Grabbe Goyle had once spent three straight weeks mediating a dispute over fishing rights.
The dispute had ended when one fisherman, a barrel-chested man named Sven whose family had worked the waters for four generations, attempted to settle the matter by throwing a trout through the other man's window. The trout—a particularly large salmon, actually, though the distinction had been lost in the ensuing chaos—had sailed through the glass, landed on the dinner table, and sparked a brawl that involved another family entirely, two constables, and one very confused sheep.
It remained, to this day, one of the strangest experiences of Grabbe's political career.
Unfortunately, it no longer ranked in the top ten.
Grabbe sat behind his desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin, elbows pressed into the worn leather blotter that had belonged to his predecessor and his predecessor before that. The office smelled of old paper, stale coffee, and the slight brine that always drifted up from the harbor no matter if the windows were open or not. A portrait of Patch's founding mayor hung crookedly behind him—he really ought to straighten it one of these days—and the bookshelves bowed under the weight of decades of municipal records, most of which had not been touched since before the turn of the century.
He stared at the woman seated across from him.
Summer Rose.
The same Huntress who had vanished years ago without a trace, and whose memorial now stood overlooking the sea, a modest stone marker where residents still left flowers. The same Summer Rose whose husband had mourned her with an obvious grief that never fully healed, and whose death had become one of those sad stories everyone in Patch knew but nobody openly discussed.
And yet here she sat, alive, looking considerably older than she should, with lines around her eyes that hadn't been there before and a stillness in her posture that reminded Grabbe of soldiers he had met during the Faunus Rights Revolution.
Grabbe wasn't entirely sure how that last part worked. Then again, he wasn't entirely sure how any of this worked.
His office, usually a place of mundane concerns—zoning disputes, budget allocations, and the eternal question of who was graffitiing the public latrines—had become a stage for the impossible.
"...so that's the condensed version," Summer finished, her voice slightly hoarse from talking.
Grabbe blinked.
The condensed version.
The woman had just spent twenty minutes explaining—in a manner he could only describe as aggressively casual—how she had died, been resurrected in another world, fought monsters the size of buildings, become a king—or lord, whatever the bloody difference was—helped repair the fabric of reality itself, married a supposed goddess, and then somehow found her way back home.
And apparently that was the condensed version.
His left eye twitched.
He could feel the tiny, persistent spasm beneath the brow, having started somewhere around the mention of "Destined Death" and had not stopped since, and resisted the urge to massage it.
"Mrs. Rose."
"Yeah?"
"I don't believe a single word you just said."
Summer nodded immediately. There was no offense in her expression or attempt at defense, only the weary acceptance of someone who had told this story before and knew exactly how it sounded.
It somehow made it worse.
Grabbe finally rubbed both hands down his face, feeling the scratch of his stubble against his palms. He had not slept well last night. The tremors had kept him awake, and then when the city rose, he doubted anyone else had slept well either.
"I mean no offense," he said, lowering his hands.
"None taken."
"But from my perspective, you have just informed me of a story that belongs in games." He frowned, repeating, “Games.”
Summer chewed her lower lip. "…When you put it like that, it does sound fantastical."
Grabbe stared at her, and Summer winced.
"Okay, it sounds like a fabricated story."
"Thank you."
The office fell silent, and Grabbe's gaze finally drifted toward the second occupant seated beside Summer. The woman had remained almost entirely silent throughout the explanation, offering only the occasional nod or small, unreadable smile. That alone made him nervous.
Most politicians he knew couldn't stop talking. They filled the silence like water filled cracks, desperate to fill every gap with words. This woman had spent the better part of half an hour simply observing the room, observing him, and not in a threatening way either, despite what his nerves were telling him.
She sat perfectly straight despite leaning lightly upon a polished wooden staff carved with symbols he didn't recognize. Golden hair cascaded over her shoulders like liquid sunlight, so pale it was almost white in certain angles, and her simple black dress somehow looked more regal than the formal attire of half the councilmen Grabbe knew. She wore no jewelry, no crown, or visible marks of status, and yet power radiated from her like heat from a stove.
Most unsettling were her eyes.
They were ancient, and oh so very tired.
Summer noticed Grabbe's stare. "Oh."
She sat up slightly, adjusting her white cloak where it had bunched against the armrest. The garment looked travel-worn and was stained in places, but it moved with a weight that suggested quality beneath the grime.
"Right,” she started. "Grabbe, there's somebody I should formally introduce."
The pit in his stomach deepened.
The woman beside Summer folded her hands neatly in her lap. Her fingernails were clean, unpolished, and her skin bore faint cracks—like old porcelain glued back together—that caught the light when she moved.
Summer cleared her throat.
"This is Marika."
Grabbe nodded politely, immediately falling back on the manners his mother had drilled into him decades ago. "Pleasure to meet you."
Summer continued.
"The Eternal Queen."
Grabbe blinked.
The title hung in the air between them, heavy and absurd.
"...Of?" he managed.
"The Lands Between."
"...Right."
Summer winced. "The vessel of the Elden Ring."
Grabbe frowned. "I don't know what that means."
"Most people here don't."
"Fair."
Summer rubbed the back of her neck. Her hand lingered there for a moment, as though she was gathering courage.
"And the one true goddess of the Golden Order."
Silence.
“Formerly of the Golden Order. We now reign over the Perfect Order in honor of the Everbrillant Goldmask whose rune was used to piece back together the Elden Ring within me, at the cost of his life,” she corrected.
Absolute silence.
Grabbe looked at Summer, then at Marika. This was the same goddess in the story…?
Marika smiled politely.
It was not a reassuring smile.
Grabbe looked at Summer again. "A goddess."
"The one true goddess of the Lands Between, yes."
Grabbe pointed a trembling finger at Marika. "That one."
"Yes,” Summer replied with another nod.
A clock ticked somewhere behind him. An antique his wife had insisted on keeping, though it had never kept accurate time. Outside, gulls cried over the harbor, their calls loud and screechy.
Grabbe slowly reached for the glass of water on his desk. His hand was steady, he noted with some surprise. Nerves, apparently, could not overpower pure muscle memory.
"Mrs. Rose."
"Yeah?"
"I would like you to understand that I am making a genuine effort here."
Summer's expression softened. "I know."
"I truly am."
"I know you are."
"I am attempting to be open-minded."
"You are doing great."
"I do not feel like I am doing great."
Summer nodded sympathetically. "Also fair."
Grabbe inhaled deeply, drawing the stale office air into his lungs before exhaling slowly. The spasm beneath his eye had spread to his jaw, but it might have been because he was unintentionally clenching his teeth.
Then he turned toward Marika.
The woman inclined her head politely, the motion regal despite the simple greeting. "My Lord Mayor."
The voice surprised him.
It was warm, not at all what he expected from someone who claimed to be a straight up deity. There was a lilt to it, an accent he couldn't place. Something equally as old as her eyes.
"I realize the circumstances surrounding my arrival are... unconventional."
Grabbe barked out a laugh. Unconventional. That was one way to describe it. Another way would be "cataclysmic." Another would be "apocalyptic."
"Nevertheless, I thank thee for receiving us."
Grabbe frowned. "Us?"
Marika gestured gracefully toward Summer. "My Lord and I."
Summer immediately looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her whole. Her face flushed a deep red, and she seemed to shrink into her chair, suddenly fascinated by a loose thread on her sleeve.
Grabbe stared, then pinched the bridge of his nose so hard he saw stars.
"Right."
A pause.
"That is another thing I am choosing not to think about.”
Summer groaned. The sound was muffled, half buried in her hands.
Marika looked faintly amused, her cracked lips twitching.
Grabbe decided he preferred when she wasn't amused. Amusement, on that ancient face, felt oddly dangerous.
"So,” he started, pointing toward Summer. "You're alive."
Summer lowered her hands. "Yes."
He pointed toward Marika.
"You're apparently a goddess-queen."
Marika nodded. "Correct."
He pointed toward the window, toward the city visible even now beyond the rooftops. "And there are foreign soldiers currently standing outside my town and are yours. Armed and dangerous."
Summer nodded again. "Also yes."
"Armed with sword-length spears," Grabbe added, because that detail had lodged itself in his brain and refused to leave. "Very large, very sharp, and very... gold."
"Among the finest in my service," Marika offered, a hint of pride in her tone of voice.
"That is not comforting."
"It was not meant to be."
Grabbe leaned back in his chair. The wooden frame creaked beneath him, his old joints complaining. He had inherited this chair from the previous mayor, who had inherited it from the one before that, and it had served through budget crises, weather emergencies, and one memorable incident involving a goat in the town hall. It had never before served through an interdimensional diplomatic crisis.
"Wonderful," he said flatly.
The silence stretched, but neither woman appeared particularly bothered by it. Summer gazed at the ceiling as though searching for answers in the water stains, and Marika examined the bookshelf behind him with polite interest, her gaze lingering on the worn spines.
Which meant the responsibility for processing all this apparently belonged to him.
As usual.
Grabbe sighed. The sound came from somewhere deep in his chest, a release of tension that accomplished nothing. Then another realization struck him.
A particularly horrible realization.
Slowly, carefully, he looked at Summer. His mouth opened.
"Mrs. Rose."
"Yeah?"
"When you say 'the Lands Between'..."
The Huntress immediately closed her eyes, her shoulders tensing as if she knew what was coming.
That reaction did not inspire confidence.
Grabbe pointed toward the harbor, toward the dark smudge of the city visible on the horizon. "Towns?"
"Yes."
"Cities?"
"Yes."
"People?"
"Lots."
"Governments?"
Summer visibly hesitated. Her lips pressed together as she looked at Marika, who gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
Marika answered instead. "Several."
Grabbe froze.
Several.
Not one. Not two. Several.
Several governments. Several populations. Several armies. Several cultures.
"You mean to tell me," he said slowly, enunciating each word as though speaking to a child, "that my initial conclusion was wrong and our new neighbor isn't one but multiple cities. A new continent. That our world just got significantly larger."
Neither woman answered immediately, which was enough, and Grabbe suddenly understood why politicians went gray.
He had always wondered, watching old councilmen shuffle through meetings with their silver hair and tired smiles. Now he knew. It was moments like this. Moments when the world revealed itself to be larger and stranger and more complicated than anyone had ever imagined.
After several long seconds, he slumped back into his chair. The leather sighed beneath him.
"...I am going to need significantly more paper. Given what has occurred at Beacon Academy, anything can happen."
To his surprise, Marika smiled, and since the meeting started, it wasn't the polished expression of a politician or the guarded courtesy of a stranger.
"That," she said gently, "is the most reasonable response."
For some reason, that worried Grabbe more than anything else she'd said all afternoon.
He sat with the feeling for a moment, letting it settle into his bones. He was even about to finally let the tension ease from him, when Summer suddenly spoke up.
"Wait."
He looked up at the Huntress.
"What exactly happened to Beacon Academy?"