gods?" Mr. Misfortune asked, unsettled. "This isn't in any tome I've read."

"I've met a few," Ambrose said simply.

Mr. Misfortune: "..."

That insufferable lich. One day he would make him answer for every slight!

Sariel seemed to relish Domina Lowry's terror. She drew out the torment for a full hour before finally seizing the battered woman and pulling her close.

"Filthy traitor. Would you like a way out of all this? I can offer you a chance..."

Sariel's voice dropped lower, then lower still, until it faded into silence.

Ambrose and Mr. Misfortune leaned in to listen. At that moment, Sariel turned her head again and fixed them with a direct stare.

She smiled slowly. "Found you, little insects."