Archive of Our Own

Some realities will always be integrated—layers in a sheet of pastry, folded over and over, absorbed and parted by a pattern of kneading. Some realities are straight lines— threads of a loom crossing at perpendiculars, before shooting off, never to meet again. Some realities are split—concentric circles in a tree trunk abruptly cleaved apart by a swinging axe, their pieces set aside to be thrown into entirely different fires.

Percival de Rolo shut the book. He ran his fingers over the gold embossed title: Not the Only Form of Fate. Then he put it aside. Slid his glasses off his nose and rubbed his eyes.

“Philosophers,” he muttered. “I have no patience for this today.”

He picked up a different tome—the one on the frontiers of complex mechanics. It aligned far better with his current interests, and it was certainly more captivating than the meandering text he’d borrowed from his older sister; he found he had to be in a certain mood for philosophy.

He was due downstairs in an hour. There would be a feast for Whitestone’s surprise guests, the Briarwoods, but he still had plenty of time to himself. He could remain the introspective intellectual for several minutes longer: the hero in a valiant pursuit of knowledge.

But this wasn’t always Percy’s story. Not every version of it.

Downstairs, his little sister stood very still in her fanciest dress. The seamstress from Whitestone township was quickly adjusting it to fit her latest growth spurt—a necessity for the calibre of their visiting company.

“Do you know the Briarwoods?” Cassandra asked her mother.

She was practically holding her breath, avoiding the urge to flinch away from the pins hovering so near her skin. She wanted to be as perfect as possible today. Perhaps then she could stay for the entire feast; she could absorb every second with the mysterious new guests.

“We don’t have to know them personally, my dear,” Lady de Rolo said in her gentle voice. “As nobles, we have a duty to recognise one another with respect, kindness, and dignity. We’re going to offer them our best hospitality, okay?”

“Okay,” Cassandra nodded.

But it was far more than the Briarwoods deserved.

…

The horrors of that night rushed by in a sickening, irreversible blur: the abrupt atmospheric shift in the middle of the feast, the coup in the castle, the slaughter of the de Rolo family.

Percival woke with a cheek pressed to the cold stones of the dungeon. His heart was racing in his ears—beating a pattern of horrific images against his eyelids every time he blinked. He saw his parents fall a thousand times, heard his siblings scream in agony, watched the unfeeling consideration in the eyes of the Briarwoods—as though his worst nightmare was of passing interest to them—simply one small step in a detailed plan.

He saw Anna Ripley’s face when she loomed over him—felt the echoing screams of her torture shuddering through his bones.

Then he heard a small voice, familiar and painful.

“Percy?”

Am I hallucinating already? He wondered.

He’d thought his mind would hold out a little longer, but it seemed he was hearing things. Cassandra hadn’t been around since the attack, and when he’d asked about her, he received only a wicked beating and a knowing smile. He’d assumed she was dead as well.

“Percy!” her voice whispered again. More urgent this time.

He looked up.

Cassandra was crouched by the bars of his cell. She looked more ragged than usual, yet her expression was somehow familiar. A softer memory swept over him: his little sister, up past her bedtime: her eyes full of rebellion as she snuck into his room to split a stack of biscuits and look through his telescope.

“We have to escape,” she said.

And they did.

…

They had almost reached the edges of the trees when the arrows began to strike. Someone on the castle wall must have spotted them. The guards had been alerted. Realisation hit them both, in the shattering sort of way that embeds itself in the hearts of children, that they might not live.

But in the winds of Whitestone, archery is unpredictable. A simple roll of the dice, and everything changes. A swing of the proverbial axe, and one reality splits in two.

In the first world, those arrows hit Cassandra, with two horrible wet tears through her torso, deep into her chest. She crumpled in the snow, and her brother, believing her dead, kept running. That Percival became Vox Machina’s Percy. He went on to form weapons of vengeance and terror. He almost destroyed his own soul in a mess of guilt and self-loathing. He prevented the ruin of the world. He found a golden ending he never thought he’d deserve.

But arrows are a tricky thing, when they’re tied up with fate. You may think a target is simple enough—a bullseye found—a choice made by the archer. But there are many ways an arrow might hit.

In another world, the first arrow took Percival in the heel, and he stumbled, falling behind his little sister.

The second hit him neatly between the shoulder blades. Blood spurted from his mouth. He dropped. He was always a kid with a good survival instinct. His mind whirred through calculations, following the same chain of reasoning he made in the other world, when it was his sister bleeding out in the snow; they had no medical aid, no healing magic, and their enemies were close behind. And Percy came to the same conclusion. He believed himself dead.

“Percy!” Cassandra screamed.

An arrow flew wide over her head as she turned, fell to her knees at his side.

“No,” Percy shook his head. “I’m dying.” He wondered, vaguely, how he sounded so calm—so reasonable even with ringing ears and a mouth choked with blood. “Keep running.”

“But I saved you,” she said helplessly. “I got you out.”

“And I- I love you for it.”

De Rolos didn’t say ‘I love you.’ Not without good reason. And Percy had given up on himself, but he hadn’t given up on the family. And he hadn’t given up on Whitestone. In the end, he lived as much in those things as he did in his body.

Another arrow smacked the snow beside them—an inch from Cassandra’s knee. A second drove deep into Percy’s shoulder.

“You have to get yourself out,” he continued. He reached clumsily to his face, ripped off his glasses, pressed them into her hand. “Take them and remember me. Cass, you have to survive.”

“Percy—”

“Don’t waste time.” His voice was slurring. “Don’t even promise me. Just do it.”

And he began to heave more blood and bile into the snow.

Cassandra took to her feet.

In that split second, she saw the Briarwoods sprint out from the side of the castle, a few of their most trusted people following close behind. Another arrow flew toward her, and she dodged it, scattered steps carrying her, unbelievably fast, into the cover of the forest.

Percy was still lying there, peering at the blurry space in the trees where Cassandra had vanished, when the Briarwoods reached his side. One of their lackeys turned him onto his back again, so they could look at him.

“Well, that’s disappointing,” Lady Briarwood sighed, examining the boy who was now a mere whisper from death.

“The incompetence of those guards,” Lord Briarwood hissed. “They practically handed them a chance at escape!”

“We’ll deal with them later,” Lady Briarwood said dismissively, looking down at Percy with nothing but cold calculation. “And we can still catch the girl. She’s tiny, wearing a torn, impractical dress, and she won’t get far in these woods.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, my love.” Lady Briarwood walked on. “Let this one die. We only need one de Rolo.”

…

Cassandra and her brother are much alike.

When she found herself cornered at the edge of the cliffs, she too leapt into the river below rather than risking her life at the hands of the Briarwoods. She fell unconscious when she hit the water, and floated away to freedom.

She woke on a fishing boat to three worn, worried faces—two humans and a halfling. They seemed baffled to have found a young girl in a sodden dress floating face-up in the water. They seemed even more baffled when they heard her noble accent. But when she asked for work on board their vessel, they lent her a scruffy linen tunic, a bulky woollen jumper, and taught her the basics of fishing. Later, she helped them sell what they caught in a small village market. But she moved on quickly, taking up whatever small jobs she could find, as she slowly made her way south. It was near identical to the path Percy followed in the other world.

Yet Cassandra and her brother are also very different.

She didn’t sink into the same dizzying void of hopelessness. Her memories weren’t absorbed and lost to her trauma. Instead, her terror remained alight and electric—desperate and hungry—fuelled by the same initiative that had led her to free Percy and flee Whitestone rather than accept their fate.

She was still susceptible to dark suggestion. Orthax still came to her. But he did so more gradually.

Cassandra had been dreaming of her brother since the moment she left him. Her nightmares rang with the dull cry he let loose before collapsing in the snow. And as she moved through the cursed wasteland of the Umbra Hills, more detailed thoughts began intruding, even while she was awake.

Revenge, a voice beckoned. You owe it to them. You owe it to Percy.

Cassandra purchased a small notebook the first time she had money to spare. She wrote lists the way her mother used to, trying to come up with a plan. She found books on law and attempted to decipher their complexities. She searched for information on Whitestone’s political allies. She began to worry that revenge would be quite a long process.

One day, hands trembling with determination, she turned to a fresh page in her book, and inscribed a new heading: Killing the Briarwoods.

Cassandra was smart, but she’d never been an inventor. She didn’t have the foundations in place to start constructing a gun, nor any idea of what a gun was. To become a deliverer of death, she had to build those skills from scratch.

Her opportunity came when she arrived in Westruun. The angry little voice in her head was speaking louder these days. It seemed turn over and over like a water mill, gathering strength from her fury and her refusal to feel hopeless. She was starting to rely on it.

Because if surviving meant learning how to lie and cheat and steal, Cassandra was going to do it all.

She’d heard of the Clasp in whispers—both inside her head and out. She waited on a street corner in the Market Ward, eyes on the crowd, until she spotted a likely candidate. They walked with feigned nonchalance and chose their marks with subtlety, but something in her seemed to know this was what she was looking for.

That one. Ask that one.

Cassandra scampered up the side of a nearby building and made her way over the rooftops. She lowered herself to a balcony above the thick of the crowd, peering down at the back of her target’s neck. Sure enough, she could see it—the edges of a significant tattoo.

She followed the Clasp-member down an alleyway before dropping to the ground again. She marched straight up to them: poised, petite, and determined.

“I want to join the Clasp,” she said.

The thief seemed stunned at first. Then amused. They denied knowing anything, and turned to vanish in the crowd. But Cassandra didn’t give up that easily.

She followed them back to a tavern and hunched over in an alley until darkness fell. Then she crept through the window of their third-storey room. She crouched at the head of their bed, swallowing her nerves, and pressed a dagger to their throat.

Their eyes flew open.

An experienced criminal, her target didn’t cry out. Instead, their gaze locked onto her, focused in the dim light of the moon. Cassandra threw up a veneer of confidence. She’d adapted very quickly to that sort of acting—to becoming whoever the other person expected to see. Perhaps it was an innate talent she would always have, in every version of her story.

“I want to be one of you,” she said. “I’m good at what I do—I can melt into shadows, fade into the unnoticed faces of the girls on the street—and I’m ready to get better. I want to be the hidden blade. I want to be the embers beneath the fire. I want to be the rogue in the darkness.”

Their eyes narrowed, focused on her in true acknowledgement for the first time.

“I’m listening,” they said.

It took an exchange of terms, but Cassandra convinced them. And the next day, they both convinced the Clasp.

…

Her dreams grew more vivid. White steaks were winding themselves through her hair.

The Clasp member from the market became her mentor. They offered to train her in sword fighting, gifting her a battered rapier several steps below their own shining blade. Cassandra never complained of its quality. She simply took her weapon in hand and dedicated herself to honing her craft, the way she dedicated herself to everything else in life.

At the same time, she developed as a rogue. She leaned into her natural gifts—less pickpocketing and robbery, more coordinating and observation. Clever theft, her mentor called it, pride in their voice that she was desperate to keep chasing. Because, under it all, she was still a young woman hungry for a family.

Rapiers appeared in her sleep now. She used one to attack dreamy exaggerations of the Briarwoods—ran them through with gleaming silver. But it didn’t feel like enough.

In this world, she killed her first person on the streets. One night, she was following a mercenary on behalf of the Clasp. But as she shadowed him to a tavern, she overheard the name Anna Ripley pass his lips. And it tore through her like the arrows through her brother.

She lost all reason. She waited until the moment he left the establishment, and pinned him to the ground with a dagger at his throat, drawing information from his lips—details on this woman who had helped destroy her family.

And then he begged for his life.

“I can get you a job with Ripley!” he said desperately. A faint smudge of black smoke drifted from somewhere beneath Cassandra. “I’m sure she’d be interested—I’ll tell her all about you!”

She slashed his jugular.

Because if surviving meant learning to kill, Cassandra was going to do that too.

That didn’t mean she felt good about it. That didn’t stop her sobbing late into the night, alone and small and unsettled in her bed, half-convinced her scrubbed-clean hands were still dark with blood, hyperaware that she was nothing more than a lost teenage girl with little real power.

And Orthax must have decided it was time.

He came to her in a dream, in Percy’s form, enveloped in billowing smoke.

“Cassandra,” he whispered. The harsh undercurrent in his tone didn’t belong to her brother. “I must ask your help. There’s a legacy I left behind. There’s a job I need you to finish.”

Cassandra, who was even smaller in the dream than in reality, tried to reach out for him.

“What is it, Percy?”

“Go to my bedroom,” he pleaded, “back home in Whitestone. I was forming brilliant designs—tools that will allow you to defeat the Briarwoods—tools so powerful no one will dare stand against you again.”

“What kind of tools?”

“Find Anna Ripley,” Percy continued, that dark tone rising to swallow his voice. “She’s already appropriating my hard work. She hoards it for herself. You must destroy her.”

“I want to,” Cassandra swore, fists clenched.

“Then promise me. Make a list, Cassandra. Fill it with names. Take your revenge.”

She reached for him again, but he was consumed by smoke.

“I vow it, Percy. I will avenge you.”

And she awoke, trembling, in the dark. Dug around for her notebook. Slid Percy’s glasses onto her nose. And, in the light of a single candle, she wrote her list.

…

Orthax had always favoured Percy for a reason—as long as Ripley was working with the Briarwoods, she would stay in Whitestone. If she managed to pull any guns out of Percy’s designs, they wouldn’t be seen for years. Their violence wouldn’t yet spread.

He needed a de Rolo bent on revenge to set everything in motion.

So, when Ripley took a short visit to the Umbra Hills, Orthax found a way to get Cassandra there: an eerie pull in the back of her mind, a mission that the Clasp leaders felt so strongly must be given to her. Cassandra’s mentor even offered to accompany her.

After dealing with Clasp business, they tracked down Anna Ripley together.

In wasn’t difficult. In fact, the man Cassandra killed had told her exactly which establishments were frequented by the Doctor. They disguised themselves well. They made a plan.

But Cassandra, like Percy in the other world, still came underprepared.

That night was a new outpouring of horror that would chase her through her sleep. It was a muddle of shouting and confusion and a jumble of specific memories; faces, more numerous than expected, standing behind Ripley; the dense smell of the smoke from the fireplace; the elated look on her enemy’s face; her mentor—her almost-family—dying right in front of her. For the sake of a revenge she failed to achieve.

And the next thing Cassandra remembered was the cold, claustrophobic walls of a jail cell.

She wept. She wished she could flick through the pages of her notebook—console herself with the names on her list—with her long plan for revenge. But it had been separated from her. It sat among the rest of her meagre possessions on a shelf against the far wall. Her gaze was fixed on it. Obsessive.

And then a gnome in a bright purple poet blouse stumbled through the guard’s door. Cassandra—who would try to read people as readily as any book—gave him a once-over and quickly discerned he wasn’t supposed to be there. Not only was he the gaudiest individual she’d seen in days, but there was a furtive edge to the way he held himself.

“Told you this room’d be empty,” the gnome said happily.

Behind him came a gorgeous woman whose pointed ears suggested elven descent, a thick black braid swinging over her shoulder, and sharp, dark eyes that searched the room in a single sweep.

“Scanlan,” she said, her voice rich velvet. “I hate to embarrass you, but you’re missing the obvious again…”

She gestured to the shadowed corner where Cassandra was curled in on herself.

“Holy shit,” said Scanlan.

More of their allies were filing through; a gnome with dark hair offset by a golden holy symbol hanging around her neck; an enormous goliath whose lack of shirt showed off over eight feet of pure muscle; a tall, ungainly half-elf with striking red hair who almost crashed into the open door; an actual red dragonborn; and last of all, a raffish man in a black cloak whose face was a near perfect match for the woman who’d just spoken.

“Oh, hello,” said the new gnome. She approached the bars of the cell, gentle pity in her voice. “What are you doing locked up in here?”

Cassandra was too wary to speak. Her gaze flickered around the group again. They were staring so expectantly.

“She’s a teenager,” whispered the ginger woman. “How’d she end up here?”

“Can she speak?” asked the goliath.

The gnome crouched in front of Cassandra began to frown.

“Hey, don’t talk about her like she isn’t here,” she scolded. “Give her a little time.”

The dragonborn stepped forward, a pompous expression on his face.

“My name is Tiber—”

“Shut up,” the dark haired half-elven woman snapped. She pushed in front of him and crouched before the bars as well. “Hello, dear, my name is Vex’ahlia. You can call me Vex, if you like. These are my friends: Pike, Keyleth, Scanlan, Grog, Tiberius, and my brother is Vax. I know, it’s a little confusing. May we have your name as well?”

Each party member had waved as they were introduced. Then waited for her answer.

“Cassandra,” she said. She gave no last name.

“Cassandra, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Vex continued. “Why are you in here? You look very young to be placed in this part of the prison.”

Cassandra made a second calculation in her head. Could she give them more of the truth? What would they say if they knew why she’d been kept in isolation? If they knew her crime was attempted murder?

She weighed up each detail placed before her, and three things seemed most striking. Many of the strangers were spattered with at least a little blood: not strangers to fighting, or possibly, to killing. They had clearly come in here without permission: thieves or fugitives or simply people with enough disregard for the law. And they were an eclectic group to be travelling together: perhaps a posse of adventurers?

Besides, there was a kind of protective concern in their eyes. Though Cassandra would deny, even to herself, that this detail gave any weight to her decision.

“I ran into someone I used to know,” Cassandra admitted. “She was instrumental in the deaths of my entire family. So I tried to kill her.”

There was a pause.

Then the huge one, Grog, who’d looked the least moved by her plight so far, let out a bark of laughter.

“I like her,” he declared, because Grog had always been impressed by a great deal of fight and power in a small package. “Let’s free her.”

As for the rest of them…

In another world, it was damaged, brooding Percival that the adventurers would have saved. It was his brand of pessimism and wit and willpower that shaped Vox Machina, just as they shaped him, over the years they spent together.

In this world, they were face to face with Cassandra instead. But she was just like her brother in all the right ways.

She provoked sympathy by virtue of her circumstances—a lost bird in need of the cover of their wings. But she wasn’t delicate. Adventure wouldn’t destroy her. She was just brittle: defiant and surface-level strong and falling apart only on the inside. The exact right balance of outcast and alone and obstinate. They could tell she was ready to fight.

They freed her from her cell.

…

She followed them to the Frostweald, and then back to Westruun. And when Drez Vina tracked them down and declared that they owed him a completed contract, Cassandra decided she would be happy to join them in fulfilling their debt. Through mission after mission, she established herself within their eclectic little party. Together, the group earned the name ‘Vox Machina’ and they were, tentatively, beginning to consider themselves a family.

As time passed, Cassandra told them more of her story, though she made no mention of the voice in her head—the thirst for revenge. When she was alone at night, she opened her notebook and rearranged her lists and plans. Someday, she told herself, she would ask her new family for help. Perhaps they would descend on Whitestone together.

And Percy was just a name Vox Machina heard in passing: the brother Cassandra almost saved. The boy who fell behind her in the snow, shot through with arrows, and begged her to go on.

He was just a faint, kindred shadow for Keyleth, who became a sister to Cassandra instead. She never debated Percy about legacy, or logic verses passion. She discussed all those things with the girl she called “Cass,” and they learned about strength and bravery together.

And leadership came to the future Voice of the Tempest a little earlier and just a touch easier in this world. Becoming a big sister can do that to a person…

They still clashed, of course. Something about a stiff Whitestone upbringing will always hit discordantly against the contemplative heart of the Air Ashari. But Cassandra wasn’t content to settle into pessimism the way Percy was. She’d been trying to claw her way back to hope since the moment she lost it. And something in the naivety of the enthusiastic druid allowed her to be young again—to be vulnerable.

Vax began to call her “Cass” as well, adding it to the long list of affectionate nicknames he seemed ready to pull out at any moment. He was constantly impressed by Cassandra, as they stealthed over rooftops together, and picked locks like they’d been doing it all their lives. There was something to be said for the bond between two rogues.

And when she needed to brood, Cassandra knew who to find. It was an unspoken promise between them. At night, with stars glimmering overhead, she would find Vax by a window, or on the walls of Greyskull keep, or outside the door of wherever they were staying. And they would stare at the sky together. Hardly speaking. Occasional tears spilling over. Then he’d give her a hug—needing it as much as she did—and they’d return to separate rooms.

At other times, Cassandra needed a very different sort of comfort; she needed Pike Trickfoot. With the cleric, she could talk through her feelings. She could be a distressed child, or a ruler exiled from her home, or simply an exhausted adventurer. Pike always listened. And confided her own problems in return. Sometimes, they even talked about the gods. Though Sarenrae was different from Pelor, and Cassandra had no idea what she thought of faith, the simple act of the discussion made her feel closer to Whitestone—her distant roots all metaphorically tied up in the Sun Tree.

And whether Pelor cared about Cassandra or not, Pike’s duality was certainly a godsend. The sweet little gnome was always ready to spar. And Cassandra loved every moment of that—the scuff of their boots, their heavy breathing, the delicious clang of her rapier hitting the shining mace. They sank into another headspace together. One that was all physicality and focus. Where the pressures of the world meant nothing.

Grog would often join them. His presence brought ringing laughter; he seemed delighted by every drop of blood they drew out of him. While it would have taken him a while to recognise Percy’s skill in battle—the range and mystery of guns a little foreign to him—he could appreciate the sting of a rapier. 

“You’re improving,” he’d tell Cassandra.

“Yeah,” Pike would tease. “You’ll beat Grog pretty soon!”

But statements like that always made Grog glare at his best buddy.

“She will not!” he’d protest.

Cassandra loved that about him: no hedging, no sparing of her feelings, no treating her like a kid. He saw the fighter in her, and he met that with honest respect.

Grog even paid for her very first beer, when the whole group were celebrating a victory in a tavern one night. He almost wet himself with laughter at the disgusted look on her face when she actually tasted it. But she downed the whole thing anyway. Because she knew it would impress the barbarian. And these days, sometimes, acting a role felt less like pretending, and more like having fun.

That was mostly thanks to Scanlan Shorthalt. He was a born liar—a master of deception—but he carried little guilt. He bent the truth with a light heart. Cassandra had been carrying around the burden of her lies, wondering if her ability to act past her feelings was a sign of something fundamentally twisted inside her. But now she saw how she could make people laugh with a clever prank, or help the bard talk their way out of trouble and avoid a horrible fight. With her noble accent, and her sweet face, she was particularly adept at convincing people they were trustworthy.

And later, when a daughter dropped into Scanlan’s life out of nowhere, he came to Cassandra.

“She’s around your age,” he said helplessly. “She seems really great. I- I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to be a father.”

And Cassandra was able to give him good advice.

It still took Kaylie a while to come around; Scanlan was still Scanlan, after all. But later, when the young gnome had the chance to spend a little more time with Vox Machina, she became a friend to Cassandra. And Cassandra was happy to help her talk through everything—never pressuring her, but pointing out how desperately her asshole of a father was trying to be better.

And, hey, if Kaylie made Cassandra blush, and caused her heart to pound, and drew her in like a magnet, that was just a normal friendship. It wasn’t any sign of deeper longing… right?

Speaking of longing, this world was very different for Vex’ahlia. Percy’s absence was an inexplicable melancholy in her chest—a sense that something was missing. But she didn’t let it shake her. She grew into a different version of herself.

There was a lesson Percy might have taught her, in all his eloquence and smitten honesty: I’ve known a lot of people with money, and they are definitely not worth you. But Cassandra manged to show her the same thing in a very different way. She laughed about nobility with Vex—poked fun at the insecure greed of the rich and titled. She gave the lost, lonely half-elf a more realistic view of the other side.

And Vex never became a Lady. But she didn’t crave it. She made her own way with the funds earned as an adventurer, and she liked that just as much as she’d have liked the alternative. She would go on to help Cassandra set up a council rule in Whitestone, because in this world, as in the other, Cassandra didn’t want to rule alone. And together, they would work hard for those who couldn’t help themselves.

And though Vex didn’t have a title to throw in her father’s face, she found it didn’t matter. Over time, he saw her deeds for what they were: a manifestation of natural bravery and generosity he’d been a fool to ignore. He saw Cassandra—a young woman shaped so positively by the influence of his daughter—and he saw the same admiration in Velora’s eyes. His pride was undeniable.

…

The take-back of Whitestone began in much the same way in this world. It took the sudden appearance of the Briarwoods to spur Cassandra into action—to ask her new family for help.

And Vax was still… Vax. So, he managed to launch the fighting in the same explosive way.

Yet many things in Whitestone went quite differently.

…

Bodies matching each member of Vox Machina had been hung in the Sun Tree. Cassandra was horrified to see the figure representing her was wearing gold-rimmed glasses; she never wore glasses when the Briarwoods knew her. It was as though they’d guessed that she carried Percy’s everywhere she went.

The party was transfixed for a while, but soon enough, they had to scamper out of sight. The shell of an old tavern became their shelter. Keyleth began communing with nature, trying to see what was going wrong in the area. Cassandra took out her book and opened it to its most worn page—her revenge list. Her eyes roved over the names there. Then she snapped it shut.

“Vex, Vax,” she said. “While Keyleth tries to fix the Sun Tree and the rest stay to guard her, will you walk with me?”

“Why?” Vex asked.

“We’re working on reconnaissance.”

Scanlan dressed them up with seeming, and the twins followed Cassandra. They ducked down alleyways and skirted over walls, dodged the distant eyes of zombie giants, and found the temple of Pelor. But after peaking through its windows, they saw it’d been destroyed. Though Cassandra was upset, they moved past quickly—on to the next target—on to the next item on her list of key locations.

While they walked, they overheard a gathering of people discussing the captain of the guard, Sir Kerrion Stonefell. It seemed he was increasing pressure on the Whitestone workforce, and the peasants were deeply distressed. Although Cassandra and the twins, glued to the shadows, passed by the group unseen, they noted all their worries. Cassandra decided to make Stonefell their first target.

Their next stop was The Lady’s Chamber: Whitestone’s temple to Erathis. They found it in better shape than Pelor’s centre of worship, though because it was almost nightfall, there weren’t many people around. Only Keeper Yennen sat inside.

Vex, Vax, and Cassandra went to speak to him. It took a hesitant, hedged conversation for him to trust them enough to talk, but he got their eventually.

In this world, Keeper Yennen had almost lost hope. There was no secret de Rolo in the castle, giving the people something to rally behind by smuggling out messages of encouragement. There had only been one early attempt at rebellion—easily, miserably quashed by the Briarwood’s forces—a reminder that the new rulers would never allow a de Rolo resurgence.

“Though of course,” Yennen muttered bitterly. “We have seen Percival.”

“Percival?”  Cassandra gasped, heart roaring to life in her chest.

The twins exchanged a shocked glance over her shoulder.

“Well, of course,” Keeper Yennen shook his head. “They reanimated his corpse after they killed him. Things don’t stay dead in Whitestone these days.”

The horror on Cassandra’s face must have been plain, because he managed to show some sympathy. Even if it was mixed with a little condescension.

“I know it’s very unpleasant.” He leaned close. “Look, my friends, I haven’t seen you around in recent times, but you seem to have some connection to this place, and I must warn you; Whitestone is not what it used to be. If you’ve just travelled in to resettle—”

“We haven’t come to settle in Whitestone,” Cassandra interrupted. Vex placed a hand on her shoulder, clearly worried she might say too much. But she continued. “We’ve come to change it.”

“To change Whitestone?” Keeper Yennen asked.

“Yes.”

Cassandra took out her notebook—tore out a page from the back, where she’d absently scrawled the de Rolo crest, over and over and over—handed it to him. The old man stared at the scrap of paper. A hesitant smile wobbled at the edges of his mouth. He looked up rather sharply at her.

“Who are you?”

“I’m not here to answer that question,” she said. “But I will tell you, the de Rolo’s weren’t all lost that winter. You’ll know I’m truthful when the Briarwood’s chess pieces begin to fall.”

They left him there. Returned to their hideout soon after sunset. Ready to begin taking action the next day

…

They attacked Sir Kerrion’s house first.

In the other world, where they made the same choice for their initial target, Vox Machina would have arrived much later in the day, having got to Keeper Yennen only that morning. But in this one—with efficient Cassandra at the helm—it was a late morning arrival.

Sir Kerrion was alone. There was no Vouk to question: no tongue to rip out and cause a moral quandary.

Instead, Vox Machina took out the guards systematically on their way inside the house, according to their youngest member’s careful plan. Until, at last, they were left with only four, posted in front of their target’s study. They could hear Kerrion moving about inside, and his security looked bored. They must not have heard the fighting.

On Cassandra’s signal, Vox Machina launched down the corridor.

Most of the party was immediately taken up in dealing with the guards, while Grog plunged a path straight into the room beyond. The following battle unfolded in the cluttered study.

Cassandra was surprised by her own rage. The more they wore away at Kerrion’s defences, the more she was clouded by a giddy, elated anger. He had such a horribly smug smile—a look that might have been charming if it wasn’t for the person underneath it. He seemed to have confidence his guards would come to the rescue. Or run to alert the Briarwoods.

Cassandra couldn’t help it. She began to gloat.

“They’re gone, Kerrion,” she said. “They’re passed out or they’re dead. They’re not coming to save you.”

His confidence faltered just enough for her to notice. Her blade caught the edge of his wrist, and he gasped, almost dropping his own weapon. She couldn’t wait to take one of his rapiers when this was over. They were beautiful.

But her hands had started to itch. She wanted something more violent and quick and bloody than her slender sword—which was odd, because she always felt complete when she was holding it. Yet an alien desire was taking over now. She wanted to watch Kerrion explode.

The friends who’d been occupied with the guards finished up their work, pouring into the study. In his distress and distraction, Kerrion forgot the goliath was off to his right. Grog slammed him over the head, and he crashed to the ground.

Standing over his limp, groaning form, Grog looked to Cassandra.

“What do you wanna do?”

Cassandra glanced around. She noticed Scanlan had a guard under magical control.

“Get his man to hold him down,” she said, a dangerous edge in her voice. “We need to talk.”

Kerrion seemed dizzy and horrified when his own guard dragged him upright and grappled his arms behind his back. He was clearly deep in desperation now. And, if Cassandra’s instincts were right, there was a strong bent of self-preservation in this man.

They began to question him.

Kerrion talked fast and wild. He started his story where it began, with all the planning that went into the Briarwood take-over…

And smoke began to pour from Cassandra’s body.

Her friends flinched, pulled back, as she continued pressing questions on their victim. Kerrion glanced uncertainly around the room.

“Don’t look at them,” Cassandra hissed. “Look at me.”

“Darling,” Vex began, “I think—”

“No.” Cassandra interrupted. “Don’t talk about it right now.” Her voice turned pleading. She could feel herself shaking, and she didn’t understand the smoke either, but she couldn’t imagine losing her momentum. “Just keep focused.”

Her friends fell silent. She continued the interrogation. But as smoke billowed out larger and larger, they backed off, trying not to let it touch them…

Kerrion told them as much as he knew about the Briarwood’s current project, though it wasn’t much—he was only captain of the guard. He told them where to find a secret entrance to the castle. He told them Lady Briarwood controlled the zombie giants they’d seen walking around. He told them she could raise the dead.

“We’d heard something like that,” Cassandra said. There was so much black around her now, it obscured her face from view. “So, it’s Delilah who does it?”

 “Yes!” Kerrion said. “She’s a powerful necromancer. She- she even raised that de Rolo boy. The snotty, bookish one. What was his name? Percy!”

Cassandra thrust her rapier beneath his ribcage—right up to the hilt.

Blood poured over her hands. An echoing voice inside her was sighing its hungry approval—yeeessss—as the smoke enveloped her completely.

She didn’t care that her friends were watching. Something like a frenzy was in her mind now. She pulled out her notebook and it fell open to the page with her wonderful list of names. She rummaged frantically over the surface of the nearby desk, shoved a quill into a well of ink, and scribbled violently over the name Kerrion Stonefell. But before she finished crossing it out, it glowed a faint purple, and faded. Leaving only blank paper.

As it went, her roar of emotions faded away. She blinked uneasily. Tucked the book back into her coat. Avoided everyone’s eyes. Thanked Pelor Pike wasn’t around to see what just happened. Then marched right out of the mansion.

The others followed slowly behind. As planned, they set the place on fire, and began the walk back to their hideout.

…

Cassandra sat against the back wall of the tavern—back straight as the edge of a knife. Her friends gathered around her.

“I suppose we need to talk,” she said softly.

Unlike Percy, in the other world, the experience hadn’t fuelled Cassandra’s rage. Her first response was to retreat into herself. She was terrified. She wanted this to end.

She told them, gradually, about the way these feelings had risen, and the voice which spoke inside her mind. She explained that she’d thought she might be a little crazy, up until that smoke began to manifest—her nightmares projected into the world around her—and she realised they could see it too.

They listened carefully. Some of them asked questions.

The one that hit her hardest came from Grog. He’d always be a simple guy; these issues of smoky entities and revenge pacts would always be too complex for his usual range of understanding. Yet he knew his friends as well. And he wanted to express his concern.

“Are you afraid you’ll hurt us?”

Cassandra paused before she spoke, but there was an echo of a parallel Percy in her answer.

 “I’m more afraid I’ll disappoint you.”

She saw Keyleth’s eyes fill with tears.

“Oh, Cass,” Vax said gently.

They all hugged her tight: a mass of limbs and warmth and familiar shapes. She began to cry.

“Thank you,” she said, her face in Vex’s shoulder. “I- I want to keep going. I really do. Just keep an eye on me, please. The moment I threaten any of you is the moment I’ve lost control. Be ready to take me down. If you have to.”

She suspected they wanted to protest. But they didn’t let themselves.

Instead, they brought out two gleaming rapiers, which she had somehow forgotten to steal from Kerrion. She thanked them quietly, holding back tears of gratitude. Since she’d never learned to dual-wield, she slid one into her hilt, ready for the morning, and packed the other, with her old blade, into the bag of holding.

Then Vox Machina sat with her until it was time to sleep.

…

The next day was a mad scramble. It began with an early morning battle against vampires. And then Vox Machina rushed to spread hope through all of Whitestone—dispersing word of a rebellion. The idea seemed impossible to the people of this world, because there’d hardly been a whisper of revolt before.

But Cassandra was there now. She shared hints that they may at last have a de Rolo on their side. Vox Machina drew the family crest wherever they went.

They also decided, based on who they’d spoken to, that killing Count Tylieri next would be the wisest choice. And they were still ambitious and cocky, so they aimed to target Vedmire’s mansion too. Things unfolded most interestingly from there—it seemed Scanlan’s urge to smash houses in the form of a triceratops was something that transcended all realities—and they achieved their goals.

Cassandra was followed by smoke through both fights. But she was trying hard not to think about that yet.

Once the nobles had been toppled, the whole town was erupting into rebellion, called forth by the fires that consumed the mansions—destroyed the symbols of their oppression. During a quick short rest, when her friends weren’t looking, Cassandra went after her own symbols of oppression. She opened her book to cross off the next two names. And found them already gone.

Then Vox Machina went to join the fray.

They slashed through the defences that’d been drawn out by the Briarwoods, yelling in sheer delight as a glowing, ethereal form appeared among throes of the Whitestone common folk: Pike Trickfoot.

The party was racing past the Sun Tree, in between two different brawls in different parts of the city, when they saw him. Percival de Rolo—or, more accurately, his corpse—was stalking toward them across the square. The distant army of skeletons and giants seemed to fade to nothing. All Cassandra could see was the drained, broken remnant of her brother, his blue eyes as dull as the pale stone their city was named for.

He was holding a gleaming contraption. And a voice within Cassandra stirred.

There it is. We need that. Cassandra, that’s what Percy wanted you to have. His final gift.

She was so wary of the voice now, it made her tremble just to feel it echo in her. But her eyes fixed on the weapon all the same. She knew this facsimile of life couldn’t have created it. Her brother was dead. Mindless. And this gun held nothing of his elegance and charm. It was purely functional.

Ripley, she thought.

She was so distracted; she didn’t quite process what it meant when Percy lifted the device in her direction.

Vex—always on alert—slammed her out of the way just in time, and the bullet tore through her shoulder instead, passing a thick pad of leather armour, and making her scream as bone shattered.

“Vex!” her twin brother yelled, diving to catch her.

The others took up defensive stances around Cassandra.

“Percy?” Cassandra called across the square. “Can you hear me?”

Percy’s lips jerked up—some false version of a smile. Yet he didn’t speak.

“It’s not him,” Pike said gently. The gnome was right beside Cassandra, still glowing. “I know enough about undead. He’s just a mimicry, Cassandra.”

“I know,” Cassandra said. “I just hoped…”

Percy fired the gun again. And things blurred into combat.

Grog ran toward the zombie, taking impacts to the chest, Trinket a step behind until one paw was blasted out from under him. Scanlan screamed an insult that seemed to almost break through the corpse and hit something inside. Vax, one arm around his sister, hurled a dagger…

Everyone was so focused; they almost missed the skeletons rising around them. And then their attention was torn to pieces, too many targets to keep their eyes on Percy, until it was down to Cassandra and her brother.

 She leapt toward him, ducking his attacks neatly—a rogue dancing on the balls of her feet.

“Cassandra!” Pike shouted, pinning a skeleton with her strong thighs while she and Scanlan smashed its head off. “Lady Briarwood is close! If she’s controlled Percy precisely enough for him to shoot, she must be within a certain range. If we’re quick, maybe we can—”

But the skeleton distracted her, bucking so hard she fell away, and then clutching Scanlan by the throat. Pike became effectively caught up in solving that.

Percy was reloading—so systematic and lacking in passion that Cassandra was finding it easier to see through the veneer of her brother’s familiar face.

She circled around, one hand drifting into her pocket, brushing against his glasses.

Tears sprung to her eyes. Percy deserved to die properly: whole and himself. He deserved to be free of this perverse reanimation—this corruption of the logical nature of the world that he’d once so relied on.

She inhaled deeply. There was a scream building inside her. She needed the weapon in his hand. She needed the thing her brother had worked so hard to dream up.

For now, she had to settle for her rapier.

She drew it from its sheath, its pure metallic edge ringing in such a satisfying way, it almost returned her to her own mind again. For one moment, she just felt like Cassandra—no revenge demon in her mind—ready to do what she did best.

But then Percy cocked the gun again. And longing and rage swept through her.

She launched herself toward him, smoke trailing off behind her. But he was quick, even for a zombie, some dexterity left over in an approximation of muscle memory. A bullet grazed Cassandra’s calf.

She screamed despite herself.

“You okay?” Pike called.

“Yeah!” She yelled, but she sounded breathless.

She could hear Keyleth, with the pounding feet of an elemental form, turning to run toward her. And then collide with a skeleton. Or three.

Next, the purple glimmer of Scanlan’s dimension door opened behind her dead brother.

But Percy whirled on him, and Cassandra remembered Lady Briarwood was somewhere nearby, so they couldn’t sneak up on this corpse by skipping his line of sight. The gun fired. Scanlan fell with a terrible screech.

Then Percy was facing her again. She pushed past the fire in her calf and rolled to her feet.

Once more, a shot rang through the air. Cassandra dodged it. Then dodged the next. And in moments, she was upon him. Her blade cut quick and hard as the frigid Whitestone river, slicing through Percy’s wrist, and sending his hand, clenched around the gun, clattering to the ground.

The corpse showed no emotion.

She bounced on light feet and aimed her next thrust. He just managed to dodge it, lurching toward the gun on the ground. She kicked him in the face.

Percy reeled back. His familiar, aristocratic nose was horribly cracked. But his spine straightened unnaturally in a single second. He looked her right in the face.

“Cassandra,” he said.

Her blood turned to ice.

Then her whole body began to boil. The sound of her name, coming from his mouth, yet not quite in his voice, was too much for her. It was unfair and underhanded and evil.

She turned into a whirlwind—became one with her dark smoke—her black rage.

She struck forth with her rapier, catching him across the stomach, across one thigh. He stumbled and tried to right himself, body falling apart. She drove her blade deep into the centre of his torso. But the corpse grabbed it in both hands, slicing his own palms open, and forced it out. He didn’t bleed.

Nevermind that, the voice inside her said, and she obeyed, releasing her rapier. Get the gun.

She fell back a step, and Percy was so occupied in removing her weapon that he didn’t prevent her from stealing his—didn’t take the opportunity to attack.

Cassandra had only seen a gun used once, a meme minute ago. But she was a fast learner.

She picked it up and aimed it toward the thing that used to be her brother. There was so much she wished she could say to him. So much she wished he could hear. So much she wished he could understand.

Instead, the only gift she could give him was a proper, complete death.

Yes, yes, yes, use it. Fire it. Kill him.

She wished she could block out the voice. She wished she could make this about the two of them—no call for vengeance in her heart. But Cassandra’s choices had been diminished to spare handfuls many years ago.

She fired the gun straight through his heart.

As he collapsed, she felt the smoke swirl round her faster, rushing with pure, elated joy. She sank to her knees, face streaming with tears, as the clouds of black decay finally siphoned off, retreating into her body.

She vaguely knew her friends were moving around her. But she couldn’t turn her head to see what was going on. She began to crawl toward her brother.

She looked at his shattered face, and his weary, worn body that had been a puppet far too long. She reached out with a shaking hand and brushed his fringe back from his forehead. She closed the empty eyes. Then she dug into her pocket and withdrew his gold framed glasses, resting them gently atop his broken nose.

The upright members of Vox Machina got to her then. Their fights were all done. Pike was running to heal those who couldn’t move, bending over Scanlan’s prone form.

“I’m sorry, dear,” Vex murmured, resting a hand on Cassandra’s shoulder.

Cassandra remembered Percy—her absurd older brother—calling people ‘dear’ like he was already an adult. She choked down a sob and stumbled awkwardly to her feet—gun in one hand, rapier in the other.

Keyleth whispered a question, and Cassandra nodded. The druid pulled up flames over Percy’s body—his ashes catching the wind, drifting over the Sun Tree. In the dead centre of Whitestone, he was finally free.

…

After several long minutes, the members of Vox Machina were all on their feet again, ready to move on—to weave their way through the smoky air toward the castle.

And when Vex felt a sharp, painful twinge as they left Percy’s body behind, she would only call it sympathy, unaware of the complex ties that wrenched her soul from an alternate world. 

…

Vox Machina took the secret passage to Whitestone castle, resting partway along to recover spells and heal. Cassandra drifted off to sleep first, completely drained of spirit. The others updated Pike on what had been happening. And when morning rolled around, they were on the move again.

They clambered out into the castle dungeons and found a lone prisoner locked in one of the cells. Thanks to Vex’ahlia’s reliably keen senses, it didn’t take long to discover who she was. One quick conversation and one dispel magic later, they were face to face with Dr. Anna Ripley.

“Please,” Ripley begged. “Allow me to explain.”

But Cassandra was in no headspace for a rational confrontation. Not after what happened with her brother. Certainly not with the new perverse weapon in her hand—some mixture of Percy’s innovative genius and the Doctor’s horrible clinical fascination. Her brain whirred through her options quickly, like scrawling a mental list.

She had no reason to keep Ripley alive. There were no hidden siblings in the castle that they needed to be led to.

Smoke poured from beneath Cassandra’s coat before she’d consciously decided what to do. Her emotions were so closed off that Orthax could rise up without any resistance. She raised her new weapon and slaughtered Ripley right there in the cell—using the woman’s own creation.

…

Vox Machina crept upstairs, Cassandra leading the way, though everything still felt like a blur. She knew she wanted to find her mother’s armour, so she cut a path toward her old chambers, hoping nothing had changed.

The oppressive gloom weighed down as they went; they found Professor Anders; Vax nearly died trying to fight him; he gathered the courage to tell Keyleth he loved her.

It was all a hazy cloud in Cassandra’s mind—like her whole vision had faded to periphery.

She took out her black notebook in front of everyone. Professor Ander’s name had already faded.

“How strange,” she muttered.

She found her old chambers, and sure enough, they were mostly untouched. It seemed the Briarwood’s interests weren’t invested in simply stealing from the de Rolos.

“This was your room?” Keyleth asked.

“Yeah,” Cassandra felt something squeezing deep inside her.

There was small, cheerful watercolour of her family framed on her desk. Her brother, Oliver, had painted it. He’d been an exceptional artist. She knew there was a scrap of paper tucked behind it too—a poem written by his twin sister, Whitney.

Cassandra’s breathing came out ragged. She turned on the spot.

On her bookshelf there was a small gathering of scruffy books, handed down from her oldest sister. Some she’d thumbed through a dozen times. Others had been far too convoluted for Cassandra, the baby of family, but she’d held on to them anyway. She’d adored them simply because they were from Vesper.

Beside the shelf was a battered wooden training sword, gifted by her eldest brother, Julius, along with a fond ruffle of her hair. If she was remembering right, he hadn’t actually cared much about fighting, but he’d seen the spark in Cassandra, and encouraged it from that moment on. He’d carved the family crest into the handle himself.

Cassandra could feel hot tears streaming down her face. The dam of emotion she’d slammed shut standing over Percy’s corpse was beginning to break.

On her windowsill, a dead plant had shrivelled in the sun. Its roots were cradled by a mound of dirt packed into a teacup. She remembered planting it with Ludwig, the second youngest de Rolo, on one of the rare days they hadn’t been squabbling. They’d been convinced they could make the small green shoot live forever. 

She went to the edge of her bed.

On her side table was a folded waistcoat. She picked it up, and let it fall open. It was beautiful—deep blue and intricately embroidered—in a traditional masculine style. It’d belonged to her father. She remembered stealing it the night of the Briarwood’s party in an act of spite, right after her parents informed her that she wouldn’t be allowed to stay downstairs for the whole evening. Perhaps she’d always been a little thief at heart.

As far as Cassandra knew, her father had never worked out what happened. He’d worn a different outfit to the feast. And then he hadn’t lived to solve to mystery.

She slid off her outer layer and pulled the waistcoat on. It was too big for her.

Still in tears, Cassandra crouched and reached an arm under the bed.

The first thing she hit was a biscuit tin. She pulled it out and stared. These were the treats she used to share with Percy—when she was lonely and sad and would sneak into his room. She held the box toward her friends, and Scanlan took it.

Then she went under one more time. And finally emerged with her mother’s armour.

She wasn’t meant to have it either. She’d stolen it along with the waistcoat that day. It had been her favourite thing her mother owned—beautifully crafted and durable—evidence that she was a bold, run-around fighter just like her youngest daughter.

Cassandra slid the cool plate over her clothes, shoving her father’s waistcoat inside.

“How does it look?” she asked her friends, through watery eyes.

“It fits perfectly,” said Pike.

Cassandra nodded. She bit down hard on her lip, and let her knees give way. She landed on her old bed, curled into herself, and allowed herself to weep. Her friends gathered close again. Some sat beside her, some reached out comforting hands. She could see even Grog furiously swiping away his tears.

“I forgot,” she whispered. “Exactly what my family was like. They were so special to me. We-we never said how much we loved each other. But I knew. They would do anything for me, they would spend time with me, they would think up the perfect gifts. I miss them.”

“We know,” Vax said gently. “We understand.”

And she knew it was true. So many of them had lost family along the way.

“I don’t want to lose myself,” Cassandra admitted. Her voice sounded very small. “I don’t want to kill and kill and kill to avenge them and distance myself from what they were in the process. Or distance myself from what I could become.”

No, cried a panicky voice in her head, you fool. You need me!

“Don’t call me a fool! I don’t need you!” she snapped.

Her friends flinched. But then they took in the distanced look in her eyes—worked out who she was speaking to. Pike whispered it to the slower members of the party, in case they hadn’t deduced it on their own. Cassandra could feel them tensing, ready to fight if need be.

 How will your family’s souls ever be at rest without me? If you don’t get revenge, you fail them.

“No,” Cassandra shook her head. “And their souls aren’t at rest anyway! Lady Brairwood played with Percy’s body like it was nothing.”

She could feel a hand rising up inside her. Grabbing tight to her throat.

So you’ll abandon Percy’s legacy? You’ll let the ones who took him from you and disrespected his corpse roam free around the world?

“Of course not. But I don’t need you to solve this.”

You think this new family can help you instead? All they are is a sorry replacement for what you might have had. They aren’t strong enough to help you. They barely even trust you. They look at you like you might be a monster.

Cassandra stood up. Some of her friends were on their feet already. Others waited like drawn bowstrings, hands at the ready, eyes on her, prepared for a signal. They weren’t worried she was evil. They were still waiting to follow her directions.

“You’re the monster they see,” Cassandra declared. “Not me. And I’ll be free of you.”

She saw something light up behind Scanlan’s eyes.

“Cassandra,” he said quickly. “That book you have—that list you mentioned. Did you write that for this creature? When you made your pact? Sometimes magic gets bound by something physical…”

It suddenly seemed so clear. Cassandra snatched her overcoat off the floor and tore the notebook from the pocket. It fell open to its most worn page again. There was black smoke swirling all around her now. The list was shifting before her eyes. New names poured into the blank space, in a desperate last attempt by a losing demon…

Keyleth of the Air Ashari, Vax’Ildan, Pike Trickfoot, Grog Strongjaw, Scanlan Shorthalt, Vex’ahlia…

“I won’t,” she said, shaking her head, turning the book so the others could see it. “I won’t hurt you. Remember what I said? The moment I threaten you, I’m not myself. Please. We’ve set everything else on fire. Burn this too.”

Keyleth’s hands erupted into flames, and she reached for the list.

Something took Cassandra’s body.

Of its own accord, her arm yanked the book out of Keyleth’s reach. She traded it with Percy’s gun, which was in the holster at her waist. And once the book was tucked away and the weapon was out, she pointed it toward the rest of Vox Machina.

But Cassandra was still fighting. She turned the gun with all her strength, pressing the barrel into her own chest instead.

No, the voice cried out, we had A DEAL!

“If this is what it takes for me to be free of you…” Cassandra said.

She could see the desperate fear and confusion in her friends’ eyes, but she meant what she said before. She wouldn’t let herself hurt them.

Something tore free at the base of her skull. The smoke around her manifested into a clearer shape—a stark, humanoid figure engulfing her entirely. Then looming over her. Then growing larger, larger, larger, filling the entire room. It had a strange, beaklike face. A wicked, gravelly growl emanated from deep inside.

Her nightmare was alive.

“Cassandra, duck!” yelled Vex.

She fired two arrows right into Orthax. Followed quickly by a lightning blast from Scanlan, which passed harmlessly through the form.

“Oh, fuck you!” Scanlan said.

Orthax tilted his head to one side, as though it was amusing.

“You shouldn’t double-cross me, Cassandra,” he hissed, his horrible voice finally heard by all.

And the fight went on. The demon phased in and out of the walls. He threatened in his shadowy tones. He played with minds—turned them on each other.

But each time, they broke through. They fought back.

Until, at last, the beat him into the ground. With horrible growl, Trinket loomed right over him. He took one glance back—at Vex, who he loved, and at Cassandra, the girl with the gentle voice who always saved him the best table scraps. And the enormous bear took Orthax’s head in his mouth, and crunched down with all the power in his jaw.

Cassandra let out a small, shocked gasp as all the darkness shot back toward her, absorbed into the usual shadow cast at her feet.

She turned to Keyleth—pulled the notebook out of her holster, and hurled it across the room. Keyleth’s hands lit up with fire just in time to catch it, and the whole thing went up in flames. At the exact same moment, Cassandra felt something extinguish inside her.

The kernel of cold imbedded deep in her gut was finally gone.  

…

The rest went fairly smoothly. They avoided the Briarwood’s traps, because Cassandra recognised them. Long ago, when she’d killed the man who served Ripley, he’d told her about some of the baited devices the doctor was inventing. The buttons in the room of acid didn’t fool her. Instead, she led Vox Machina back out of the room, and searched for the place where the acid was stored.

“I need your help with this,” she said to Scanlan.

The overhanging space was too small for her to enter. But this needed to be done.

“Of course,” he said. “Just say the word,”

“Take Percy’s gun up there and drop it in the acid.”

“Really?”

 “Yes.” Cassandra squared her shoulders. “That- that demon was obsessed with the gun. He tried to convince me that the best way to honour Percy was to spread his designs and craft more weapons. But now I doubt Percy ever would have wanted that.” She sighed. “I do believe he was thinking through the theory—inventing the concept. After all, Ripley was fascinated by him from the moment the Briarwoods arrived. But Percy never made one himself. Why should I keep it? It’s not really his.”

Scanlan nodded.

“Oh—and try not to touch the acid!” Cassandra called.

Grog gave the gnome a boost, and moments later, the deed was done.

…

Vox Machina made their way to the ziggurat. And at last, the final fight began.

Cassandra was the master of her own mind during the whole thing—managing to shake off the Briarwoods attempts to magically charm her through sheer psychological stubbornness. She wouldn’t lose herself so soon after killing Orthax.

At one point, Cassandra ended up facing Delilah head-on, with Scanlan and the twins darting in and out of the fray around her. She could hear Pike and Keyleth distracting Sylas with flashes of light, and Grog roaring in frustration.

“Why?” Cassandra spat through gritted teeth, unable to help herself. “Why use Percival like that?”

Delilah raised one perfect brow.

“Well, we let him die because we thought we’d still catch you.” She hurled a paralyzing enchantment in Vax’s direction. “When we realised you were gone, we went back for Percival, and found Father Reinall beginning a complex resurrection ritual.”

Cassandra eyes went wide. There was no way Father Reinall had survived that. Most likely, that’s why the temple to Pelor had been in ruins.

She tried to hit Delilah with her rapier again, and missed. Slashed it backward, and Delilah launched out of the way.

“I believe, if your brother hadn’t already passed beyond the veil, he’d have been healed and vanished when we got there. Luckily, the old cleric needed a little more time.”

“So you killed him?”

“I killed him.” Delilah chuckled. “I’m a necromancer, Cassandra. I wasn’t about to let him complete that ridiculous gift of life—not when I could simply reanimate Percival’s corpse and a gain a willing servant of my own.”

Cassandra’s next thrust caught her across the shoulder.

The battle continued.

In this world, as in the other, Sylas was the first to die. Though, perhaps, he preferred things that way—protecting his wife to the last.

Tears streamed down Delilah’s face as she screamed.

“You can't! I broke the world for us! No!”

And after that, she scrambled madly to cast her final spell—to complete the ritual—even though she was still afraid it might be too early.

Vox Machina raced to the platform, trying desperately to prevent whatever magic was unfolding. But as fast as they were, they couldn’t stop Delilah. Her ritual was done. The orb and the blood spun and spun and spun. And shrunk down almost to nothing.

And Delilah let loose an agonised cry.

"No, no, no,” she begged. “It can't be too soon! Please, please... please..."

She fell to her knees in defeat.

But there were still a few problems. Their magic, it seemed, wasn’t working anymore. Whether it was the orb of the ziggurat itself, none were sure. But they searched quickly for their scattered possessions, ready to leave.

Grog picked up Lord Briarwood’s sword and tried to hand it to Cassandra.

“No thanks,” she said, patting her rapier. “This is more my style. You can keep it.”

He nodded, and tossed it in the bag of holding.

They dragged Lady Briarwood with them out of the room.

Cassandra, who was still the same young desperate girl who’d read law books like they’d save her life, insisted on a proper trial and execution in front of the whole town. Alongside the other main oppressors who stood with the Briarwoods. She understood, free from her demon at last, that this wasn’t just her revenge. The people stuck in the city had suffered even more than she had. This belonged to them as well.

…

A few days later, Vex found Cassandra standing in the main hall of the castle. On the wall in front of here, there was a huge oil painting of the de Rolo family, which had just been reinstalled.

“You okay?” Vex asked gently, sidling up next to her. “Things have been busy.”

“Yeah,” Cassandra said.

She reached a hand toward the painting, and brushed her fingers over the surface.

“This was my Mother and Father,” she said, pointing them out to Vex. “And this was Julius, the oldest, and Vesper, who was second. Here’s Lugwig, just older than me. And the twins: Oliver and Whitney. And then there’s Percy. You’ve seen Percy. Kind of.”

A small shiver went down Vex's spine. 

“He looks happier here," she said. "Standing beside you."

And her voice was choked with emotion, her eyes wet with tears. Cassandra swiped moisture from her own cheeks.

“Sometimes,” she whispered. “I wonder if it should have been him. If he should have survived.”

“You can’t think like that, Cassandra,” Vex said. “This is just what happened. There’s no should.”

“Still…”

Cassandra trailed off. Percy’s painted eyes were wise and sparkling blue. She wanted to talk to him so badly.

“You know, there’s this theory,” Vex told her. “That there are millions of possible realities. Maybe there’s a version of this story where Percy survived, and you were the one he lost. Maybe there’s one where both of you escaped. But Cassandra, this is your world. You can only do your best.”

Cassandra reached for Vex's hand, and squeezed it.

“Where did you hear that?”

“Not sure,” Vex said. “I must have read it somewhere.”

And Cassandra knew that, even with the de Rolos gone, she still had a family.