The next day was not much better. Maybe it wasn’t even a day, it could have been two, he had no way of knowing exactly how much time had passed. The Armours made their rounds. One went east to west, and one went west to east, in a staggered pattern, so the other patrol passed by exactly halfway through the other patrol’s routine. Reinhardt could use that to tell time. Not that time mattered to a dead person. But it was the only thing he could do. Just float there, counting patrols. He began to measure “days” as the time between drowning in one miasma of thought to coming back to reality. He didn’t seem to need to “sleep,” so he had plenty of time to think about his predicament. The working theory was that his had been absorbed by the Animated Armour, and that was why he was locked in place, floating over the Armour. He couldn’t look down to confirm it.

  The next day was worse. He had led his friends into this place. His was what drove them to risk sneaking through the castle, and their greed had kept them tugging at a piece of metal and wood when they knew they had only seconds to escape. They shouldn’t have even tried to grab all the flatware from the High Table, but the lure of silver had caused them to be reckless. If he had been stronger, or faster, or hadn’t blinked once he had realised death was looming. If he had grabbed the Innate, if he had trained harder in school… This went on for at least five, or maybe seven patrol cycles.

  The next day was the worst one yet. A constant montage of his mother, father, Elke and Leopold, Hapthor and Hrilda, and Emmaline played in his mind. Sometimes one at a time, sometimes in pairs. Sometimes he imagined them coming together to mourn the loss of their sons. Sometimes he heard harsh voices, each parent blaming and accusing the others of being at fault. Each one visited him personally and alone to lament his death. His family sat with him for a time, lamenting his life, and what could have been. Reinhardt wept. This went on for another seven or eight rounds of patrols.

  The next day was torturous. His family, and his friends’ families were back - well, they never left. Only now, they had turned their anger and recriminations on Reinhardt personally. They railed and fumed and stormed at him, blaming him for being greedy, for being weak, for not being smart and cautious. Gustav and Aline yelled and screamed and cried that he broke his promises, he had lied, and he had cost them their son. Hapthor and Hrilda raged and seethed that he had killed their only boy, their only child. Emmaline could only cry. Otto was her only child, the last gift from a husband that had been taken from her. If he could, he would have hung his head. Reinhardt wept. At least ten patrols finished their rounds.

  The next day they left him alone with the weight of his friends’ deaths. He had the idea, twenty two or thirty patrols ago, that if his had been absorbed by the Animated Armour that had killed him, and he was “aware,” then it stood to reason they were too, bound to the Armours that had killed them. He had spent a full four patrols yelling for them to respond. In the end he was just crying for anyone to respond. His voice was hoarse and croaky, and it hurt to yell, but he did it for as long as he could. No one responded. Not even the Armours in the Hall reacted. This continued for another five or seven patrols.

  The next day, Otto and Magdi came to call. He had been dreading their visit. He was sure they’d blame him. Otto could disrupt the Armours, and Magdi had killed one on his own, and one with assistance. He was the weak link - he had failed to defend his side, then seized up and died. But they were surprisingly gentle about it all. They had all agreed to come in here, they had all agreed to the plan, they had every opportunity to turn back before the Castle. They both knew they should have run instead of going for the shield. They consoled him as best they could, joked with him and tried to keep his spirits up. Otto spent a good long while theorising what Enchantment the Magic shield had. Reinhardt proposed his idea about weapons, tools, equipment and Dungeon

  It was almost another dozen patrols until something happened. Reinhardt was talking in circles and rehashing old theories, but getting nowhere. That all changed very suddenly. He was floating there, discussing with himself the minutiae of how affected the SoulEssence WAS the SoulSoulsEssence shadows condemned to float around with their killer, silently watching and thinking about whether they were dead or aware enough to be considered alive? He was saved from needing to explore or refute this concept by a sudden shift. Quite suddenly, his head whipped around to the left. The Armour opposite him snapped its head to the right. He was looking up at the High Table for once. He almost cried tears of joy. He had been watching two banners, a carved pillar and an Animated Armour for over fifty patrol cycles. This was something new. He floated forward a step, then began to float up toward the High Table.

  It was hard to pick out, but a dark shape slid from the shadows of the back wall, and around the throne. As the figure came out from behind the tall chair back, his face came into the light. Reinhardt continued to float forward, the other Animated Armours matched him for speed. The man grabbed the chalice from the Lord’s setting, threw all the silver cutlery into the golden cup and dropped the lot into a satchel at his side. He turned, maybe to continue through the west passage, just like they had originally planned. In front of Reinhardt, a blade floated into view.

  “Franz!” He yelled as loud as he could, which was no louder than his normal speaking voice. Still, he had to have been heard. Franz the town drunk jumped as though he’d taken a to the rear. He spun, eyes wide and darting. His normally ruddy complexion was drained of all colour. His eyes found Reinhardt’s. Franz’s face went a distinct shade of green. For a good long moment, they stared at each other. Reinhardt in hope, Franz in horror. Then Reinhardt noticed the Halberdiers had almost reached the High Table.

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  “RUN!’ he screamed, his face twisting in anguish. Imagine being the reason Franz died here. The croaking whisper of his voice broke and cracked, but it was enough to shock Franz from his stupor. He dashed back to the Butler’s Passage and disappeared, slamming the door behind him. Reinhardt almost laughed in relief. Franz had obviously done this enough that he’d get out ok.

  As the door slammed it rebounded slightly, and the Halberdiers took up position on either side of the door frame. The others just stood there. Reinhardt had also stopped floating forward. At least he was now looking at six Animated Armours, The High Table, and the Armament Composition. He was just thankful to be looking at something else. It took until the marching feet of the next patrol to rouse him from his malaise. Franz had heard him - reacted to his voice. He had him - looked right into his eyes. Then he couldn’t have been absorbed, he had to be visible in some way. Although Franz had reacted like he had seen a ghost. Maybe his disembodied was terrifying to behold. Obviously Franz had never seen anything like it in the Dungeon

  He floated there, feeling a new wave of loneliness. This had been an exciting development, but didn’t really help him. With nothing else happening, he stood there looking at the spot where he had been decapitated. There was no blood, no body, no head. All absorbed by the DungeonNoblemanAdventurerDungeon

  Why was that so significant? He could hear Otto’s voice, when they were discussing how to structure their runs. It was something about item generation, and how “items that generated but remained within the Dungeon Dungeon Regeneration. Unless they were being worn or carried, of course.” That’s what Otto had said. Once a Magical piece of equipment generated, it would remain there until removed and held through DungeonRegeneration. If it was unheld or unclaimed during the process, it would return to the place it generated. Not just picked up and then discarded elsewhere, it must be out of the DungeonRegeneration cycle entirely. Then, another had a chance to generate in its place. 80% chance of always Magical. Since the Dungeoneer’s advice was to steal the silverware and skip the rest of the room in its entirety, maybe no-one had ever noticed? He studied the arranged blades, looking for any tell-tale signs of Magic, or perhaps a higher grade.

  Another patrol marched past before he noticed it. He started at the hilts, looking for a unique pommel, but each matched its twin opposite. Grip, crossguard or quillions, and ricasso if it had one, were all identical. It wasn’t until he was reconsidering his hypothesis and felt just about ready to return to his musing on the nature of Soulsseemed the same as its twin, so it was likely was different to its counterpart. The DungeonDungeonsK?ninglünd Kerkerder die InnungRegenerations would have swept through the Dungeon

  Reinhardt pondered upon this for a while, but none of it really scratched the itch in the middle of his mind. It wasn’t until the process swept through, and he finally got to witness how it worked, that the implications hit him. He had enough time to see the Lord’s place settings start to get re-woven by tiny motes of teal-blue light, like a tapestry on a loom. The flatware was identical, but the chalice was in a slightly different style. The agitation in his mind ramped up, and Reinhardt interrogated his brain. The sharp clear memory of Magdi snatching up a goblet came to mind. It was a slightly different style to the one Franz had taken. It was different to the one being generated now. The shield was different, and one of the swords was Magical.

  That meant that Magdi still had his goblet in his possession, and Otto still had the Regeneration cycle.

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