Like maybe I’ve had it all backwards this whole time.
Maybe I’m not the master of Saint Mark’s?
Maybe I’m a key too?
I can see how I might be. My bloodhorns are unique. I don’t have a great cross-section of monster civilization to compare things to, but there are fifty-three monsters inside these walls at the moment and I’m the only one with bloodhorn inside me.
I’m not the only one with hooves, or wings, or fur, or horns.
I’m the only one with bloodhorn.
And I was made by Ostanes—one of her last creations before she shut that whole chimera breeding program down. So why wouldn’t she do something special with me?
Tomas is unique here too. Aside from the fact that before Pie came, he used to be… an apparition, or whatever, and now he’s wearing a physical body, he’s also the only dragon chimera.
Not just that, either. Before he was the only dragon chimera, he was the only dragon.
Maybe even the last dragon anywhere.
At the very least, he’s the only one with dragon scales.
And Pie as well. She’s the only one with moth hands and, of course, this new bag of rings seems to be part of her magic.
I mean, I could say we’re all unique. Eyebrows is some kind of fashion designer. Cookie is some kind of chef. And Batty is a rock mage.
But that’s not what I’m getting at here. Everyone is unique in some way. And that’s not unique. That’s just a truth.
The way in which we three are different feels important. The bloodhorn, the portal doors, the rings, the dragon scales. Not to mention, we are all here. Stuck in Saint Mark’s. Together.
It feels intelligently designed. Like we’re part of a plan. And even though the last two thousand years have been pretty boring, with almost no progress whatsoever, the last few weeks feel like a whirlwind of growth.
It feels like a storm coming and we’re all gonna get swept up.
Like we’re on the verge of a precipice.
This is how I pass my morning. Deep in thought about our place here, and in the grand scheme of things at large. And when I look up and realize that the sun is high overhead, I also realize that the bag is done. I have chiseled Pie’s entire spelling onto the metal plate.
“‘A bag and rings to hide inside. Keep them safe from prying eyes. Invisible they will be. Cloak them up, no one can see.’”
I hold it in my hand, my clawed fingertips passing over the smooth, soft iron rings. It bends like fabric—supple, but also strong.
I braided wire together to make a drawstring ribbon that can open and close the bag with small tugs on each end. I check this relentlessly, opening and closing it. Watching for the wire to weaken and break, because that’s the nature of wire under stress.
But it doesn’t weaken, even though it does soften and the motion becomes smoother.
That doesn’t make sense, but neither does the bloodhorn inside me.
If I’m the key to walking through portal doors, then perhaps I’m also the key to making magic bags?
Puzzle pieces are everywhere.
And I’m close, I think.
I’ve very close to cracking this curse and getting the hell out of this place. With the help of Pie, of course. And probably Tomas too.
But one thing at a time. The new bag is not quite done. It needs rings, obviously. But also magic words from Pie, dragon fire from Tomas, and my breath to seal it up.
I take the bag of rings out of my pocket, shake them out onto an old wooden table, and pick them up one by one. I hadn’t really looked at them before now. Before this moment, they were a collection. Not individual things.