Prologue

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder.

To the Scholar, this just sounded like the kind of bullshit that you'd find on a library poster or a Hans Christian Anderson retelling in which all the lovely parts about childrens' feet getting mutilated are (however misguidedly) cut out. But as he began the long and trying transition into his new life at the Citadel, he had begun to find that some of those adages held far more meaning than he had previously understood.

It should be stated that the Scholar, in his current form, was not a man concerned with such frivolous things as appearance. This was not suitable behavior for a Scholar. A Scholar's duty was to be an uncompromising crusader of knowledge- another cog in the great, well-oiled machine of the multiverse. He owed at least that much, if not more, to the Guardian- for without her information, he would be but another mangled corpse decaying into the Earth's foundation over a long, painful thousand years.

But that did not stop material desires, those which he carried over from his… from his old life, from occasionally coming to the surface.

Absence, he resolved, does not create fondness from nothing. It merely expands upon what was there from the start- inflating a silent yearning over time to the point at which it threatens to consume one's livelihood without intervention. That which is not already there cannot be exponentially increased.

And that was why, every time he ran a brush through the intricate curls tied back in a bun behind his skull, the scholar felt a rush of warmth run through his veins. In the foolish, mortal whims that all but defined his last life, he had given up everything for power- including the curls he had so carefully maintained from the moment he could say "volumizer". To say that it did not soothe him to finally have them back, after all these years, as something more than a stream of malleable violet sludge that perched like a parasite atop his scalp… would be an understatement.

Running one final comb through his lusciously kinky tresses, the Scholar retrieved a white silk robe from the iron rack adjoining the door that he subsequently swung open, taking a deep breath as he stepped into the Citadel halls. Before him was splayed out a maze of winding, entirely featureless black corridors, illuminated by perpetually flickering lamps hung next to the rows upon rows of doors that lined both halls, each and every one of which was slammed shut. And at the end of each hall, beyond two or three intersections, the walls seemingly faded to mist, making nothing visible more than 10 feet in any direction, no matter which way you looked.

The Scholar glanced down at his arm, upon which he had recorded the directions in a nigh-indecipherable scrawl. Two lefts and then a right. Glancing down, he clasped the holofile tighter and tighter in his hand, nearly collapsing under the pressure. Two lefts and then a right. Two lefts and then a right. Two lefts and then a-

"Hey!"

He looked up and, to his horror, found that a massive scythe, its ebony handle barely capable of encasing the three-foot flaming blade at its tip, was being held to his throat.

"You're not supposed to be here."

Before him stood two heavy-set, strapping men covered head to toe in jet-black armor, perfectly polished and set so that not an inch remained uncovered by perfectly smooth sheets of glistening obsidian. "Your shift does not begin for another two hours. All Scholars who have not been given clearance should be in their quarters, in a subconscious state until-"

"And I would be in my quarters, Agent… er, 113-A," replied the Scholar, "had I not an urgent message thatI must deliver to the Council of the Masters. They are in session as we speak, are they not?"

The other Agent crowed with laughter. "A message for the Council, eh? Pathetic excuse, pathetic. If we let every high-as-a-kite Scholar in this hellhole make council with the Masters at their whims, there'd be lines out the door and we'd never get anything done. Get back to your quarters or risk charges of insubordination."

The Scholar turned to Agent 113-A and indicated the massive, flaming scythe that was clasped in his right hand. "Might I ask how you came across that scythe, sir?"

"Oh, this old thing?" the Agent replied, in a much more jovial tone than his colleague. "I nabbed it from a salvage yard during an away mission to a universe, one that was coming off the heels of a massive civil conflict, ending with the destruction of the civilization's moon. It was just lying there, broken and undisturbed- Agent 327-X managed to come across blueprints for some sort of gem-encrusted treasure chest not far from where I found this, but one of the Masters confiscated them upon our return and he hasn't seen them since."

"Funny thing is," laughed Darius, running his fingers through his coiffure, "that exact same world happens to be the one I've been tasked by the Masters to cover. It's urgent business. We have reason to believe that He has begun to interfere with this dimension-"

"Don't you name-drop Him around me!" barked the other agent. "I am not dumb enough to stoop to your kind of… tomfoolery…"

"He's telling the truth, Agent 202-O," Agent 113-A interjected. "You're part of the Valeriana investigation team, aren't you?"

"Yes, si-"

"Which is why," the Agent continued, "you are not going to say another word- because you'd rather have us not have to be euthanized for knowing far, far too much." He smiled, retracted that blade of his scythe, and grabbed Agent 202-O's reluctant hand as the pair strode off down the corridor and, within seconds, disappeared into the mist.

-{}-

Two lefts and then a right. Two lefts and then a right.

As door after locked door sped by his gaze, bleeding together in an incessant parade of frames and knobs, the Scholar came to a halt at the first crossroads. Taking a second to dust off his freshly purified robes, he righted himself and turned down the right hall, the mist retreating inch by inch as he moved forward, always drawing closer yet never quite catching it.

Over time, as the corridors soldiered on and another right the Scholar did take, panic began to set in. He found himself standing at the final intersection, facing the left- but all he could see were doors upon more doors that faded away into nothing but clouds. There was no sign of the Masters' chambers, not anywhere in sight.

Obstinate, the Scholar stormed down the left hall, drawing further and further toward the receding mists and progressing no more than a hamster spinning its wheel. They had never told him how far down the final intersection the Masters' quarters lay- for all he knew, for all he hopen, the bridge could be hours away…

All of a sudden, he screeched to a halt.

Standing before him, directly in his path, was a serene, graying old man. His feet and forearms, wrapped in perfectly set bandages, were splayed out before him- sitting in a cross-legged lotus pose as the tip of his white beard scraped the jet-black floorboards. Glancing up at the Scholar before him and carefully removing the hat from his balding head, his wrinkled mouth drew open and, trembling ever-so-slightly, remarked, "Are you lost, young man?"

The Scholar glanced up quizzically. "How did you know?"

"You have that air about you," the old man laughed. "And I have an uncanny ability to know things. To know things… that aren't the kind of thing you can read in any ordinary book."

He indicated the top of the Scholar's skull, causing him to peer up in confusion.

"You know what?" the man crowed. "Why don't you just follow me. I can show you the way. You're looking for the Masters, aren't you?"

The Scholar nodded.

"Why," chimed the old man, "it's right this way!"

Heaving himself to his feet and taking a minute to massage out all the cricks that continued to riddle his back, the wise sage slipped his fingers into the Scholar's hand and led him down the left corridor, continuing down the monotonous halls before slipping down another yet another left turn but a single intersection later.

The exact same cycle repeated twice more- the sage leading the Scholar down several yards' worth of doors before hanging left when the road opened up four ways- until at long last, the doors stop, the mists receded, and the Scholar came to a sudden halt, standing slack jawed in utter, dumbfounded shock.

The hall before him opened up onto the start of a massive, crystalline bridge, sparkling with rainbows cast by light flooding in from the atrial windows that surrounded it. Below it lay nothing but an endless void, humming faintly as its darkness crept up toward the surface, threatening to consume all that surrounded it. At its very end stood a pair of towering golden double-doors enlain with ritual carvings and languages the Scholar, in all his studies, could not ever hope to understand- but most prominently the insignia of a massive hourglass, formed by two triangles connecting at their vertices, emblazoned in darkest crimson. And surrounding it on all sides were massive circular windowpanes, beyond which lay some of the most unabashedly awe-inspiring vistas the Scholar had ever laid his eyes upon. Within seconds, a meadow hill rising over the ruins of a once-great ancient city, a girl dancing at its top as ribbons of fire made pirouettes around her ankles and the trunk of a towering oak, had faded into mere wisps of color that faded into the clouds of a town, surrounded on all sides by a while that shielded its inhabitants from not the magnificent of woods and mountainous terrain that surrounded it, but from the dangers that lay. It was not long before that too had dissipated, leaving nothing but a lusciously green, wildfire-speckled cliffside, overlooking a landscape of pristine waters and upon which was erected a shrine, a maze of stone surrounding three objects- a long, slender sword, it's blade embedded within the murky earth- an elegantly polished crossbow, lying face-down as the dew tickled its trigger- and a rather dilapidated old tennis racquet, looking rather worse for wear as ivy crept up its side and the grass around it adapted as if it was nothing more than part of the landscape.

The Scholar turned to the sage at first in shock- but then something dawned on him. "Sir, if you don't mind me asking," he whispered, as a smile crept across the sage's kindly old face- "did we not just walk in a circle?"

"A square, technically," replied the sage. "But yes. Yes, we did."

He opened his mouth to respond, but no sooner than the moment the first sounds escaped his lips did the Scholar close it. He knew by now that no matter how hard he pressed, the sage would never give him a straight answer. Everyone in the Citadel, it seemed, had a set nature- and it was quite simply against the sage's nature to do that.

"One last thing," the sage added, declining to address the Scholar's confusion. "When you cross over, I must warn you… be careful. Far greater men have been tempted… enchanted even, by that which lies below." And with those words, he gave a quick cock of his head as the sage turned away and disappeared down into the mists at the end of the hall.

-{}-

The Scholar's eyes darted around nervously. He had not expected such an arduous, needlessly overcomplicated "journey" to reach the Council of the Masters. Dark circles were beginning to form beneath his eyes- his posture sagged, wanting nothing more than to hobble back its quarters and settle down upon his freshly purified bedsheets. The sage's warnings had given rise to worries the Scholar had not expected- he knew full well the majesties and the horrors the Citadel contained within its walls (if you could even call them walls), but never in his wildest dreams would he have expected he would come into direct contact with them so soon.

And so at last, with a heavy sigh and his heart long sunk into the foot of his stomach, the Scholar closed his eyes and took a single, pronounced step onto the crystalline bridge.

His eyes shot open. He was standing upon the periwinkle crystal, levitating inches above the last lengths of Citadel floorboard, complications be damned.

The Scholar took several steps forward, pausing after each and every one to make sure everything was all right, that nothing had changed for the worse. The crystalline bridge had nothing in the way of guardrails- sheer on each side, forcing him to take triple the care in measuring his steps as to not catch himself a millimeter off balance. Every step brought him closer and closer to the end of the span, to the point at which he was almost standing upon the tip of the arc.

And that was when the voices began.

Oh, Daaaaarius…

All of a sudden, the Scholar began to pick up pon noises that, from the moment he had stepped onto the bridge, had somehow managed to escape his notice- and within seconds, they had grown deafening. Roars of fury mixed with anguished screams of pain, all supplanted by the subliminal hums of the eldritch horrors that lay out of sight, out of mind. And above it all cried a child's voice, calling out to the Scholar with successive, desperate pleas of help-

Oh, Daaaaaarius…

You can help me… You can save them all…

I can give you back your life. No strings attached.

All you have to do is extend your hand and help pull me out.

Don't listen to them, Darius.

They all lie. They want to keep me here, imprisoned, forever.

You can help me, Darius. You can save me.

And when I am free, you will receive rewards beyond anything that you can possibly imagine.

All that requires is your hand.

Your hand? Please?

Please…

The Scholar tried to look away, but every movement just brought his eyes, further and further down, until he was left staring down into the abyss, hunched over and mesmerized. Pressing on down the bridge, over the arch and onto the home stretch, he felt his steps gradually begin to slow…

I know who you are, Darius.

I know everything about you.

Your thoughts, your hopes, your fears…

See? I even know your name.

But most of all, I know your dreams.

And with one touch, I can make each and every last one of them come true.

All that takes is your hand.

Your hand? Please?

Please…

With every passing second, the Scholar felt himself drawn closer and closer to the source of the whispers, caught in a trance as he hobbled forward, teetering dangerously at the edge, as his arm raised up and his hand slowly opened and reached down into the abyss.

Please…

And then, in one, defining instant, he broke free of the hypnotic spell and lurched backward, with such force that he came mere inches away from toppling over the side of the bridge altogether. Infused with renewed resolve, the Scholar pulled himself to his feet and stormed down the bridge and toward the waiting, golden double-doors.

No!

Don't leave!

Don't go, Darius…

We can fix this together…

You and I…

Please! Please!

I'll give you anything!

Whatever you want, you can have it!

Just please… Don't go…

Please…

The Scholar took one final, heaving step off the bridge, and at once the noise- the screams, the roars, the subliminal hums, but most of all the whispers- subsided. Sighing with relief, he let his hands gently slide into the door handles as he gradually opened their breadth, stepping in with a single great lunch- just as they abruptly slammed behind him, flushing the Scholar into total and complete darkness.

-{}-

Slowly, his eyes began to replenish their light.

He was alone, in a silent, pitch-black room- but for five candles in the far right corner, flickering in a circle on the ground, from which emitted periodic, unintelligible whispers. As the light shed from the miniscule flames at their tips began to bleed out into the rest of the chamber, the Scholar sauntered over to their base, noticing the white chalk-scrawled pentacle that connected them- and, falling to his knees in fealty, whispered "O Masters, can you hear me?"

There was silence for but a moment… before the flame furthest to the right, vibrating wildly, suddenly rose up and reformed itself into the shape of a woman- a rather diminutive one at that, dressed in a ball gown and flowing cape as the tips of her French-girl bob tickled the tips of the faintly glimmering scissors she clasped tight in both hands. Almost immediately, the Scholar ducked down, still stooped to his knees, folding his hands and placing them above his head. "Master Hekapoo," he pleaded, "my dearest apologies-"

"Oh, cut it out," snapped Hekapoo. "If I had wanted to be treated like some kind of pompous aristocratic jerk, I would have just conquered a few weaker dimensions to serve me. What is it that you… interrupt our conference to deliver?"

"Information, ma'am," the Scholar replied, "stemming from my own personal analysis of Valeriana death file samples your proxies deliviered to my doorstep." He withdrew the holofile from his left hand and set it gently in the center of the pentacle. Almost immediately came a sudden crescendo of whispering- before it at once abated, the Masters seemingly finding consensus, as Hekpoo turned to address him.

"We have not received this holofile," Hekapoo said.

"I know," retorted the Scholar. "It was hidden, as a small, locked excerpt of Valeriana's larger postmortem holofiles, protected by a password key it took all of this morning to decode. Within it is contained the final testimony of one of Agent Valeriana's associates, recorded a mere three days before the Agent met a bitter end of her own. She was, as you are likely aware, the same sage who accurately prophesied the coming of the civil war that devastated their society and resulted in the first high-profile invasion of the Human Realm in over a hundred years."

A second figure arose from the flames, in the candle furthest from the Scholar's feet- a tall and slender elf, his lengthy tresses folded behind his sharply pointed ears. He had a certain air of smugness about him- as if he could find no fit reason to be concerned with the business of mere plebeian Scholars, especially those who had only begun their tenure at the Citadel three days prior. "Do you speak of the Mother of Olms? We are most aware of her existence, and at last notice she is currently living out her years under careful supervision in the underground sanctuary they call Proteus-"

"The Mother of Olms was assassinated four days ago," the Scholar responded solemnly, "by what Agent Valeriana described as a sect of newt-supremacists wishing to regain the privileged status they held during the reign of the continent's previous king, Andrias."

"What does that matter?" said the elf, most befuddled indeed. "Unless this is a matter that concerns the holy equilibrium we have fostered in the multiverse, it is of no matter to us. We are not mercenaries. We do not call upon our Agents to deal with individual dimensions' problems, to fight their foolish wars, not unless they are a direct result of His interference-"

"Master Runaan, with all due respect, please let me finish. While she was not able to provide any evidence to further her claims before her untimely passing, Agent Valeriana did believe that both her and the Mother's death were directly connected to Illuminati activity. However, that is not why I came to you at this time of night. You see, only moments before Mother Olm breathed her last breath… Valeriana witnessed her as she proclaimed one, final prophecy."

At that instant, a third figure began to form within the lower left-hand candle. He was a tall and lanky man, wrinkles curling down his skin, with sheets of plaster-white hair cascading from his balding peak, meeting his beard upon his chest as he sat resplendently in meditation. As he passively adjusted the long ceremonial robes that he weaved around his shoulders with a mote of fire he clutched in his hands, the third Master turned to the Scholar and asked, inquisitively, "A second prophecy? Well tell us, then, dear boy."

"Hold up, hold up." Behind him, the upper-left-hand candle arose into the shape of a round, stubby little demon, with sparse strands of silver hair dotted around the two massive devil's horns that sprung from above his eyes, and a kindly smile that contrasted rather sharply with his otherwise intimidating physique. "As Runaan just eloquently stated, it is not the nature of the M.A.W. to deal with isolated realms and their prophecies-" There was something about the fourth Master that seemed really quite familiar to the Scholar- as if he had seen him many, many times before.

"Masters Iroh and Crane," the Scholar said, bowing once more. "I have examined the prophecy, and I have clear reason to believe it not only refers to the Mother's realm, but the Human Realm and many others in turn." He then turned to the fifth candle, which remained but a tiny flame atop a wick, periodically murmuring before settling down once more into silence. "Why does the fifth Master not arise?"

"As the only among our number given clearance to parley with the Guardian," Runaan hissed, "the Suzerain prefers not to show his face when faced with… the uninitiated. Surely you should know that."

"Give the boy a break, Runaan," Hekapoo groaned. "Master Iroh is right. We should stop dilly-dallying," she added, giving Runaan the side-eye, "and actually deal with the matter that is presently at hand- that of Mother Olm's last prophecy."

"Right. Sorry, I'll get straight to it." Reaching down into the center of the pentacle, around the flaming figures still leering down up on him, the Scholar fiddled with the switch on the base of the holofile as the silhouette of a great, wise old violet olm emerged from the holographic projector before her mouth began to, however slowly, repeat the very last words they ever spoke.

Three stars who used to burn so bright

Two partners blinded by the blight

Two twins regretting that they've grown

One woman, vengeful, all alone

Brought to Earth to stop the Fall

Yet to do so they must all

Unite three siblings torn apart

Against the god who broke their heart

All four projected Masters stood frozen for a moment, taking in what they had just heard. Even the Suzerain's candle seemed to seize up for a few seconds, before returning to its regular pattern of periodic flickering.

"Ah, soothsayers," Hekapoo groaned. "So annoyingly vague."

"I must ask," Runaan snapped curtly, "what evidence do you have that this… worm's prophecy is about anything more than a siblings' squabble over some…. whatever the hell it is that they serve down in that bloody continent of theirs."

"Amphibia," Hekapoo interjected. "Their 'bloody continent' is called Amphibia."

"Do we have any agents on the ground in… Amphibia?" asked Iroh.

"I am afraid not, sir," the Scholar replied. "At the time of her passing, Valeriana was our only representative stationed anywhere on the Amphibian continent."

"Well then," laughed Crane, as if it was obvious, "why don't we effin' get some down there? We're not going to figure out what this mad worm is ramblin' on about unless we send some of OUR men down there to verify her claims-"

"I am afraid that is impossible." All the Masters lurched upwards and stared over at Iroh, as he mindlessly scratched his scalp before resuming his sentence. "Their Citadel was destroyed thirteen years ago, during the civil war when Andrias' forces laid waste to it after witnessing Agent activity and mistaking it for a rebel encampment. Agent Valeriana, I believe, was in the process of rebuilding it… but she was only able to complete a negligible portion of the reconstruction before her passing. Without a Citadel in their dimension, and without the Calamity Box that was also destroyed in the war… I am afraid, until further notice, Amphibia has been rendered inaccessible."

"Inaccessible?" crowed the Scholar incredulously. "MIght I ask how you even built the Amphibian citadel in the first place?"

"Through the Old Ways!" Crane chortled.

"The Old Ways," choked Runaan, "are dead for a reason. They are unsustainable, and too dangerous if fallen into the wrong hands. After all, we haven't taught the Old Ways in the Citadel for centuries, maybe millenia now…"

"But there are still practitioners out there, are there not?"

"You go too far, Scholar." Runaan's ears went erect in irritation. "Only specially trained Agents are allowed, by decree of the Suzerain, to incorporate the Old Ways into their craft. And out of those, I sincerely doubt that any reputable practitioners could possibly know the required sigil sequences to reach Mother Olm's dimension-"

"There is," Iroh interjected, "one."

An uncomfortable silence fell over the room.

"You know who I speak of, do you not?"

"Of course, Master Iroh," Runaan replied. "But we have kept her running in circles for a reason. As long as she remains under the delusion that we're actually helping her cause, she is not a threat to us."

"But she could be an asset, Runaan," Hekapoo opined. "There could be another multiversal threat coming, something even we might not have the capability to stop- and I'm not going to let the equilibrium collapse just because you're afraid to use the weapon that could win us this war."

"There you go, jumping to conclusions again," retorted the elf. "We have no reason to believe Mother Olm's prophecy refers to anything larger than a minor squabble between a few… less capable dimensions. And even if it was, I am not about to let a rogue agent decide the fate of the multiverse-"

"Agent C is not a rogue," snapped Hekapoo, as Runaan grew heated behind her. "She has drive, she has a bond- something that, thanks to you, Runaan- is sorely lacking in the Agent crop these days."

"She is out for nothing more than revenge," Runaan hissed. "Agent C is more likely to destroy Amphibia if we give her the portal than she is to help it."

"That is why she isn't going to go alone." Hekapoo disappeared from the flame for a second, fumbling cloudy with something out of sight, before rematerializing- unchanged but for the slender metal rod she now clutched in her hand. "We can track her using this. If she starts veering from her objective, the tracker will open a portal through which we can send more of our own Agents to recall her and finish the mission themselves. I do not expect her to save the multiverse, Runaan. I merely expect her to give us the tools we need to save it ourselves.

"If," sneered Runaan, "it even needs saving in the first place."

"You there," Iroh barked, and the Scholar's head lurched forward. "Be a good lad, won't you, and grab me an Amphibian artifact from the Stacks? Something small enough to fit inside the pentacle- and preferably not too sharp, I just had the conference chamber purified two weeks ago."

"Of course, Master," the Scholar replied, "but where do I-"

Almost immediately, several torches burst into flame on the wall directly behind the Scholar's back, illuminating walls upon walls of massive bookshelves stretching from ceiling to floor. As he wandered around the Stacks in utter, doe-eyed amazement, the Scholar found himself wondering how he could possibly find that which corresponded to the Amphibian dimension from all the volumes lined up before him. As if to answer his question, a beam of light flashed from Iroh's flame and aimed itself directly at the bottom row of the fifth shelf. Wandering over, the Scholar noticed two bindings engraved with dragons, another depicting some sort of ancestral creation legend, and a single tome upon which sketched the designs of several anthropomorphic frogs, joining hands in jubilation.

Carefully withdrawing the frog-book from its shelf, the Scholar swung open the cover and found nothing but two pages made entirely out of mist. He turned to Iroh, flashing the Master a look of utter bewilderment.

"Reach into it," Iroh advised.

At the Master's urging, the Scholar closed his eyes and slowly pushed his hand through the misty page- and found his arm dangling into what felt like an endless dempilane, stuffed to the brim with all manner of trinkets, historical objects, and books of every shape and size. Feeling around blindly, he passed by several long lengths of metal that he presumed to be weaponry and a few sheets of what felt like either parchment or blueprint-paper… before withdrawing what appeared to be a cloth cap, once a forest green but now riddled with sepia-brown stains, around which was looped a dusty old pair of goggles. He walked back over to the circle of the Masters and placed the old cap in the center of the pentacle. "Does this work?"

"Ah, yes," proclaimed Iroh, examining the cap from within his body of flames. "This was the helmet of one of the culture's most venerated warriors… responsible, according to many, for the saving of not only their own world, but several others as well." He looked it over one more time, running his hand along it before suddenly remembering he wasn't actually corporeally within the room. "This should suffice. Begin the teleportation process."

Around him, Masters Crane and Runaan arose and began chanting, in some sort of indecipherable language that sounded vaguely like Latin, with Iroh joining in mere seconds later. Only Hekapoo remained silent, staring at the others in disgust, her arms folded and her eyes passive.

"Come on, Hekapoo," Crane chortled, "it's tradition!"

Hekapoo only groaned. "It's ridiculous, that's what it is. You know full well this ritual works perfectly well without all the needless spectacle. Start the transfer already."

"Hekapoo," Iroh warned, with the tone of a parent telling a child to "play nice" with their little brother.

"FINE," snapped Hekapoo, and she (not without a sarcastically aimed eyeroll) began chanting along with them. Slowly, ribbons of fire began to emerge from the center of the star, rising up and forming a cocoon around the old warrior's cap before collapsing in on itself, leaving not a trace of the cap behind.

"Very well," concluded Iroh, to a smattering of applause. "Is there any other order of business you have come before us to discuss, Scholar?"

"No, Master," the Scholar replied.

"It would do you well to return to your quarters, then. Your shift begins in three hours… and even those of us unbound by death cannot operate at full capacity without sufficient rest." As the Scholar gave one final curtsy and made his way out the back door of the chamber, Hekapoo turned to her peers with annoyance. "Another prophecy, eh? I thought we'd finally moved past those."

"Traditions never die," sighed Runaan. "I just hope this one isn't quite the mighty fine pain in our asses that her last one was. 'Three stars who once burned bright.' What is with that worm's bloody obsession with the same three girls?"

"I don't know," Iroh muttered. "But wherever they are, it's best that we find them and see if we can't lend them a hand. After all, if last time was any indication, they've certainly got a lot of strife and trauma about to come their way…"

Once more, before you leave, I would like to thank you again for reading Disney's Realmwalkers!

I ask of you one favor before you go- even if you do not have time to write a full-length review of this or any other chapter, I would very much appreciate it if you would type a rating out of ten (4/10, 8/10 etc.) in the chat for how you would rate this episode! I am working, as more episodes come out, to develop a full-fledged, IMDB-style review system- and the more of my readers that could contribute to it, the better! Thank you so much!

With love,

LumiTea