Ch. 410 - A Creeping Feeling

It wasn’t a demon. Simon was sure of that much. A demon wouldn’t have known his name. Anthroditen certainly didn’t. He’d called Simon Enis in their last encounter because that was the name that Simon had given him. 

None of those facts made the moment any less terrifying. I can’t control my hand. It could slit my throat in my sleep. It could write a word of power and blow us up. Simon thought as his frightened mind jumped from fear to fear in a panic. No, it could write the words and summon a demon or drag us all into hell. 

‘It could,’ the hand agreed in flowing script. ‘I could destroy you, your squire, and this whole inn, Simon, but why would I need to do that when you’re your own worst enemy? You kill everyone you—’

Simon pulled his hand away from the page by standing and then reached for his belt with the hand that was still obeying him. He tried to bring his hand under his control, but he couldn’t, so instead he looped his belt around his wrist and then tightened it so that it was immobilized.

Even then, it struggled, though, and Simon started to wonder if it might be able to use a magic gesture even now. That was concerning, but not as concerning as…

He’d looked back toward Varten, only to be shaken awake by his squire and bolt upright in bed. “Master… you were having a nightmare like I’d never seen before,” he said, instantly defensive as Simon looked around the room like a frightened animal. Simon could see the boy was afraid that he’d done something wrong, but that wasn’t the case at all. He’d done exactly the right thing. “I thought maybe it was demons or evil magic from one of those books and—”

“You did good,” Simon answered, hugging him tightly. “You did exactly the right thing.”

“Was it just a nightmare then?” Varten asked. The way he stiffened at Simon’s gesture showed how uncomfortable he was at the hug, so Simon released him, but he didn’t want to. While he wouldn’t say he had real affection for the boy, right now, he was overwhelmed with gratitude that the moment had been a dream and not reality. 

It might still be some terrible prophetic foreshadowing, he told himself as he glanced down at his numb hand. Just because nothing had happened yet didn’t mean nothing would happen. 

Simon didn’t fall asleep again that night. Even after his apprentice went to bed, he stayed awake and kept his numb hand where he could keep an eye on it. It didn’t so much as twitch, though, for better or worse, and by sunrise, it was once again entirely under his control.

After that, they went even faster than before. There was no way he’d get through half the books he’d wanted to read, but whatever was happening scared him a lot more than the idea that he might miss out on a new word of power. The only bright side was that when he finally got around to checking the mirror one night by the campfire, he saw that the level progression was still intact. He hadn’t ruined anything with this dangerous sidequest. 

Still, that was no excuse to dawdle. They stopped staying at inns when they weren’t convenient, and rode on harder than before. Simon didn’t explain why to Varten, and the boy never asked, but Simon could see his concern. If he noticed the way that Simon bound his hand tightly each night, he didn’t ask about that, either. He just did as he was told with a worried expression. 

When they reached the Broken Tower four days later, the shadow had grayed as it spread almost to his elbow. This time, he didn’t endure the purity protocols that the Unspoken favored and instead forced a meeting with his Master immediately. No one was happy about that, not the gate guard or the man himself, but repeating the words ‘demon,’ and ‘open gateway to hell,’ tended to push past resistance, and though Simon was forced practically at sword point to stay in the same chapel, the guard promised, “Someone will be here within the hour to speak with you.”

That was better than nothing. Normally, Simon worked hard to fly below the radar and avoid drawing attention to himself, but right now, secrecy was less important than certainty. He needed to know what was happening to him, and the Unspoken were the people most likely to know the answer to that. 

Master Harrin arrived only half an hour later, when Varten had just finished helping Simon remove his armor. The man was as gruff as ever, but when he saw the scorched platemail, his expression softened. 

“What did you find? Who was Mr. Dekarlo in league with?” he asked. 

“No one that matters,” Simon answered with a shake of his head. “This was someone else, Lord Marhew.”

Simon could see that the name had no meaning to the steel-haired Master, so he continued. “He was a noble near the docks. While I was investigating the mission you sent me on, he abducted my squire for—”

“Your squire?” he asked, turning to regard Varten. The intensity with which he looked at the boy made it clear he was using the sight to see right through him. 

“What did he do to him?” the Master demanded. 

Simon put his hand between the old man and the boy, not to physically protect him, but to distract the man. Simon didn’t know exactly how clear Master Harrin’s sight was, but the strange striations were dark enough and clear enough that anyone with the right gaze should be able to tell something was amiss. 

That was exactly what happened. Instantly, the Master’s gaze shifted from the boy to the hand, and Simon explained everything. “Nothing happened to Varten or the other children the man planned to sacrifice," Simon explained. “I interrupted and pushed him into hell. I even took care of a few other warlocks in his employ and had those who served him but said nothing about the man’s dark deeds hanged. Unfortunately, as I did so, I had a brush with darkness myself.”

“I can see that,” Master Harrin agreed. “Was this a spell, or…”

“I believe during our struggle my finger tips passed beyond the veil and into hell itself,” he admitted, drawing an audible gasp from his squire. Varten had clearly suspected something, but not this. “I clearly came within inches of falling in there myself, but by some miracle I was spared.”

“Your fingertips?” he raised an eyebrow. “And now it’s spread all the way to…” he gestured toward Simon’s elbow. The way he didn’t come close to touching him unnerved Simon almost as much as the sense that he was at a loss for words. 

“That’s right,” Simon agreed, filling in the silence. “A little more every day,” he decided to leave the numb part out, because he didn’t like the suspicious colors that were starting to color Master Harrin’s otherwise white aura. “It was pitch black at first, but now it's just a dark gray, and I want to purify myself before it spreads.”

“I—” For once, the man seemed to be at a loss for words. “I will inform the Grandmaster. He will know what to do. Purify yourself until then, and then—”

“Wait, you’ve never seen this before?” Simon interrupted, stunned. 

The man looked like he wanted to admonish Simon, but instead he said, “I’m sure he has. Be patient, Sir Enis, and we will find an answer to this together. Whether it’s fasting or prayer, we will find…”

Simon stopped listening to him. In that moment, all he wanted to do was whisper the words of soul repair, Delzam Eszloum. He didn’t know if it would work. He’d never tried it before. If it didn’t, he could try words of soul healing or even alteration after that. Suddenly, the man he’d come here to get answers from was leaving, and worse, the words he’d said about being sure were a lie. Only the knowledge that he’d spoil his sight entirely restrained him. 

Knights probably don’t usually survive run-ins with demons, Simon reminded himself. The only kind of victory in that situation would be Pyrrhic. 

Before Simon could decide if that was worth it or not, though, Varten turned on him with angry tears flashing in his eyes. “You almost fell into hell… You were tainted by it, and you didn’t tell me?” he demanded. 

Simon could have snapped him back into line then, but he didn’t. Instead, he gave a tired shrug and said, “I was hoping to find the solution before you had to find out about the problem.” 

That answer didn’t please his squire at all, but they talked through it for a while, until they were summoned again. Simon was grateful for that, because it was starting to get dark, and he’d much rather have this discussion before his arm went dead. 

This time, they were both summoned to a large meeting room where all of the masters were in attendance. Simon hadn’t been here in some time, but he wasn’t intimidated by the nine elders sitting at the table across from him. Instead of worrying, he repeated his story. 

Judging by the colors of the reaction, some of them seemed to have heard similar stories before, but others rippled with surprise. The Grandmaster’s aura told him almost nothing. The most Simon could see there was interest, though when he asked if Simon had “strange dreams, or any other symptoms,” his heart almost stopped. 

“I’ve had troubled sleep,” Simon admitted, which was as far as he cared to take that line. “But I’m much more interested in purging this taint than I am at—”

“We should cut the arm off, and treat it like the spiritual gangrene it is,” Master Warow interrupted. That wasn’t the first time that particular idea had been brought up, but it wasn’t popular, and set the old men to debating again for a time. 

Some indicated that it could invalidate Sir Enis’s destiny. Others thought that it was unnecessary, and prayer would be enough. Simon didn’t like any of those answers, and while he didn’t want to lose the arm, it apparently had some historical precedent, and it seemed better than losing his soul while people argued about things. 

If this keeps up, I’ll lose control of my whole body every night, Simon told himself. Nothing good will come from that. 

In the end, despite his testimony and his squire’s, they were told to return to the chapel. “We will make a decision tomorrow,” they promised him. 

That was normal enough. What was less normal was that they were escorted back by armed knights, and that when they returned, guards were posted at the exits of the purification chapel. 

Simon noticed almost immediately that his weapon and armor had been taken. That was disturbing. They hadn’t bothered with his squire’s, but the fact that they’d taken his said a lot. Whether it said that they were borrowing them to make needed repairs, or that they no longer trusted him with them, though, he couldn’t say. 

Ch. 411 - For Your Own Good

Even after he noted the presence of the guards and the missing armor, Simon wasn’t sure his instincts were correct. It wasn’t until the stone silence he shared with his squire was interrupted by the sound of rough wood scraping against the door they’d just come in through that he was certain. The door was being barred, and he was as much a prisoner as a white cloak now. 

That changed things quite a bit. He wasn’t quite at their mercy, of course, since he kept a bazooka in his back pocket, even if he was loath to use it. Still, as he sat down, his gaze drifted to his left arm, lying there half dead. He could still bend it at the elbow, but in a few more nights, well, he wasn’t entirely sure about that. 

Would cutting it off even matter? Would it change anything? He wondered. My soul should be my soul regardless. It might just accelerate the process. 

In that moment, he regretted not cutting off the tainted fingers the day it had happened with a meat cleaver. He’d been in denial. Really, what had happened to him shouldn’t have even been possible. 

The soul reflected the experiences of the owner, normally. Their head or their heart might contain different collars, and those with the blackest deeds might have blood on their hands in a nearly literal sense, but on the whole, you were either good, bad, or somewhere in between. 

If Simon’s soul hadn't glowed so brightly, it might have been hard to tell what was happening, but it was glowing at over a third of a million experience now, according to the mirror, which really showed how much good he’d done over the last few years. Only the darkness of his left arm stained that, which meant it needed to go. 

He made up his mind. Fortunately, there was still one sword available to him. It was just a matter of convincing Varten that he wasn’t crazy. 

Do you really need to traumatize the poor kid? He asked himself. Surely if I just wait until morning, they’ll send a proper man with an axe to do it themselves. 

He wanted to believe that, but deep down, Simon worried they might choose another road, and neither was particularly comforting. They might lock him up in a padded cell and pray for his soul until whatever this was ate him completely, or they might execute him, sending whatever this was into all his future lives with him. That was the outcome he most wanted to avoid. 

It was ironic that he’d come here to learn ways to protect his soul only to find new ways to damage it. Still, at least he’d learned something valuable and avoided being trapped in hell. Damnation is a very thin line, he told himself as he finally turned to his squire. 

“What do you think they’ll do to you, I mean us?” Varten asked, trying to fill the silence as he withered underneath Simon’s gaze. 

“I think that the white must never be allowed to be stained like this,” Simon answered. 

The boy obviously didn’t know what to say to that, so after a moment he asked, “What does it look like?”

Simon explained it, perhaps more dramatically than he needed to. “It was like these fingers had been dipped in ink the first day,” he told the boy, “Then, night by night, it’s spread. The color is now a deep gray, but it’s nearly reached my elbow.”

That conversation continued for a while. Simon let the pressure build like a horror story, slowly revealing that he was losing control of the limb, and observing Varten’s horrified expression. He waited until the boy’s desperation was palpable before he finally revealed his hand. 

“After everything we heard today, I think we will probably need to cut it off,” Simon said, watching the boy go as white as his former cloak. He was no longer squeamish about monster corpses, but the idea of seeing Simon maimed clearly disturbed him, and he hadn’t even grasped the full meaning of the word we.

At first, Simon didn’t force that point. He just let the child worry aloud about “finding another way.” 

It was only when he reluctantly agreed after much back and forth that it was better to lose an arm than a soul that Simon said, “And you’re going to have to be the one to do it.”

He put his good hand on the boy’s shoulder as he said the words, but that didn’t stop him from slowly backing away. “I’m going to have to what?” he gasped. “Your arm? No… no, no, I couldn’t do that. I…”

In that moment, Simon decided he’d been doing a better job with the boy than he’d thought. Any other version of Varten would have delighted in doing something so sadistic, but this one, at least where Simon was concerned, had become soft. He appreciated that, but now was not the time for softness. 

Even as his squire insisted that they had to wait for the Masters to decide what to do next, Simon insisted, “You heard them. If it worked for Saint Korrel, then it will work for me. If we wait a few days or a few weeks for them to make up their mind, then who knows what will happen.”

The boy was reluctant, but by this point, Simon was sure it was the right answer. Convincing him was harder, though. Fortunately, as he removed his belt and started to wind it awkwardly around his, something happened that pushed both of them over the edge. 

In that moment, his hand rebelled and reached for Varten’s slender throat. The boy froze, and only Simon’s quick reflexes saved him. He swung his entire shoulder back, putting his squire just out of reach. 

“I… What are you doing, S-sir Enis?” the boy stammered. “Did I upset you… I’m-I didn’t mean to. I just can’t…”

“It’s not me,” Simon growled, struggling to control his limb. “It’s the arm.”

He should have been able to hold it at bay just by moving the elbow, but its grip had apparently crawled further up his arm than he knew. While it had no control of his upper arm whatsoever, it did seem to have a small grip on the elbow now, and it fought him spasmodically. It knew he’d made his decision, and whatever it was that had crawled inside him didn’t want to be removed. 

“You arm?” the boy asked. “It’s… Is it alive?”

That was the wrong world, of course, but it didn’t matter. Simon nodded as he tightened the strap, and then he knelt next to a stone bench and said, “If you don’t help me, Varten, it might take me over. This arm is an infected limb, and it needs to come off right now. Do you understand?”

The boy nodded, but it took several seconds for him to realize that meant he’d have to pull out his shortsword, and even more time looking at Simon with eyes that begged not to be made to do this. In that moment, Simon felt like the boy would do anything for him, except for maybe this. 

So, he turned away, bit down on the free end of his belt, and waited while his arm twitched and jerked spasmodically. That gesture of trust would be more persuasive than anything he could say to Varten.

When the blow came, it took him by surprise, but that wasn’t enough to stop Simon from crying out a little. It was more of a grunt than a scream, but it was enough to echo through the dark chapel as Simon experienced the cold pain of a real injury. 

One of the guards yelled something in response to the scream, but Simon didn’t really hear it. He was fighting off the sharp, cold pain. 

“Again!” Simon growled through the leather gag when he heard the sound of the door being unbarred. It hurt like the devil, but there was nothing for it, and all he wanted was for the deed to be done. 

Varten didn’t hesitate and brought the sword down again in the same position, cracking the bone. Simon screamed into the leather strap he was biting down on. It was impossible not to. He’d died a lot of different ways, but he hadn’t felt a blow to his bones in many, many lifetimes, and it was a terrible, electric pain. 

His arm didn’t like it either, and the part that he didn’t have control of flailed wildly. He did his best to ignore the uncomfortable feeling, though, and after a moment of hesitation, Varten did too. When he brought his blade down for the third time, he finally succeeded in severing Simon’s arm. 

Despite his leather tourniquet, the bench they’d used to conduct their impromptu surgery was a bloody mess. His squire dropped his sword with trembling hands and looked at Simon with traumatized eyes. 

“A-are you okay?” he gasped. 

Simon understood that more than anything, the boy needed to hear yes, then. He couldn’t trust his voice yet, though, so instead he offered him a weary nod, and what might have been a weak smile as he kept his belt clamped firmly in his teeth. The pain hadn’t gone away just because the flesh was gone, and he felt like he might pass out. 

When was the last time I lost a limb? He wondered. 

By that point, the guards had wrestled the bar off the door and were making their way to the bloody mess. “I’m fine,” Simon gasped. He looked at his limb and saw that the aura ended perfectly white just below his stump. By contrast, his bloody left arm that lay on the floor had a much darker aura, and it was fading rapidly.  

“I’m doing just fine, now,” he repeated, willing it to be true. He was in great pain, and despite his tourniquet, he was bleeding like a pig, but if he died now, it would still be better than dying with whatever that was burrowing deeper inside of him. 

They didn’t rush him to a healer, though. Even as Varten tried to explain to them that the arm had taken on a life of its own and tried to strangle him, they sent for healers to do what they could. 

Simon could see on the faces of everyone that they didn’t expect him to survive. Maybe they just aren’t sure if I’m sane, he corrected himself. Still, he aimed to prove them wrong, for Varten’s sake at least. 

The day that followed was miserable. He was questioned a couple of different times, but between the pain, the exhaustion, and the drunkenness that he needed to endure all the rest he wasn’t always as helpful as he could be. Fortunately, the masters who spoke to him thought he was even more out of it than he was, and he was finally able to learn a bit about the prophecy he was supposed to have fulfilled. 

It was a bit of a letdown, honestly. Apparently, ‘he who twists the loom of fate will slay monsters we’ve never known and shall alone bring about the renewal of the Unspoken Order,’ was quite profound, but he thought it could have used a better rhyme scheme. 

Without two arms, his monster-slaying days were obviously behind him, at least for this life. Still, he found it interesting. It was so nonspecific that it might have meant anyone, but the way his aura twisted as it tried to connect to distant versions of himself certainly made him the most likely candidate. 

“How can a one-armed cripple ever thread the needle of destiny to purify the Unspoken?” Master Harrin asked another day, one he’d finished questioning Simon and inspecting his severed arm. 

Strangely, the Grandmaster seemed pleased by this turn of events, though he said nothing to that effect. It was just the way his aura rippled. He’s probably just happy I won’t be taking his job, Simon said to himself.

He knew that wasn’t true, of course. There was something else going on there, but halfway bled out wasn’t the right time to ponder such complexities. If he survived this, he’d have plenty of time to figure that out. For now, he focused on getting better, and thanked Helades that his soul didn’t seem to be permanently stained by what he’d just been through.

Author's note: obviously you get the next chapter right now, but if this was a printed book, I anticipate that this is where book 6 would end. I welcome feedback on that decision as the chapters go on, of course. I know that it's not an ideal ending spot, but book 6 is already 144,000 words long (523 pages.) That's only a little longer than the average volume of DaD. They currently average right around 500 pages each.

Ch. 412 - Idle Hands

The first weeks after Simon’s maiming were hard ones for him, though that had to do with the fever that came from the bone infection more than the pain of the wound. Varten was still there, by his bedside at first, when he was still conscious, but sometime, in the blurry, agonizing weeks that followed, he’d vanished. When Simon slowly returned to the world of the living, he wasn’t to be found anywhere. 

As it turned out, he’d been left in the care of the gray-robed silent sisters. He found that out when he woke up trying to fight a demon that looked just like a dark mirror of him and practically socked a woman old enough to be his grandmother in the face. “Be still, Sir Enis, be still!” she told him, yelling that he was safe until the words penetrated his fever-addled skull. 

The women were the whispers too old to hunt witches any longer, and attended any number of humble tasks at the broken tower, from weaving and cleaning to tending to the sick. He fell into the latter category, and though he didn’t remember all of that time, he did remember the way that many of the women would read poetry and fables to him as he languished in the grip of his infection. 

Those voices were the thread that kept him from drifting off, back to the familiar lumpy bed of his cabin whenever he got lost in his nightmares. The dreams of some hellish evil sliding inside his skin haunted him long after the arm was gone. For a time, they were frequent enough to make him fear he hadn’t succeeded, but they faded along with his fever, which was a huge relief. 

That didn’t change his current circumstances, though. He woke to a world where he had a smooth stump instead of a left arm, and real doubts as to whether or not he should continue the run. He hadn’t learned everything he’d wanted to, but he’d learned enough.

He had a plan to protect himself from soul damage going forward; those efforts would be crude and painful if he chose to keep his sight. He didn’t fancy the idea of branding himself with a mark of triggered self-destruction before every run, but it was still probably going through life as a cripple. 

Killing himself had started this whole mess, though, and Simon tried to avoid that whenever possible. Still, the feeling to do so only intensified when he noted that he’d unlocked the wyvern level again with something he’d done in the capital. 

You just can’t do anything right, can you? He chastised himself. 

Of the levels he might have to do again, that one was hardly the worst choice. Still, he wondered why it was so sensitive to being reset. Needless to say, he was conflicted, and the memory of Varten made that conflict worse. He’d probably traumatized the poor kid, and if he died now, Simon was certain he’d blame himself. 

No, I can’t do that to him, he decided eventually, after he was eating solid food and sitting up again on his own. Better to get healthier, make sure he knows I’m okay, and then just disappear. 

He didn’t even have to get dramatic and jump off a cliff or hang himself from a tree. He could go out into the middle of nowhere, inscribe a circle of death, and just step into it. He didn’t really like the idea of leaving his body where anyone could find it, but there were always cleverer options. He could do it in the winter, but inscribe the circle into ice, for instance. If he added a little fire to that and wore his armor, he’d die painlessly, and the only one to know or benefit from it would be the fish. 

Winter was a long way away, though, and so was Varten, so for now he focused on getting his strength back. Food helped, and so did exercise. Whenever he approached the gate, he was told very politely that he wasn’t allowed to leave. The words were couched in phrases like “until you’ve recovered,” or “for your own good,” but he heard the orders clearly enough. 

The other knights no longer looked at him like he might be someone important, and Master Harrin barely gave him the time of day, but the knights who knew the story of how he’d lost his arm treated him with the utmost respect. He’d only been with the Whitecloaks for a couple of years, but living demon slayers were rare things. 

He didn’t kill any demons, of course. Even as a vampire, he hadn’t succeeded in that; he suspected there was a trick to it that he hadn’t figured out yet, but this wouldn’t be the life to experiment with that. 

It was months more before he saw Varten again, but in that time, Simon kept busy. He tried sparring for a time, but stopped when he realized there was no way to stop everyone from taking it easy on him. After that, he worked at the blacksmithy, pumping the bellows with his one good arm to strengthen it. Hammering on his own was an exercise in futility unless he could put a workpiece in a vice just right.

That, more than anything, was what inspired him to work on a prosthesis. Most of the time, he didn’t need his second arm. It was strange that it was missing, but he could eat, read, and mostly dress himself without much effort. Even fighting one-handed wasn’t so bad. He simply switched from the opponent-facing shield-heavy style he favored to a dualist’s approach, side on with a light sword. It lacked the power he was used to having, but it was a learning curve that was fundamentally different from the others that he struggled with now. 

A limb that he could at least hold things with, though, would allow him to do any number of tasks that he enjoyed for a while. He’d be able to carve and craft. He’d be able to dress and even use a sword again. Just a couple of years, he told himself, as he worked on the project. Just until Varten becomes a knight in his own right. Then I can check out. 

He saw the boy briefly now and then. His training for the next few years had been assigned to Sir Cedrin, but he visited Simon each time they returned to the Broken Tower and told him of their adventures. To Simon, it sounded like he occasionally burned or hung good men with the bad, but he hadn’t been there, so it was hard for him to judge.

All that mattered was that his aura was white, and Varten seemed to be doing well. These situations weren’t entirely uncommon. Knights and squires sometimes died on missions, and the survivors were usually redistributed to keep things running as smoothly as possible. The real oddity was that Simon had survived. The Unspoken rarely retired. 

When Simon was fully healed, he was offered a position in the library, “You know, since you’re spending so much time here with us,” the librarian hastily explained. Simon thought it was strange that he simply wasn’t being ordered to do that, but apparently, one couldn’t order a knight to be demoted. They had to decide that for themselves, so Simon didn’t. 

Spending a few years among books might have been interesting if he hadn’t known that all the really good stuff was downstairs in the Black Library. As it was, he had no interest in copying and illuminating empty psalters praising gods that didn’t actually exist. Instead, he kept working on his drawings for his prosthesis, and eventually, the prosthesis itself. 

The thing was mostly made of leather, with only a few slender pieces of steel for strength and endcaps of wood for shape. The first version didn’t even look like a hand. It was just a sort of crab piner that he made from a wood clamp, but the reason for that was straightforward. He wanted to use that to carve the hand he planned to put on the end.

It was a simple device that would never give him real dexterity again. That would have required a machine shop and years of his life, and really, he didn’t care that much. He just made a fixed thumb, and then carved the four fingers together as one spring-loaded piece so he could easily insert something for gripping. 

Everyone who saw him working on seemed to consider it a reasonable if strange obsession for a man who had lost an arm, but no one tried to stop him; after a few beers some of his fellow knights gave him shit from time to time, but once he could use a shield again, Simon got back into fighting enough to put the doubters in their place. He lacked the flexibility he once had, and his shield slams had little force behind them, but nearly a year after the incident, he could hold his own once more. 

If they'd known he was embedding words of power inside the thing, though, they might have. The space from elbow to wrist was all but hollow. He made a big show of putting a small storage compartment in there that he kept a flask in, which was always good for a laugh when he showed people. 

“I didn’t lose an arm, I gained a pocket,” he’d claim, while sharing it around. 

What he’d gained had nothing to do with a pocket, though. What he’d gained was a place to keep wands and talismans, at least at first. Eventually, after he re-carved the fingers of the third version, making each of them into a wand for a different offensive spell. Ostensibly, he only made them articulated for appearances, but really, he made a magical multi-tool that operated on the basis of which finger was extended.

He turned the whole thing into a sort of talisman. Not only was the self-destruct circuit on the stump under the padding to kill him dead if anyone tried to touch his soul again, but he also put several protection runes into the thing. 

These were an experimental idea he’d gotten from a fever dream, and rather than simply nullifying an attack as he’d done in the past, he only attempted to nullify half, in most cases, turning it against itself like a pair of noise-cancelling headphones. He had no idea how those had worked when he owned them, but he remembered being able to listen to whatever he wanted to fondly, even now, and he put the 

In theory, a protection rune carved into wood would never stand up to a major word of power like greater fire. In reality, though, if he used part of that word to power the transfer to ice, to pit one against the other. It was a simple trick in theory, but in practice, each of those recursive circuits was intricate, which meant he needed to carve them on fairly large rune plates that he hid in his false hand, which was time-consuming. 

I could spend years before each run getting ready, he thought about all the different things he could do to make himself invulnerable, or nearly so, to the growing range of threats he understood. 

He envisioned making a set of laminar plate armor, where each plate hid a secret rune that aided him in battle. One to make a warrior tireless, and another to make their armor invulnerable. He imagined a shield that absorbed the energy of each hit, only so that an axe that drew energy from the same stone could release it with vicious blows. 

Simon spent a lot of time building castles in the sky that year, but most of them ended up as notes in his mirror for future projects. Only the modified protection circuits and wands came to fruition, which was probably for the best. It was more options than he expected he'd really ever need, and it felt dangerous to be walking around the broken tower with so much contraband, but at this point, no one was paying much attention to him, and he wanted to be ready for anything.