Ortson winced. “Majesty, I believe there are laws against that sort of thing.”

“I know what I must do!” Resolve crystalized the queen’s smile. Her fervent stare could cut diamonds.

“Announce the king’s death to the people?” tried Ortson, in the hopes that the unmoored conversation was drifting back to the general vicinity of sanity.

Marja turned to them and grinned. “We need a snake!”

“A… snake, Majesty?” asked a lady-in-waiting.

“Not any old kind, mind you,” the queen admonished her. “I think Haela used a swamp viper…”

Weaver’s brows shot up. The ballad of Madren and Haela’s was regarded as one of the greatest romances on Arth, but it had a body count that rivaled the grimmest battle sagas. “Your Majesty! Surely not!” he blurted. “This cannot be the way!”

The queen paused to reconsider. “Well, I do hate snakes. And I hear the venom is quite dreadful. Well, then a dagger—mmm. But I don’t want it to hurt…” She drummed her fingers on the armrest of her chair.

“My queen, I beg you! Come back to your senses?” cried a lady-in-waiting.

“Baker!” said the queen. “Where is my royal baker?”

A gray-haired Halfling stepped from the pack of attendants. “Majesty, please, listen to Mr. Ortson⁠—”

“Baker! You will make me poisoned tea cakes!”

The royal baker shook her head. “Majesty, no! I could never⁠—”

“Oh, it will be simple, my dear.” Marja waved a dismissive hand at the baker. “Tell the apothecary I want it to be painless. And nothing that will make me spasm or anything—I don’t want to be making a funny face at the funeral. Then put whatever he concocts in the icing of some tea cakes.”

“But, Your Highness⁠—”

“Don’t you see?” said Marja, staring up at the ceiling as though it were a starry sky. “This is how it was meant to be! This is the end of my story with Johan!”

“But… but I could never harm Your Majesty!” blurted the royal baker.

“Baker. Dearest baker. Don’t think of it as hurting me,” Marja told the shaking Halfling. “Think of it as helping me find my true love once more, beyond the mortal veil!”

The Halfling shook her head, “No, my queen, I really cannot⁠—”

“One of us is eating poison tonight,” Marja growled.

“Lemon or raspberry icing?” asked the Halfling.

Ortson and the royal attendants threw themselves before the queen as the royal baker scurried away. They implored her to think of the people, to put the needs of the nation first, to not succumb to grief in the darkness. The ladies-in-waiting assured Marja that she would find love again. The advisors told her the palace needed her guidance.

Their words flowed over the starstruck queen like waves over a boulder. Marja sat, unmoved and unmoving, her eyes locked on the clouds outside her window. She gave no sign that she was aware of her surroundings at all until the baker returned with a cartload of tea cakes, each frosted with a delicately piped skull. A small placard placed at the front of the tray read: “DEADLY POISON. DO NOT EAT. PLEASE.” in a transparently desperate attempt by the baker to stop the queen. But Marja ignored the sign and clapped her hands together as the deadly pastries rolled before her.

“And now, the hour of our reunion is at hand. I am coming, dearest Johan!” Marja put a hand to her forehead and gave an exaggerated swoon as the baker pushed the cart forward. Ignoring the pleading of the assembled ladies and servants, Marja selected a pastry with pink frosting and held it up for consideration.

“The love of my life, the light of my soul, is gone!” she declared to the tea cake. “With nothing left for me in this world, I must leave it, and meet my dear Johan in the next. And so with one bite, mmph, I… with two bites—mrph— I bid… I…”

“Majesty, no.” Ortson’s breath caught in his throat as he watched Marja unmake herself with growing gusto.

“With two… I mean, three cakes—erph mmmh—I bid the world—mpprh—farewell. This world holds nothing for me but one more cake… mph… I mean two more… and my memories of sweeter days, my love for Johan, and these four cakes and… and…”

Marja lost track of her monologue and lurched forward. She attacked the remaining tea cakes with gusto, sending a spray of crumbs and toxic frosting across the table. The queen made it halfway through the tray before she gave a little choking noise, looked up with unfocused eyes, and flopped face down on top of the remaining pastries.

The crowd watched the spectacle in stunned silence. Weaver Ortson stepped toward the fallen monarch slowly. With a deep breath he lifted her arm and felt her limp wrist. Then he turned back to the royal attendants and said, “I… uh… I have another announcement.”

“Another one dead!” laughed Ignatius, looking at the shrine of Mordo Ogg. The red light in the skull’s eyes flared a little brighter for a moment. The crooked old priest squinted at the glow, as though reading something in the pattern of flashes. “Oh. A star-crossed lover. Well, good luck to you,” he added somberly as the light faded.

As a priest of the god of death, Ignatius supported people’s right to die however they chose, and also their right to die even when they didn’t choose. Mordo Ogg’s clergy were mostly concerned that death kept happening; the who and how and why, if there could be a why at all, were extraneous details. Usually.

Yet something about the idea of young lovers killing themselves never sat well with the old priest. He’d seen enough couples go off to the next life to know that when people who truly loved each other died, there was grief and longing and pain, but also a notable absence of mutual death wishes. You had to pity any soul whose greatest hope in the afterlife was to continue an obsessive, self-destructive relationship. Ignatius sighed and shook his head.

Then the old priest’s moment of reflection was gone in a literal flash. Ignatius’ glee returned as the pulsing light in the shrine’s eyes resumed. “There goes another! Ha! And you too! Lots of deaths recently! Usually means more on the way! Like that one now! And three at once! Guess you really should have fixed that leak in the boat! Ha! And two more! Ha ha!”

“So eight in total then?” asked the host.

“Yes. We are eight,” said Asherzu Guz’Varda, glancing back at her party. Most of Warg Inc.’s senior leadership team waited in a small lobby at the front of the Treant’s Taproot.

“Thank you,” added Feista Hrurk as the Elf hurried away.

“And he will bring us food?” Pogrit of the Fub’Fazar muttered.

“Not yet,” said Burt. “First we have to tell him what we want.”

“Well, obviously we want food,” said Izek Li’Balgar. “Otherwise we would not have come!”

“Right,” said Mrs. Hrurk, unsure of what to say. She glanced at the Kobold for help, but Burt only shrugged. “Uh, but we have to tell them what kind of food.”

“Why must we plan the meal?” demanded Guglug. “Is that not what the cooks are for?”

“Patience,” said Asherzu.

Feista sighed. Warg Inc. was led by some of the most brilliant figures among the Shadowkin. She’d heard legends of Pogrit the Black-Maned and Wise Freggi back when she was a pup on her father’s knee. Yet most of the board knew little of the city; war and hardship had forged their legends in the deadly wilderness or on Arth’s battlefields. Even though they lived in Andarun now, they rarely ventured outside the Shadowkin communities.

As a city Gnoll, Feista was beginning to appreciate why.

“I will demand the food, and he will bring it,” said Darak.

“That’s not how a Lightling restaurant works,” said Burt.

“It is how Garruck’s Ham Hut works,” grumbled Darak sullenly.

“Look, I know Lightlings have some strange customs, but trust me,” said Burt. “I used to eat here all the time in a prior job. It’s top-tier dining for Seventh Tier prices. And so swanky, the staff have h’s in their ums.”