Dwarf of Bronze (ZnT/AU)

“Ah, you must be Francisque. I’ve heard a lot about your talents.” The King of Gallia was smiling at him. They were standing in a courtyard in the Royal Palace and there was a King shaking his hand. Of an entire country. Who’d brought him here. To do a portrait.

“We have a great many things to talk about.” He could hear his father’s voice but couldn’t see him. The sunset behind the King made for a beautiful image, but the darkness of the light was hard to paint by. For some reason he couldn’t move his hand properly; the chains around his wrists were making it difficult.

“Tell me what you see, boy. Does it bother you?” Francisque cast his eyes about the throne room and frowned. Everything seemed normal. The court stood around; blood from their eyes staining their fine garments. Behind the Black King his throne was pulsing like a beating heart.

There was a dagger in his hand and his father was collapsed in front of him and he was smiling as the servants tackled him to the ground and dragged the weapon out of his hand father wasn’t moving but he couldn’t stop smiling the sun was burning black screams echoing inside him and everything was fine because he’d done as he was told and now they would let him out.

The desert was endless and the sun was burning black. It pulsed with waves of cold heat that beat down on him. There was… somewhere, an exit but he didn’t know where it was. None of them did.

Her mother was hurt. That was impossible. Mother was an untouchable giant. Nothing could hurt her. Éléonore’s thesis was on the table and they were discussing it over wine. He stared into her eyes and in his she saw the death of worlds.

Cold skin. Clammy and rubbery, no heartbeat underneath. Too strong to get away. Whispers in her ears. Standing in front of a hole in the ground. Being dragged into the mine but slowly walking as she got closer. Seeing the body growing in the depths. The scale of it all makes her mind rebel.

There’s a pistol in her hand. She remembers loading it, but doesn’t know why she has it. Her mother is here and she’s happy but for some reason she feels tired. When she’s hugged the gun goes off. Why? She didn’t fire. Her mother is invincible and she’s dying on the ground.

The cavern was endless and the sun was burning black. She couldn’t see the sky but the unlight from above permeated everything. They were trying to find the way out but nobody could remember how they got here. If you don’t know where you were how can you escape?

There can be no light in darkness if the darkness is the light.

Warmth flooded Francisque’s body. He looked up and saw that there was a desert in this cavern and the cavern was the desert. His arms and face hurt. Blood was caked under his fingernails but there were a pair of soft hands holding his wrists. Gently, tenderly, but somehow holding him back without any force at all.

A warm light was flowing in from an old-fashioned lamp hanging on the end of a wooden staff. It was set in the sand beside him and the one that presumably owned it was holding him. They were hazy, though; hard to see in the darkness that was constantly trying to consume the light.

He tried to talk but his throat burned. They seemed to understand something, though, and leaned forward; wrapping their arms around him. Whoever they were they were soft and warm and Francisque felt tears running down his face; stinging the scratches on his cheeks and moistening the blood caked there.

Then they stood and took the lamp in one hand and his hand in the other. They gently tugged at him and lead him into the darkness with lamp-staff outstretched. No matter how hard the darkness tried it couldn’t penetrate the little bubble of warmth that they carried with them.

Another shape welled up in the darkness. His guide planted the staff in the ground again and walked up to it. Now he could get a good look at both of them. The figure on the ground was in much the same state as him; a blonde woman covered in thin cuts and with blood dripping from their fingertips as they had to be stopped, with that same curious lack of force, by the one who’d stopped him as well.

That one was small. Wearing a plain green cloak. An utterly unassuming young lady with a gentle smile that hugged the blonde and delicately pulled her to her feet. For some reason, he wasn’t sure why, Francisque stepped over and supported the woman as she tried to stay standing. She quickly clung on to his side they walked arm-in-arm behind the lamp-bearer as she lead them onwards.

They found more in the darkness. An old man weeping and clawing at his chest. A young girl rocking in place and digging her nails into her cheek. An exquisitely dressed boy gnawing on his own hands. Yet for each one she just took their hands and hugged them close. Francisque watched as they stilled and then began to cry. Not with the pain and anguish they’d had moments ago; but with relief.

He and the blonde separated to offer an arm each to the old man. He left her again to help the young girl. The old man took the hand of the young boy. Together they helped each other like she had helped them. Two had become three had become four had become six, had become ten, had become dozens. Each one holding another; walking together at the edges of the light that held back the endless darkness.

Then something changed. They had found another one, an old woman with torn clothes and streaks of blood running down her head, and their guide had helped her up like all the rest. But then she hadn’t continued on. Instead she just stood still and stared into the dark. They began to grow restless. Fearful.

Was the dark a little deeper, or was it in their head? That echo in the distance, was it real or imagined? Francisque tried to speak and found that he could, after a fashion, his throat burning as he forced the word out.

“Why…?” The girl who had been leading them turned around. Her smile seemed strangely sad but still so very warm and her eyes glowed with the green of fresh summer grass.

“It’s time to leave.” Her words caused a ripple amongst the lost. The blonde woman, carrying a trembling little boy in her arms, pushed forward with a stern yet nervous expression.

“We… we don’t know how. There’s no way out.” Yet their guide just shook her head and sighed.

“You all know the way. It’s been with you the whole time. You just couldn’t face it.” Ice poured into Francisque’s veins. Face it… what he’d done… how could he? How could any of them? Everyone was shaking in place, but the girl just walked up to them and took the hand of the nearest person then placed it in that of the person beside them.

“You can do it. What happened was never your fault. All of you helped each other stand. Now walk free. People need you, and you need them. It’s going to be alright.” She smiled then and raised her staff; the light shining brighter and brighter until it was like a new star, a new sun, burning away at the darkness around them.

Just sand. Just a cave. No horrors. No monsters. No terrors in the dark waiting to ensnare them. “There’s never been anything here but you. That’s why it worked so well. Nobody can hurt you more than you can hurt yourself. Now you have each other, but that’s not what you need. Let go. Forgive yourselves. Be free.” Tears were flowing freely down a dozen faces. Regret and pain were freely visible every way you looked. And yet..

“... I'm sorry, Father. I’m so sorry.”

Francisque tried to sit up but his muscles weren’t working properly. Someone was beside him; pushing him down and calling for help. He looked blearily at them and realised it was their family butler. The old man was restraining him with a single hand. How was that possible?

More servants arrived. One of them passed the butler a small jug and he held it up to Francisque’s mouth; pouring water into it. Tomas. That was the man’s name. Mister Tomas, when they were boys. The water was cool and soothed the fire in his throat. His head felt like it was stuffed with wool.

“Fa… father… how is…?” The old man looked troubled and glanced at the servants. One shook their head slowly and Tomas sighed; taking Francisque’s hand and helping him up with a palm at his back.

“Master Armand is not in a good way, sir. I think we’d best take you to him.” Two of them took an arm each, the old man to his right and one of the young to his left, and they helped him out of bed. He looked miserable; cuts and scratches on his arms and ragged fingernails. It felt so familiar, and yet not. Like a bad dream…

Adrien and Maximilien were in the room when they arrived. The former was crouched by the bed, head bowed in prayer, and the latter was holding their father’s hand. He was speaking softly, yet loud enough for the man in the bed to hear. He didn’t look well at all.

“... and they made Guiche a Knight Captain, father. Head of his own Knightly Order, now. He’s overtaken me. They repelled an invasion attempt by Gallia, I heard, and we’re to go to war soon. I’ll have to leave you here. But Adrien will take good care of you and…” His brother trailed off as Tomas cleared his throat. Both brothers turned at once to see their sibling supported between two servants.

Francisque’s heart was pounding. He’d done this. Surely they must hate him. He’d… he’d stabbed… and now their father was… Adrien but Maximilien stood and strode over at once. Before he could try and say anything, though, his brother was hugging him and burying his face into Francisque’s shoulder.

“We thought we’d lost you, too. I’m so happy you’re alright, brother.” His heart was pounding so hard he thought it might burst. Like it was trying to rip its way out of his chest. “It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t do this. It wasn’t your fault.” That mantra, repeated in his ear, was like a bucket of cold water. Weakly, Francisque raised his arms and held his brother in turn. They didn’t blame him. They didn’t hate him. So why did he want to cry so badly?

“Francisque…?” It was a quiet voice. So weak that it broke his heart all over again. Maximilien released him and took over from Tomas; helping his brother desperately hobble over to the bed. Their father had opened his eyes. He was staring blearily at his sons, and a faint smile touched his lips.

“You’re all.. no… Guiche is... “ The old man’s brow furrowed in concentration. “Knight Captain… that fool boy… he didn’t need… to do that…” One trembling hand reached out and was placed on Adrien’s head. “Your wife… treasure her, boy… if you have a daughter, name her Rosalie. It was… your mother’s name.”

“Yes, father. Yes. I will, I promise.” Adrien cried and bowed his head; wetting the blanket beneath him as he shook and dripped in place. Armand just smiled at him and then reached a hand out for Maximilien. His son took it; dropping to one knee as Tomas came from behind to expertly support Francisque once more.

“My son… be a General, if you wish… but only follow that path for your own sake… not for mine… you should be your own man… not my shadow… no matter what you choose… I will always love you…” Silent tears ran down Maximilien’s face and he nodded; unable to speak. Then their father reached for the last son and Francisque reached out; only to hesitate at the last minute.

“Ah… come here, Francisque… it’s alright…” He stumbled forward and nearly fell as he went to his knees; bent double and laid down over their father’s chest. The old man didn’t say anything at first; merely putting a hand on his son’s head and gently patting it. Then he gently pushed at Francisque’s chin so he looked up.

“I never got you… to paint my portrait… I regret that… I regret… so many things… but not any of you. Francisque… please… don’t give up… you must live on… live the life… you dreamed of… with your father’s blessing…” He was trembling and he couldn’t stop crying. Staring at the pallid visage of their father brought it all back.

Armand reached out and wiped away Francisque’s tears with a friendly smile. Though he looked weaker than any of them had ever seen him he also spoke with a quiet resolution and seemed to possess a curious aura of peace. “Tell Guiche… that he can be a hero… tell him that… I will always be proud of him… of all of you… my boys… you are… my finest…”

His hand went still, and then slid down Francisque’s cheek. They all sat there in mute incomprehension; staring at the still form of their father where he lay, blankly gazing into space with a smile still on his face. The healer pushed Maximilien aside and put a hand to Armand’s neck; shouting at the servants while his sons just sat there.

After a moment Francisque stretched out his hand and gently closed their father’s eyes. Beside him Adrien had started openly sobbing. Maximilien was stoic but his sorrow still flowed freely. And yet Francisque had no tears left. His face just ached. He didn’t understand.

Thus it was that General Armand de Gramont, known as Armand the Quake, passed away at peace with his life; surrounded by what he considered to be his life’s greatest failures and, at the same time, in the company of his finest successes.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

Karine Désirée de la Vallière née Maillart opened her eyes. There was already a startled healer babbling at her as she sat up but she ignored the man and forced herself to her feet. Her legs tried to collapse out from under he but she refused to let them. Instead she grabbed the man by his collar and dragged his face up to hers.

“Where is my daughter?”

Mere minutes later she was in Éléonore’s room; checking her condition. The girl had a mild fever but that was pretty much it. They had strapped some padded gloves to her hands, though, and the scratches on her face and neck explained that. She seemed to be fine. Relief flooded Karin and she finally allowed her screaming body to fail; collapsing to her knees and flopping bodily over her daughter’s bed.

The door slammed open behind her and then her husband was picking her up and holding her in his arms; immediately moving her to the second bed in the room. Why it was even there Karin had no idea but Pierre put it to good use fussing over her.

“I’m fine, my love, I’m fine. You know it would take more than that to kill me. More importantly, how is Éléonore? How is Louise? How is Cattelya? What’s been going on?” His sudden stillness filled her with a terrible dread and she grasped her husband’s arm tightly. “Pierre… what has happened to our daughters?” He was shaking, his face a sudden rictus of terror with one hand covering his mouth.

“They… Éléonore hasn’t woken up, but… Viscount Wardes, he… he proposed to Louise and… and I agreed. There was a wedding, but she turned him down at the altar…” Karin was startled by every step of that statement past the first bit, but a growing sense of dread told her the worst was yet to come. “Wardes was… he attacked Saito and took Louise. Cattelya was injured in the fighting, but Saito he… he had magic, and he killed the soldiers and healed Cattelya then went after Louise.”

Her mind was reeling. The Viscount was… a traitor? And he kidnapped Louise? She just couldn’t reconcile the images in her head of a polite, loyal and talented Knight with a traitorous kidnapper. Pierre wouldn’t lie to her. Then there was Saito using magic… she’d always suspected he was hiding something but that hadn’t been high on the list.

Still. Two daughters injured and one taken from her. That made for three unforgivable offences in her eyes. Karin clenched her fist and began to tremble as anger overcame her. How dare they. How dare they! In all her years, with all the monsters she’d slain, all the enemies she’d made, not a single one had ever attempted to hurt her family because they just knew better.

Her anger was quickly deflated for two reasons however. The first thing to draw the wind out of her sails was that she had no target for this rage. Wardes could have been working for any number of nations or even none at all; for all she knew he was simply so grotesquely enamoured with Louise that kidnapping her was all his own design.

Secondly, though, was that Éléonore was suddenly stirring in her bed and all of Karin’s attention was focused on this single fact. She impotently smacked her husband until he let her up and supported her as they quickly moved to their daughter’s bedside.

Her eyes flickered open and Pierre, bless him, shouted behind him for the healers to come at once. They were there just in time to support Éléonore as she sat up; pushing pillows in behind her, giving her water and carefully checking her vitals. He’d clearly spared no expense, the wonderful man, and each and every last one was a consummate professional.

“... mother?” Éléonore seemed dazed and confused; staring at her own covered hands as well as her mother’s face in turn. She was trembling slightly and fear was gathering in her expression. Before she could ask anything more, though, Karin squirmed out of her husband’s grasp and wrapped her arms around her daughter.

“Thank the Founder… I thought we had lost you. I’m so glad you’re okay.” She could feel the girl shaking in her grip but didn’t let her go. Éléonore started crying and her mother shortly followed suit and then Pierre was hugging both of them and he was crying as well and it was all just too much.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, mother… I didn’t want to… I tried to stop myself, but… it was like I was lost in some dark place and I couldn’t find my way out…” Karin shook her head and pulled back; wiping her tears on her sleeve and trying to smile for her daughter’s sake.

“I know. I know you’d never want to hurt me, my dear. I’m just… I’m so happy you’re alright.” They held each other for a time until the healers finally pried them apart so they could keep examining Éléonore. Fortunately it seemed that she was in more or less good health aside from being a little malnourished. They also healed the scratches that had been left on her as they hadn’t wanted to use magic on her when she was in an unknown state.

Then, with great care, Karin set about finding out exactly what had happened to her daughter before the attack. The more questions she asked the more her blood began to boil once more. All that Éléonore recalled was a servant of the King of Gallia coming to obtain her services for some academic project. That meant one of two things; either the culprit of the attack was the King or else he had allowed her daughter to be attacked under his watch.

Her suspicions, however, pointed towards the former. King Joseph’s brother had died under suspicious circumstances, normal enough for Gallia, but then his rule had become unstable and erratic. A number of the upper Nobility had left the Capital for their countryside estates and dark rumours had abounded of strange goings on in his court.

In the light of the Reconquista and the usual agressions from Germania this had all rather fallen by the wayside but now Karin had a horrible feeling. Albion’s revolution had come out of nowhere; falling in line behind an apparently charismatic leader and turning the nation against its masters. Only what if that wasn’t true? Somehow, her daughter had been made to return home and try to murder her own mother. That stank of magic of the foulest sort.

They laid Éléonore to bed and, at her request, Pierre helped Karin to her study. She fumbled with her desk until she found the hidden button and pressed it; a secret panel concealed in the woodwork opening up to reveal a small black journal. He looked at her with an air of concern as she pulled it out and began to flip through it; reaching for a quill and pen.

“Many of them came when you were injured. I can remember who.” She nodded; writing lone names on paper and then starting a fresh sheet. Picking out those whose debts to here were still outstanding, and those who she could stand to owe a debt. Even some of those she normally wouldn’t care to be indebted to. This was important.

Over the years Karin had accumulated an awful lot of good will from a lot of dangerous people. Now someone had attacked her nation and her family both. So she was going to call in every favour she could, and then some. Whether or not Gallia was ultimately responsible someone was going to pay for this.

She would make sure of that.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

In this one room were gathered the most skilled Elves in all the Holy Land. They called upon the Spirits’ aid and together wove their power into a mighty wall that circled around It. The last and most terrible remnant of the horrors wrought upon their nation by the Wielder of Void.

Even if the thing had long since been neglected their traditions had dictated a watch be maintained over it at all times. When the alarm had been sounded none had truly believed it was real yet all had answered immediately. The alternative was unthinkable. When it had last opened the things that spilled out had nearly ruined them all. They were determined not to let it happen again.

Shaitan’s Gate was barely visible behind the web of protective magic they had woven around it. Everyone could tell, however, that they hadn’t managed to prevent it from opening. Such a thing was beyond even their combined power. Hopefully they could contain the outbreak long enough for a resistance force to be assembled. Yet even that hope was faint as some indistinct shape from within stepped forward and, to their collective horror, effortlessly rent their barrier asunder.

What stood before the now-closing Gate was not, however, the collection of horrors they had been expecting. These things had the expected number of limbs and faces, the correct amount of hands and torsos. They weren’t already twisting to form living weapons nor leaping forward to vivisect the assembled Elves. Instead they seemed to be regarding the gathering fairly dispassionately.

Seven of the group were dressed nearly identically; clad in red cloaks that caused a strange sense of unease to look upon and wearing a wide variety of masks. The one at the front’s was adorned with curious red and black markings; they were sheathing a strange dagger that all the Spirits present were recoiling from.

Then one of the Elves noticed the eyes. They were golden, and glowing, and even that description fell short because they looked like they were made of molten, shimmering gold. The light pouring from them left a trail as they turned their head and gazed rather conspicuously at the unseen Spirits all around.

The eighth member of the group was not, however, content to wait. They stood some three full metres tall and were armoured head to toe with heavy plate over their arms and legs and a brigandine with extra lamellar plating over top. Their full helm was embossed with the visage of a snarling wolf but lacked any additional adornment that would have affected its protective value.

They also carried a vast warhammer with a head easily comparable in size to an anvil. This weapon was pointed at the assembled Elves as they barked out something in an unheard-of language, then turned to speak in turn to the golden-eyed one beside them.

“... it’s a trick! Capture them, quickly!” One of the Elves broke the tension with a shout and either the group could understand their language or they sensed the sudden hostility in the air because six of seven immediately leapt forward with a speed and ferocity that eclipsed the Elves’ own.

Coloured lights glowed on their bodies as they flew forward. Shards of ice formed but then struck invisible barriers and shattered instantly; only Elves capable of using ‘Counter’ were present in this room as only that magic gave one a fighting chance against their ancient foes. Likewise, bolts of fire or blades of wind were dispersed and spikes of stone bursting out of the ground ceased mid-motion and split apart.

Though the Elves were relieved to see their defences so effective their nerves had still been damaged by the near-instantaneous assault. When they struck back moments later their blows met only empty air; the attackers almost melting away as they retreated to their original positions and seemed to be forming a defensive line. Snarling loudly as they went the giant in front stepped forward and swung their massive weapon with two hands directly at the Elf who had called out.

The attack’s force was dissipated by ‘Counter’, but even the dispersed impact caused the ground to crack around him. It had come out with such speed and force that he’d been utterly unable to react to it; even with the six before the Elves had been caught mid-dodge but this was on an entirely different level. Although his spell was still going strong he’d felt it tremble in response to the impact and that was an utterly unique sensation.

Then the titanic figure raised their maul above their head and roared.

“ZAL-MARIK!”

The head of their weapon had, on the striking surface, the impression of a monstrous face. Its ‘eyes’ lit up with a golden glow at the strange war cry, and runes inscribed on the sides of the hammers began to shine with an ethereal blue light that formed curious flames about the weapon that seemed to solidify into a glassy shape for only an instant before shattering into an new position.

When they swung it again a clear, beautiful sound rang out in its wake. The Elf did his best to leap backwards and this was all that saved him. That tremendous blow met his protective barrier and something flowed into it. An instant later he felt it split open and the hammer passed neatly through the space his chest had been occupying only a moment before. He was just barely clipped by it at the zenith of the swing and even that sent him flying backwards and spinning sideways with what felt like a shattered shoulder.

Another Elf turned to cry out a command as the titan recovered from their swing yet fell silent when they felt a faint pricking sensation on their neck. Unseen and unstoppable the golden-eyed one had appeared behind them at some point. Their bizarrely-shaped dagger had passed through the ‘Counter’ field like it wasn’t even there and was now pressed against their neck.

Then they began to speak; quietly, calmly, even in a friendly tone as they cycled through language, after language, after language, after language. Everyone had gone very still at this strange attempt at diplomacy. Finally, on the tenth attempt, they spoke in a tongue that the Elf recognised; it belonged to one of the human nations across the sea.

“How about this one?” They swallowed heavily; restraining the urge to nod and instead weakly replying in kind.

“Yes… yes, I understand it. Who are you? What do you want?” The titan shifted forward and everyone tensed; but they only laid their maul down on the ground and pulled their helmet off. Underneath was a furious looking woman with thick red hair that had somehow been contained within the depths of that helm. When she spoke it was with a thick accent that didn’t suit the language they were speaking at all and with a barely restrained rage that chilled the blood.

“My name is Red, and I want you damned heathens to tell me one thing!” She reared her head back and roared so loudly that every single Elf within nearly a mile of the Gate could hear it. Even her own companions covered their ears.

“WHERE IS MY HUSBAND!”

 

“Thus I suffer love's inconstancies, and when I think the pain is most intense, without thinking, it is gone again.” Guiche de Gramont was leaning on parapet of his room’s balcony within the Royal Palace of Tristain; reciting with quiet surety a particular poem he remembered from his verses. There was a letter clutched in his hand that he idly stroked the surface of while he stared into the evening.

Behind him the door to the balcony opened, but he paid it no mind; simply continuing to orate into the empty air. “Then when I feel my joys certain, and my hour of greatest delight arrived, I find my pain beginning all over once again.” He chuckled then but still didn’t turn his head. “I always found it curious as a child that Lady Labé didn’t use a traditional rhyming meter. You know, it was one of the first poems I remember encountering that didn’t.”

“No. I didn’t know that.” Montmorency moved to stand beside him; joining Guiche in watching the sun slowly descend toward the horizon. “I fear there’s a lot I don’t know about you, Guiche.” There was a certain sorrow to her tone and a vague melancholy on her face. She looked at the black cloak he still wore even now and shivered slightly. He’d taken to wearing it in place of his blue one as of late. Nobody knew what had happened to his hat but he hadn’t been seen wearing it since…

“Perhaps it’s a misunderstanding. Surely Sir Wardes would never…” She fell silent a moment later, however, on seeing Guiche clench his suddenly at the mention of that name. The letter was crumpled a little more before he could force himself to relax. Those words had felt hollow even to her. It was difficult to reconcile the charming, fatherly manner of their former instructor with the news brought in by Duke Vallière’s letter.

“It’s funny… a few things make sense, now.” There was a wry grimace on Guiche’s face as he began to reminisce; mocking his current self for his past self’s naivete. “I had wondered about the mission he’d failed; particularly once I learned the details later on. How a mere common soldier could have murdered the Prince of Albion right under his nose. Now I know.” He allowed himself a humourless chuckle; still not meeting the gaze of the girl beside him.

“... Guiche?” Now he did, though, because it would be criminal not to grant a lady his full attention when she spoke to him with such a nervous, even fearful, tone. The concern was writ large across her features and though they were somewhat marred by it she remained as beautiful as ever. Which made her next words all the more heartbreaking. “Do you… love me?” He sighed and fought the urge to look away once more. That would have been… unfair.

“I don’t know, Monmon. I just… don’t know.” Her face didn’t fall any, as if she had been expecting the answer, but she still broke off her gaze and bit her lip. He reached out and took her hands in his; gently squeezing the delicate fingers with his own. “It is not that I don’t care for you, my sweet flower, but… I can only admit now that I first sought you ought for truly shallow, utterly boorish reasons.” Guiche looked down with shame; only for Montmorency to pull a hand free and lift his chin for him.

“I understand, Guiche. Believe me I… I understand. I fear I only accepted your advances because you were handsome and outwardly charming. At the time I even knew of your womanising nature and overlooked it because of the sweet words you spoke to me… yet I never truly entrusted you with my heart. I even tried to claim your affections by force…” She trailed off after metaphorically punching him in the gut a few times. Not that the shots weren’t well-deserved, of course.

“Truly, we are but strangers, are we not?” His laugh this time was more genuine if still rather self-deprecating. Fueled by the irony of realising the young woman he’d expressed his eternal affection for on multiple occasions was someone he knew as much about as some of the Academy’s servants.

“I suppose we are, at that.” Poor Monmon seemed a little less amused by the situation than he did. Then again, he’d developed a somewhat unique perspective on the notion of remorse after inheriting the Aurora Requiem. “And the situation somewhat precludes us growing any closer, doesn’t it?” The dear girl looked to be on the verge of tears, in fact.

“I fear it does. However…” Guiche allowed one last little indulgence and moved forward to take her into his arms; feeling her trembling against his chest like some timid forest creature. “I told you, didn’t I? The cloak uses my laments as fuel for its power. It showed me every moment of regret I had when I wielded it.” He pulled back; holding her face between his hands and gently wiping her tears with his thumb. “Whatever it was that we had, just know that I didn’t see a single moment of it in the Aurora. You have my word on that.”

He returned to holding her after that and, much to his surprise, the moment was allowed to be and pass without interruption. It was a rather unusual moment because of that but he didn’t let that stop him from enjoying it. When it was done he patted Montmorency on the shoulder and saw her to the door with a smile on his face.

Once she was gone he returned to the balcony door and resumed his wistful staring without stepping back out just yet. It wasn’t that he wasn’t going to miss her, because he was, and it certainly wasn’t that he didn’t like her, because he did, but rather… he’d come to realise more and more, as had she, that they had very little in common except for their mutual attractiveness.

“Do you think I did the right thing, Derf?” In the corner of the room what could have easily been mistaken for an ordinary suit of armour creaked into motion. With Kenneth’s arm lost it had fallen to Guiche to make the necessary modifications to his friend’s new body. The work hadn’t been too hard, actually, since he’d long ago abandoned a lot of the original design of his Valkyries.

After Kenneth had made some scathing points about what their extremely obvious, ah, ‘femininity’ had said about Guiche’s level of maturity he’d toned that down significantly in the first set of changes. His final design still had a sense of grace and delicacy to them whilst still being significantly more functional. For Derf, however, he’d replaced the chest plate and face plate so that the newly animate armour could be a bit more expressive while also feeling a bit more like the masculine self-ideal that he had.

“None of my wielders were ever particularly great with the ladies, partner. Even my maker was pretty unlucky in love.” Derflinger shrugged, clattering a little as he did so, and then briefly grinned at the mere fact that he’d been able to express himself as such. “That said… I liked the girl well enough. She was a dab hand at polishing and all. But you’re the only one who can make the call, in the end..”

Guiche nodded. Ever since the incident with the love potion he’d had… doubts. With all the events unfolding, however, there hadn’t really been time to address it. After following him had put Montmorency into unnecessary danger he’d decided he needed to bite the blade and finally talk to her. There were a few things he wished he’d said already. That he was proud of her for being willing to follow him, for one.

“After this is all over I’ll see her again. Perhaps we can have a proper go of it then.” The words sounded hollow to him, though. He shook it off and turned with a renewed smile on his face. “Come along. I think I saw riders headed for the gate. Perhaps the delegation from Germania has arrived. Shall we go see?”

“Sounds entertaining, partner.” The sentient golem picked up a tabard and slung it over himself; the symbol of House de Gramont proudly emblazoned on the front. There had been, initially, a small amount of fuss regarding his status as a person as well as whether or not he fell under various religious restrictions regarding ‘unholy beings’ that had all been rather pointedly settled by Guiche forthrightly declaring that Derf was his personal squire and offering to duel anyone who cared to disagree.

For some reason the delivery of that particular ultimatum, distributed as it was by the still-singed and battle-worn Guiche with one-armed familiar standing at his side, had put an end to the debate regarding the potentially heretical nature of his friend.

They strapped their swords on as they left, Guiche’s rose-hilted blade at his side and Derf’s far less delicate broadsword in a special Kenneth-approved sheathe on his back, and together departed for the entry hall downstairs. As they approached there seemed to be some measure of chaos growing in the halls; people rushing to and fro like headless chickens and screaming calls to action rising. When an actual alarm bell began to ring Guiche finally acted; dashing up to and catching a passing guard by the arm.

“Good heavens, man, you look a fright. Whatever is going on?” The panic-stricken warrior gave Guiche a look of shock that morphed into great relief.

“Sir! I mean, Lord Gramont! The Queen has been murdered, and the Princess has been taken hostage!”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
​

The approaching Prince was received in the throne room by Queen Marianne and Princess Henrietta, along with most of the court and a plethora of guards. He had not come alone but with soldiers of his own; men armed and armoured with the garments of the former Royal Guard of Albion. Yet the party as a whole assented to turn over their arms before entering the palace and were pointedly escorted inside not at musket point.

That is to say, the members of the Princess’ Musketeer Corps were keeping up the rear at a respectable distance with weapons loaded but not actively aimed at the backs of the visitors. There was a distinct air of distrust in all those who saw the party; one that the Prince regarded with a dignified aura of melancholy.

When they entered the throne room itself he moved to the appropriate distance, paused and then bowed; first to the Queen and then to the Princess. When he righted himself he looked at her with an expression of pained longing but shortly returned to a polite smile.

“Your Majesty, Wales Tudor, Prince of Albion, and retainers, presents themselves to your court. I humbly beg your forgiveness for not sending word of our arrival.” The mannerisms and tone of voice, the way he stood and smiled, they were all… perfect. Marianne quite deliberately did not frown, and glanced at her daughter. Henrietta was similarly tense.

“We forgive you, Prince Wales. We are most relieved to see that the rumours of your demise were greatly exaggerated.” For some reason her words caused the Prince to chuckle and slowly shake his head.

“Ah… Unfortunately, Your Majesty, while Viscount Wardes did lie to you about a great many things that was not one of them.” A ripple of murmured conversation passed through the few members of court in attendance and every guard suddenly fell into readiness. Wales continued with a calm, crisp voice and a faint smile on his face. “The Viscount struck true, when I least expected it, striking me in the heart with a bolt of lightning.”

He looked to Henrietta; pain and concern writ across his features. “Fear not, my beloved, I died instantly; there was no pain. I swear, my last thoughts were of you.” That caused as much a stir as the revelation that the Prince was some sort of unholy revenant. The Cardinal in particular was growing quite red in the corner.

“How comest you to be standing before us, then?” The Queen felt her wand concealed in the sleeve of her regal gown and allowed the impropriety of a frown. Whatever foul shade he might be this visage of the Prince had yet to offer any actual hostility towards them.

“Ah, now that is a grand tale, Your Majesty. Firstly, it must be made clear to you that Wardes was acting not on the orders of the Reconquista, but on the orders of King Joseph of Gallia.” Harsh mutters of vindication abounded. “Likewise, the Reconquista itself was created entirely by His Majesty. I’m sad to say that there was nothing mystical about it, though. Cromwell was merely given the resources to act on his ambitions. Rather shameful to think we had such an abundance of traitors.”

The entire thing was confounding the Queen. Such effort had been put into so perfect a replica that hadn’t hesitated to out itself, yet continued to keep up the act so perfectly. “In any case, my remains were secured and returned to King Joseph. Then, when he had need of me, he restored me to life in full.” By way of demonstration Prince Wales placed his hand in his mouth and bit down hard on one of his fingers.

When he held it out visible red blood dripped to the floor while the Prince smiled at them. “Though, it seems some of my perspectives have been altered by the process. My former self would have been unwilling to give so obvious a demonstration due to how very painful it was, but I find I’m not especially bothered by pain any more. Likewise, as you may have guessed, I have come here on the instruction of King Joseph to carry his words to you. Perhaps my loyalty to him should give me cause for consternation but it doesn’t appear to.”

Marianne could see that her daughter was trembling in place. Wales seemed to notice that as well and he looked to her with sadness in his face. “I’m sorry for upsetting you, my dear. Rest assured, my feelings towards you have not changed at all with my new lease on life.” That didn’t actually help any, and Henrietta began to freely cry. The Prince sighed and looked away.

“Well, since you have come to bring us word of your new master then you may as well do so. Speak your piece, revenant, and then begone from our sight.” She had humoured the thing that wore Wales’ face for long enough now, and she wouldn’t distress her daughter any further.

“Oh, very well. Thus speaks Joseph, Black King of Gallia.” Wales drew himself up, eyes shining with the light of a true zealot, and spoke with conviction and zeal that could put a fire and brimstone preacher to shame. “I address you, o Queen, as a fellow ruler of a doomed land. Struggle if you will, surrender if you wish, attack if you must. Be they yours or mine, every death shall merely fuel my victory.”

The Prince smiled sadly. “His words, I’m afraid, not mine. Though, given I am technically meant to be King of Albion, I’d have to echo them. No matter what you do at this point, Your Majesty, you can’t beat him. He’s won. In truth, it was only a matter of waiting in the first place but he grew tired of that.”

He shook his head and shrugged with a half-hearted sort of devil-may-care feel. “Germania will go to war because the Emperor’s son is delivering a similar message to myself. They’ll slaughter our troops and we’ll slaughter theirs and it will all add up. And it doesn’t matter that I’ve told you that, either, because you’ll go to war too. You have to, don’t you? I know well enough how nations work, Your Majesty.” The worst bit was that he wasn’t wrong.

Founder damn him, but he wasn’t wrong. There was too much momentum, too many aggrieved parties, too many bruised egos and worse besides. Word of Tarbes was spreading through the commonfolk and as much as they had grievances with the Nobility, be they legitimate or not, they were already enraged by the idea of some foreign power having tried to kill them off.

The Reconquista had only worked because it had looked internal. If a foreign power had tried to incite a similar rebellion they would have utterly failed. Similarly, the Tristanian public had been infuriated by an attack on their Lords and Ladies. Even if you resented your taxes and hated your master and would gladly see them run down in the street you’d lynch the foreigner that dared to speak against them because it wasn’t their place, it was yours.

That was how it worked. Marianne knew that was how it worked. Here and now, though, it was working against her. If what Wales said was true and she tried to stop the war then the people would turn on her just as quickly as the Nobles. Those who hadn’t been here, hadn’t seen the confidence in his eyes, heard the certainty in his voice, would tell her she was a fool for believing him. Even some of those who had might do the same.

“Especially given my last order, which I must now carry out with some regret.” Wales bowed to the Queen and then raised his hand; a dozen muskets and half a dozen wands all pointed at him the moment he did. Yet he paid them no mind and closed his fist. When he did so the six retainers all collapsed at once like puppets with their strings cut and flopped on the floor.

This so shocked those assembled that they weren’t able to, for the most part, properly respond to what happened next. Wales held out his palm, a symbol that was painful to gaze upon appearing on its surface, and black fire burned its way into reality. The air itself seemed to bubble and crack and flake away as the evidently unholy energies came into being.

It formed a fist-sized ball in an instant that struck across the distance and struck Queen Marianne in the chest; a ten-centimetre circle of her gown becoming dust and the pale skin underneath blackening as flesh went instantly from healthy to a state of ancient putrefaction.

As the Queen fell forward out of her seat and rolled down the throne’s stairs everyone else caught up with the moment. The crack of a dozen muskets sounded in the room and a moment later a dozen bullets caught Wales in the back while two small balls of regular flame, a hand-sized shard of ice, a streak of lightning and a needle of wind struck him in the front. Henrietta stared, frozen with abject horror, as he bounced back and forth between the forces for a moment before collapsing himself.

The only other Water Mage in the room, Princess aside, rushed to the Queen and began to cast spells. Everyone else just milled about in mute, useless shock. Some of the Musketeers moved up to check on the Prince’s body when, rather startlingly, the bodies of his retainers started to shake.

Then they rose; skin falling off in black flakes that hit the ground with a sound like raining glass. Flesh bubbled and twisted and curled as well; the bones beneath becoming very distinct as cords of muscle unfurled from their mooring points and realigned themselves. Something like obsidian was growing from their fingers as the bones visible grew and lengthened and fused together.

It wasn’t a slow process but the musketeers had long since opened fire to no avail. Their bullets struck true and then nothing much happened at all after that; they seemed incapable of damaging the new bones of the things and their muscles just pushed out the lead balls as they rearranged themselves into something better.

Magic was similarly ineffectual; fire in particular struck and took hold and then turned suddenly white, or possibly black, as it burned itself up from the inside leaving only faint wisps of smoke. In the eyes of each creature was a pitch black flame that burned up the light around it; creating the impression of a yawning void in their sockets.

Then the Prince stood as well and although he seemed quite normal still the unholy sigil that he’d shone before had replaced his right pupil. He turned his gaze upon the nobles one by one and from the matching sigil on his palm gifted each with a rather more bountiful torrent of the same dark fire that had struck down the Queen. They screamed as it burned at their flesh and yet at the same time did not; their skin became taut as year after year was seared out of it.

Each one fell in turn as the musketeers died behind him. His minions had finished configuring themselves and leapt upon them quickly enough. The newly formed blades on their forearms or fingers were tinged with black fire that caused the chainmail armour to rust away with a single slice. Death came with a second; their internal organs being perforated and then immediately festering.

Wales glanced at them for a moment and then nodded to himself; turning back and walking toward the last remaining Noble in the room. Princess excepted, of course. She was pale and frozen in place; petrified with fear. The Noble, to his credit, paid the carnage no mind whatsoever; focusing utterly on the spells he was working on the Queen.

The Prince ignored him; stepping around him and walking up the shorter stairs to Henrietta’s seat and holding his hand out to her with a smile. “I’m terribly sorry, my love, but I’m afraid you must come with me now.” At last, still trembling, she managed to force out words.

“How… how could you… you profess to love me still and yet you do this? You are not my darling Wales, but some monster that has stolen his body!” Her words seemed to hurt the abomination and its expression twisted for a moment. She shook as it reached for her and stroked her chin. The fingertips were warm, not cold like she had expected, and the touch gentle.

“My dearest Henrietta… before the lake I swore an oath to you in the hope that I would one day have the bravery to take your hand in mine, and show our love to the world.” She cried freely as the Prince, her Prince, spoke to her with a soft and delicate tone. “I fear that, in my heart, I knew I never could. I had not the courage, and it was such impropriety… yet, now, I am freed of such concerns. I’ve no intention of harming you, but I am afraid I must take you now.”

He pulled away from her and walked towards one of his monsters which now approached him. Each one had one hand with sharp fingers and another well and truly weaponised; either formed into an obsidian-bone sword or else with knives in place of their fingertips. Yet this one hand a long blade growing from its arm as well; Wales grasped it just above the wrist and calmly snapped it off and flicked it through the air a few times.

“Excellent. Now then, my dear, let us be away.” The disarmed monster began to regrow its hand as two walked up and grasped the Princess by her upper arms; dragging her roughly off the throne but taking care not to dig their sharp talons into her skin. As the group walked away he glanced to the last Nobleman, still desperately pouring out every last ounce of his Willpower into his monarch. “Good luck with Her Majesty, Mott. I do hope you can save her!”

The Count didn’t even look up as Wales left with his Princess.

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​

Guiche sprinted through the halls, a loud clanking marking Derflinger following his path, with one hand on the sword at his waist and grim determination on his face. That was his only support at present; Kenneth was in town with his smith supplier trying to cobble together a new arm and Saito was still unaccounted for.

The sounds of battle were growing more vigorous as the soldiers attempted to slow the egress of the attackers. They’d started in the throne room and were boldly advancing now towards the castle gates, yet had taken several perplexing detours along the way. It seemed the attacker was Prince Wales, somehow returned from the dead with unholy powers, and a cadre of undead monstrosities that apparently defied description.

Earth-Earth; Flesh of Bronze. He cast as he ran and felt the weight settle into his muscles. Air-Air; Wind Enhancement. The burst of speed negated the slight stiffness to his body and sent him hurtling forward even faster. Fire-Fire; Burning Heart. Now his muscles bulged and bunched up as a warmth settled into his chest. With the addition of his Bronze Body spell he could push the extra muscular enhancement to the limit.

Others were heading through the halls; trying to set up barricades or even collapse corridors to keep the invaders inside. Guiche was not. Lessons from Kenneth and Saito both had been burned into his skull. They’d taken a strange route to leave and were making a massive commotion as they did so. Which meant that they wanted everyone to know where they were.

He came out onto a battlement but didn’t cast Levitation on himself; fighting while flying wasn’t something he’d practiced enough to feel comfortable with that and cancelling the spell would be finicky at best mid-fight. Derf didn’t follow him directly; he leapt up on to the rooftops while his friend jumped down instead. Splitting up was a calculated risk, but an important one. He didn’t have to win here, merely buy enough time.

The young Gramont scrambled over the roof and slid down the other side; dropping into a smaller rear courtyard that lead to the Royal Stables. He hit the ground with a thunderous impact that even he felt through his protective spells but was within the limits he’d practiced for. Cobblestones cracked and splintered underneath him and caused the three figures on the far side of the courtyard to pause and turn around.

Two monsters holding the Princess Henrietta limply between them, and one well-dressed young blond man with bloodstains marring his otherwise lovely clothes. Guiche smirked and straightened up; drawing his white-bladed sword and trying not to think about how incredibly cool that must have looked. The young man, who must have been the Prince, casually twirled a longsword that looked like black glass with ease that belied its weight.

“Prince Wales, I presume! I’m afraid I must ask you to immediately surrender and release the Princess.” That seemed to amuse the Prince because he chuckled first, and then reared back with a laugh that seemed it would have been more at home coming from an asylum resident. When he looked back down it was with an expression of smug contempt.

“Apologies, young man, but I have no time for you.” He flicked his sword up, black flames pouring off of it in a line and surging towards Guiche. There was no way for him to see the Prince’s expression when the Aurora Requiem burst into life; a pillar of cold white negating the unholy inferno heading towards him. Yet when he stepped forward he was able to gain satisfaction enough from the look of utter shock on the revenant’s face.

Guiche flicked his sword through the aura of his cloak and it came out of it burning pale. Then he raised it to point imperiously at his gobsmacked opponent. “I say again, ‘Prince’. Surrender. You have met your match.”

Wales’ face twisted into a mask of hatred as he chose to decline Guiche’s polite request by launching himself forward to attack.

 

Guiche stepped deftly back; barely escaping the range of ex-Prince Wales’ powerful horizontal slash. The strength was well beyond that a normal man might bring to bear and was followed by an arc of black flame that brought with it the horrible and familiar feeling of death and age settling into one’s very marrow. Yet even as it approached he burned his regret and forced it back by the force of his tears.

Extensive practice meant that even his vision wasn’t significantly impaired. A sort of calm fury had settled into the young Nobleman; the existence of this shade wearing the face of one who had, by all accounts, once been a generous and kindly Prince was offensive enough in its own right without knowing that his presence here was undoubtedly the work of his erstwhile mentor.

This served to focus him into an ice-forged blade that now twisted to the side to avoid an impossible returning stroke. Wales had managed to twist his arm and wrist down and around to cut upwards at an angle. The awful sound of cracking bone and snapping muscle made it clear as to why no mortal could have managed it.

Once more Guiche was only just clear of the scything tip of the obsidian blade. Close enough that the dark fire almost licked against his skin and most likely would have had it not been for the aura of Moonlight surrounding him. Rather than take advantage of the Prince’s self-damaging stroke Guiche instead retreated back a few steps; eying the limp arm with an air of skepticism.

To nobody’s surprise Wales smirked and twisted his arm again. There was another horrible crack and the material of his sleeve bulged as the muscles repaired themselves in a matter of moments. He flourished his sword, black flames trailing after it, and began to slowly circle his opponent. Behind him his other monsters were retreating with the Princess in hand; clearly realising their master would have to take some time for this. Or perhaps he had given them an order somehow, Guiche couldn’t know which.

“Impressive. You’ve survived three more strikes than anyone else thus far. Well, except for Henrietta’s mother, of course. Though, she may yet survive. My King didn’t say I had to kill her, fortunately.” The smile that was on the monster’s face was all the more terrible for how genuine it seemed it might be. “I’m afraid, however, you’re just outmatched here, boy. I could have beaten a dozen of you before my transformation.”

This time as he lunged forward and stabbed out Guiche was just able to turn the blow aside in time; the force of deflecting the strike causing his bones to reverberate. Shock danced across his face for a moment before the cold mask of the Aurora returned. Once again he declined to press forward; giving way to the Prince instead as Wales’ continued the momentum and spun to cleave through the air that his foe had occupied merely an instant ago.

The ability to near-immediately turn his strokes back, even at the cost of his own joints and muscles, was terribly unfair. Each time he did it there was that horrific crack of shattering bone and the equally unpleasant snap of muscles and sinew tearing as they were subjected to force no human was meant to experience. The movement it engendered was also difficult to deal with as the whip-like motion of his broken arm changed his reach in unpredictable ways. That Wales could keep his grip under such conditions was a testament to how changed he was.

Guiche kept his stance and circled both to the side and away as the Prince consistently advanced upon him with a blistering flurry of strikes. He’d strike from above then ruin his limb to bring a blow down from below or the side; twirling the twisted arm to then either repeat either of the former strikes or even bring one in from yet a third angle. Each time Guiche barely cleared the blow by using his sword to negate enough of the momentum that he could slide clear.

Confusion was breaking through his otherwise impassive mask; a growing lack of comprehension showing on Guiche’s face. Wales smirk had long since transformed into the calm, easy smile of a man enjoying his work. As his arm cracked back into place he made use of a brand new technique; a strike from below transitioning into a strike from below by way of continuing his momentum, shattering his own shoulder to perfectly twist his arm around and restoring it in time to drive his own obsidian blade through the stone ground itself; seemingly without losing any force in the process.

This time, rapidly crumbling stone shard rained down on Guiche as the blade nearly kissed his chin on its second pass. He skidded back and pushed himself to open up a distance of several metres this time; unable to disguise the abject stupefaction that now filled his face.

A hand rose and fingers snapped as understanding suddenly dawned on the Prince’s handsome face. “Of course! You’re Guiche de Gramont, aren’t you? I see, I see. No wonder you’ve held out so long. That familiar of yours was very nearly a major setback to my King’s plans, you know. I wonder what will happen to him when I kill his master.” Wales’ tone was relaxed and could have been mistaken for kind if not for the air of condescension. “After all, we both know that’s where this is headed, don’t we?” Guiche quirked an eyebrow and became very still, slowly lowering his sword until it pointed down.

“Ah, yes. I see you finally understand, don’t you? The difference between us.” “It’s only natural. In my previous life I was already skilled enough. Now I have transcended what few flaws I had.” He stroked his chin and grinned companionably at Guiche. It was rather amusing, in a way… apart from his own rather wild hair it was easy to see himself in the abomination that now spoke down to him. “Don’t take it too hard. From the very beginning, you were outclassed in every way.”

Then something happened that the former Prince clearly hadn’t quite expected. Guiche de Gramont began to crack. First, he lowered his head for a moment; head trembling, chest shaking. That hadn’t been strange in and of itself, of course. In fact, he looked rather pleased by this turn of events.

Until, that is, Guiche reared back and burst into laughter.

At first it had started as a low chuckle as he raised his head but had soon transformed into full-bodied, hearty laughter that broke the silence that had fallen between them. Wales was so taken aback by this development that he didn’t even think to cross the distance between them and cut his enemy down. Fury still danced across his face as Guiche wiped his eyes, the light of his aurora dimming for a moment, and his indignation quickly boiled over

“Have you truly lost your mind, then? Pathetic. I think it is time to put you out of your misery.” Yet as he raised his sword and tensed himself to step forward and put an end to this farce of a battle Guiche held up a hand. For some reason, unknown to his current self, Wales paused in place.

“I do apologise, Prince Tudor, for my conduct. It is most unbecoming of me to show you such a display. Yet, I find I must also express to you my deepest gratitude.” Confusion now fell upon the monster’s features as Guiche gave him a genuinely grateful smile and a humble bow with only the tiniest bit of flourish.

When he stood up his eyes were unclouded by mirth or sorrow and the white light shining off him was brighter than ever before. Wales had to step back and nearly raised a hand to block it out before scowling and forcing through the pain. Guiche continued, his tone a mixture of amusement and self-deprecation; “You see, you have helped me more than you can possibly understand.”

“Helped you? I think you have cracked, boy. You’ve failed to withstand me at every turn save the first.” Wales gripped his black glass sword tighter, reinforcing it and himself with even more unholy flame, but was unwilling to step any closer to the soothing pyre Guiche was burning on his back.

“Not so. You see, until now I have been much like a man climbing a vast and might mountain. All I could see before me was the peak; forever staring up at the distance I still have to tread.” The tone of reverence in Guiche’s voice lacked the same zealous tone that Wales himself had displayed earlier. It was deeper than that. Wrought with more meaning than mere words could convey.

“These past few weeks I have felt… insufficient to the task before me. Every time I look to my future I see only that lonely summit which I aspire to one day reach. Yet now, thanks to you, I have at last had the occasion to look back upon my journey and see just how far I have come.” Guiche raised his sword with a practical flourish; coating it once more in a layer of moonlight and dipping his head to his foe. “And I shall show my thanks by taking this fight seriously now.”

The sheer magnitude of the insult dealt to Wales in that statement set his blood to boiling. Immediately the abomination surged forth with hate and power and unholy flames that left a thin layer of black ash wherever they passed. This time, however, Guiche advanced into the face of the assault. His blade flashed white, parting the darkness, and calmly slapped aside Wales’ with a well placed rap near the tip before using the momentum given to his blade in the other direction to calmly carve a line into the Prince’s chest.

This time Wales recoiled; flailing wildly with his black glass sword to ward off any follow-up while the dark fires within him attempted to force out the cold, unforgiving light of the distant moon that filled his wound. He couldn’t help but feel dismayed by the grace and skill in that one maneuver; two traits that Guiche hadn’t shown in any great degree in this fight until now.

“You’re fast, Wales.” As he spoke, the young man stepped forward; heedless of the blisteringly quick and equally unpredictable slashes. “But my favourite sparring partner is much faster.” To emphasise his words Guiche totally ignored the wild flailing; diving in between two slices not to cut but to strike. His forceful kick sent the monster Prince skidding backwards across the stones of the courtyards with palpable disbelief radiating from him.

As soon as he regained his balance the Prince snarled; his expression turning fierce and bestial as he attempted to recover some semblance of control over the duel. He charged forward and forwent all finesse in favour of gripping his blade with both hands and bringing it down in an almighty blow with all the strength he could muster.

“You’re strong, Wales.” Guiche matched it perfectly; supporting his sword with one hand on the handle and the other on the flat near the tip as he formed a perfect line with his full self and caught the blow in the middle of his sword. The stones beneath him buckled but the line of his body did not. “But my familiar is much stronger.” Then, adding further insult to insult and injury both he kicked out again.

Only, this time Wales’ knee took the brunt of the blow and immediately gave way. As it twisted backwards the Prince went down only to find that Guiche had taken instant advantage of the reduced pressure on his sword to free up one arm and grab him by the face. Before Wales’ could even think he was quite literally flung across the courtyard by his head to slam directly into a stone wall; face against it and head down.

“O stones ‘neath my feet, reform thyselves and reach out to smite my foe; Stone Spear!” The chant was completed with speed that would have rivalled what was once Wales’ own; finishing moments after he hit the wall and pinning him there by the resulting spike that launched itself out of the courtyard’s paving from near Guiche’s feet. “O stones ‘neath my feet…” As Guiche rapidly brought his sword about to touch it to the ground again and began his chant anew Wales desperately tried to pry himself free.

“Reform thyselves and reach out to smite my foe.” The Prince managed to get his arm around behind his back and snap off the first projectile just in time to drop off it, “Stone Spear!” … and have the next one narrowly pass between his legs; tearing at his leather riding pants in its passage. If he hadn’t fallen to the ground it would have punched through his skull instead. “Stone Spear!”

Wales rolled sideways and leapt to his feet just in time to narrowly catch the incoming bolt of rock with his non-sword hand. Casting it without a full chant had reduced the strength to nary a tenth of the original but it still delayed him for yet another instant as he had to devote attention to pulling it out of himself. This gave Guiche time to chant yet again.

“O bones of this land I hereby plead to ye! Buckle here and tremble there; Linear Quake!” A modified version of his father’s signature spell rippled forth; cracking flagstones and thoroughly tearing up the courtyard in a metre-wide line of shifting stone that caused the merest stumble in Wales. That was enough of an opening for Guiche to simultaneously chant and reach into the pocket of his vest to retrieve one of the items stored there for occasions such as this one.

“From stone not made by mortal hands, to tin and copper shaped by man, then form the serpent of the land! Bronze Hydra!” The name was his own, and the spell itself was woefully incomplete. He still needed to test it, refine it, improve on the chant and the mental image. But the Earth Stone he’d just tossed out, one of only three he’d been able to find and purchase, filled in the difference.

The paved stone beneath the gem rippled like water and then flowed upwards into it as it flew towards Wales. It was already practically liquid under the effects of the Linear Quake and this was just one step further. As it poured upwards parts of it changed to a silvery colour, parts to a more metallic orangey-red. These fused as it took its final form and immediately slithered across the unstable ground towards the Prince with the aim to encircle and constrict him.

It was really closer to one of the detached serpents that his father had used than the true Hydra that he’d created for his duel with Kenneth. However, the spirit of it was in there. More importantly, Bronze’s innate resistance to corrosion meant that the unnatural aging effect of Wales’ magic wasn’t showing its full effects. Of course, his dwarven familiar had assured him that the legendary black flames could burn even mountains to dust given enough time.

He didn’t intend to allow the Prince enough time.

“It’s funny, Wales, but you were almost right!” As he set to work he took a moment to half-taunt his foe. Only half insofar as he felt a genuine regret, of sorts, at having to do this. “You could have beaten me, once.” A quick and whispered incantation passed the spell into the stone where he stabbed it. Wales was still wrestling with his bronze snake and not having a great time of it; though he surged forth with such volume of dark flames that it was starting to tarnish the untarnishable.

“I can see it in you. Your opening stroke is that of a master. If you sustained that, then you’d win.” Another quick whisper and press into the ground as he continued to calmly circle the swirling black inferno in the middle of the courtyard at an odd angle. “But you can’t. The certainty you possess in your new ‘king’, and in your invincibility, are what defeated you.” He continued to circle and pressed another point; muttering quickly and precisely.

“What do you even know… you spoilt child!” At last the dark flames overcame the animated metal and destroyed the Earth Stone within the Bronze Hydra. Wales tore through it, tossing the flakes of metallic ash to either side as he did so, and rushed for his weapon. Guiche didn’t stop him at all; allowing him to pick it up and turn to face his adversary with hate burning in his eyes as clearly as the fire burned on his skin.

“I spent my last days fighting every minute until I was born anew. This blessing gave me the chance to correct the failings of my life. What could you possibly understand about that!” Yet his impassioned cries brought only a slow shake of the head from Guiche. Then he raised his sword, the last two Earths that made up the trigger to his work held within him.

“Imprison.” The three spells that had been laid at equidistant points around where Wales’ sword had come to a halt all triggered at once. Dozens of pillars of stone burst out of the ground from three directions; each on its own small but all together proving quite formidable indeed. They crashed not into the Prince himself but each other; forming a triangular set of bars that surrounded Wales on all sides.

“It’s funny. Three Line spells together and I’d say it barely equals a Triangle spell in form, let alone force. But this will be enough for you… won’t it, Prince?” As Guiche said that, walking towards the sealed monster, dark fire burst forth. It was the work of a moment to focus on his freshest regrets; the last meeting with his father, never being able to show him how he’d grown, his inability to protect his family.

These burned in his heart and on his shoulders as a wave of moonlight flowed outwards in response. It hurt… so very much. Yet that pain was nothing compared to what might have been had he failed here. If it was just this much, then Guiche could take it.

“Two things, Prince. Two things. First, you let your real skills slide past the first blow. Each time you aimed to exchange with me; trusting that you could take every strike I could deal out and, equally, that any blow you landed on me would be fatal.” The darkness was forced back under the cold light and retreated first into the prison and then into the unholy sigil that had replaced the Prince’s right eye.

His entire demeanour changed as the light washed over him. He quivered and collapsed against the bars; clutching at his chest and wheezing in pain. Guiche sighed and shook his head. “Kenneth told me it was true mystic darkness fused in full with elemental fire. The Aurora Requiem is mystic light fused in full with elemental cold.” He looked truly sad as he explained; waiting patiently while bathing the Prince in harsh white light.

“The light of regret chases away the darkness of denial, while the chill of the grave overwhelms the flames of unlife. You’re dying again, Prince. For good, this time.” Wales clenched one hand into a fist and pounded the other against the stone. He couldn’t swing his sword properly in the prison but even if he could his strength seemed to have left him. “I didn’t expect this to work so well. I’m glad I was right.”

“What… what was the second thing?” The skin of the Prince was darkening slowly and he croaked out his words under the barrage of frigid light. “You said… two things… what was… the second? Why am I… dying?” It was clear that he was truly begging for answers. Guiche understood his confusion. Even against the inferior versions of what Wales had become, the Wights, his cloak had never show this level of efficacy.

“Your first strike in each combination had the essence of a true master in it. I know well that level of dedication and skill. Yet, they were also flawed. You hesitated with each opening if only for an instant.” Guiche raised his sword, wretched in ethereal white light, and readied it for a thrust as he spoke. “Moonlight is the cold light of memory. The Aurora is fueled by regret. Mine, yes, but even yours. I believed that you were fighting against what you had become. Now, it seems I have been proven correct.”

“I see…” Wales chuckled weakly, and shook his head. “Unfortunately, the dedication I feel… it remains unwavering... even now. Perhaps you are right, Guiche… but I shall never know.” He looked the young Gramont directly in the eyes, then, with fresh intensity. “Whatever happens, know that I did it for Henrietta. Please tell her that.” Guiche nodded.

“I shall tell her.”

His sword flashed forward and described a line that passed right through the sigil in Wales’ right eye. As it penetrated the once-dead Prince’s brain there was a surge of negated darkness that passed through his body. When Guiche pulled the blade free he could see that Wales Tudor had returned to death with a smile on his face. It was a strange comfort to see that.

In truth, there was more than he’d had the time or inclination to say. Wales’ transformation had empowered him with inhuman toughness, but cost him much. He hadn’t cast a single Halkegenian spell in the entire battle; perhaps he’d been rendered incapable of doing so. Or perhaps Guiche had been correct and some small part of him had been resisting the power of the King.

Leaving the body where it was Guiche calmly turned and walked towards the path that the strange blackened glass zombies had taken; allowing the Aurora Requiem to return to its quiescent state in the process. He was in no particular hurry to rush after them or the Princess. The reason for this was revealed when he had calmly strolled through the archway they’d passed through and caught up with what was left of them at the stables.

Two inanimate corpses were strewn across the stable yard; each missing several large chunks of themselves and totally devoid of any animating magic. Standing nearby, delicately checking on the fainted Princess Henrietta and grumbling irritably about bad tasting magic, was the armoured body of Derflinger.

As of yet Guiche had only had the chance to spar with his former shield once. He’d been extremely surprised by the result. Despite being unfamiliar with his own body Derflinger had, without any apparent effort, wiped the floor with his young partner in arms. As it turned out, one couldn’t be wielded by a few thousand years worth of swordsman without picking up a thing or ten.

“Hey, partner! Took care of the minions. Wasn’t much of a challenge. They’re worse at this then you. Can’t stand the taste of this magic, though. It’s just the worst. And every time I have some I feel…” Derf trailed off and scratched at his helmet; turning to face the Princess instead. “She seems fine. Just fainted. Never get why damsels do that so often. How’d it go on your end?”

Guiche didn’t respond at first; checking first that the Princess was both breathing and in possession of a pulse. Then he gave her a cursory examination for any wounds. Finally, he reignited the Aurora for a moment to pour Moonlight into the dismembered bodies, just in case. At last satisfied that the situation was resolved he lifted the Princess in a bridal carry and began walking.

“It was… a satisfying, yet unsatisfying conclusion.” Derf nodded; apparently completely understanding Guche’s meaning. Defeating his opponent and understanding how much he’d grown had been very satisfying. Yet for all the joy there had been to find in the fight itself the resolution had left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He looked down at the unconscious Princess in his arms and sighed. “Come on, Derf. We need to get her back to the Queen.” The ex-shield nodded and began to trot along behind Guiche.

“Right you are, partner. Hopefully she’s still okay…” With those words hanging in the air the two of them shared an unspoken understanding and broke into a smooth run together.

 

Heavy clouds in the Germanian sky match the pall that seems to hang over its capital city. The gates are closed and guarded, soldiers stalk the streets and the people are afraid. There had been some sort of commotion in the Imperial Palace the day before and shortly thereafter the death of the Emperor had been announced; followed shortly by the date of his eldest son’s coronation.

All of this was unknown to those aboard a sleek skycraft that drifted through the rough weather above the nation. The elves manning it were tense enough without knowing of the chaos they were sailing towards. Their ‘guests’ had made sure of that.

Now the vessel’s captain had the distinct displeasure of having to speak with one of said guests; arguably the most unpleasant of the lot. The giant woman was, if acerbic, at least somewhat honest in her nature. She did not like them and made no secret of it; not stooping to any name-calling more detailed than ‘heretic’ and avoiding socialising with them as much as possible.

This… woman… was different. Where the rest of her people were guarded and cautious she seemed perpetually amused by him and his fellows. She was constantly at ease as if they couldn’t even hope to pose a threat to them. It was… vexing.

“This is as far as we shall take you.* He’d stopped what he felt to be a safe distance from her where she stood; near the ship’s prow with one foot upon the railing as she leaned over the edge and stared down at the clouds. “Any closer and we run the risk of our ship being detected.”

When he didn’t get a response he cleared his throat and continued. “We’ll stay at this height until nightfall, and then put you down.” Even then, for a time she said nothing. Then, just as he was considering speaking up again, she snorted and shook her head.

"Honestly, what fool granted your kind the name of Álf?" The horrible woman turned to stare at the ship's captain; contempt burning golden in her gaze. Almost literally, in fact, as the unholy light that took form in her gaze moved and flowed like liquid metal rather than actual illumination. "Clearly, they had never met ones truly deserving of the moniker if they would say it of cowards such as you." Fearsome or not, the insult still caused the elf the bristle with impotent indignance. He did not seek to stoop to her level, however, and merely rebuked her with a polite tone.

"We do not fear the humans in the least. Conflict with them is beneath us." Something about his statement must have greatly amused the otherworldly visitor because she grinned nastily at him and shook her head; turning her back to him again with nary a care in her stance.

"And that is why they shall ruin you, in the end. You seek neither to destroy them, nor to make peace with them; relying on fear and old stories to keep them at bay, and your old magic when that inevitably doesn't work." And now it was his turn to be a little smug. Regardless of what the witch-woman thought, their 'old magic' had proven effective time and time again at repelling even the greatest assaults that humanity could bring to bear against them.

"It has yet to fail us in that service." Although he was forced to recall that, not a few days hence, it had failed twice in rapid succession; once before the warhammer of the armoured titan standing on the prow, and once beneath the abominable blades of this hateful harridan. Once more, however, she seemed to only find amusement in his attempt at rebuttal.

"Well then, as thanks for transporting us thus far I shall leave you with these parting thoughts.” Her tone was conversational, yet dripping with disdain as surely as her eyes dripped with golden light. The smile she wore was openly mocking but somehow threatening as well.

“Fear is more powerful a motivator than your kind can scarcely imagine. And old magic?" She spun the dagger she'd been playing with all this time around in the air, its strangely shaped blade drawing an impossible line in the air as it dropped straight into her forearm sheathe. Then she stepped up onto the railing and looked him dead in the eyes.

"Old magic shall always abandon you, in the end." And at that, Yas'dei the Farstrider let herself fall backwards from the rail; dropping like a stone towards the ground below. The captain, aghast, watched her drop; only to realise that her crimson-cloaked fellows were doing the same all around him. Wood creaked and the door to the lower decks opened to reveal the armoured titan stepping forth with purpose in her stride.

The captain watched in stunned silence as she too, perhaps a half-ton of metal and muscle, walked up to the edge of his ship and jumped the railing with nary a glance back at him. Around him his crew were equally disoriented. They’d been warned by the huge woman that this would happen, but knowing about it was nothing compared to the reality of having their memories so viciously clouded. Eventually he managed to compose himself.

“... turn around. We’re going home. They can… find their own way back.” And as he said that, even with the fine details of almost every exchange he’d had with the strangers aboard his vessel already beyond his reach, not one bit of him doubted that they could.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

A farmer examining the thunderous crash he heard the night before would later find one massive and inexplicable crater in the middle of one of his fields. There was no way for him to locate the similar, much-smaller markings around it as they were no more than crushed grass. Although he could have followed the clear and heavy footprints out of the crater he was far too shocked by its presence to do so; and in any case, the one who had made it was already long gone by the time he’d come to investigate.

Hours before he’d even got out of bed, yet mere minutes after the sound that had caused him to awaken earlier, its maker could be found sprinting across the landscape; more or less unencumbered by her massively heavy armour. That, Yas’dei mused, was one of the benefits of being one of the Blooded. While her own position certainly carried benefits the impossible advantages afforded to Red, the Iron Wolf, were certainly to be envied.

That thought aside, they were all at an advantage here. Her own runes were recharging at a blistering pace compared to home. All of the little tricks she’d normally squeeze out of them in a desperate flight from a murderous creature could be used with impunity. Her speed had increased noticeably as she realised this; with her compatriots accelerating soon thereafter to match her in kind.

Amusingly, the slowest one of their group was Red herself; though from seeing the horrifying turn of pace that the Holy Warrior was pulling off one wouldn’t think so. In the end, Yas’dei slowed to keep pace with her and told the others to spread out. One took lead, one the rear, with two to each side for a diamond formation. Another two, meanwhile, roamed afield and returned to report back while replacing two of the others in a rotating sequence.

This way, the Entitled One received information about the landscape from her followers that more than made up for the delay of reducing their speed to match their charge. Their movement rate was exaggerated enough by the high-magic environment that such a loss didn’t particularly bother her.

Yas'dei slowed now and then as they ran; taking a moment to sniff the air and stare at ground and sky both. The other Ki'rai paid their leader no mind; too focused on watching their sides as the group moved quickly across the unfamiliar terrain. Red, however, noticed as keenly as anyone could.

Perhaps half an hour after landing they stopped on a hill overlooking the city that was their target to discuss their entry. It was there that the topic was at last, as Yas’dei predicted, broached by her main travelling companion.

"You seem ill at ease, Farstrider." The Entitled One glanced at her titanic compatriot and fell into an easy smirk. Obfuscation came so easily to her that it could be said to be her first nature, rather than her second and so she diverted the concerns with nary a moment’s hesitation.

"It is our way to be so, Iron Wolf. Relaxing is for the dead." Such a response clearly didn’t put Red at ease. Her stance, already guarded, tightened up. She was a consummate warrior through and through; clearly ready to shift to battle at a moment’s notice and, judging by her tone of voice, more than willing to do so.

"Do not keep secrets from me." Yas'dei snorted but nodded; looking away from the other woman and to the city below them. If it came down to it the group of Ki’rai could kill the woman, albeit at a grave price; though, that would be somewhat like slitting the throat of a prized laying hen just because it scratched at you when you got too close.

"There is something here. So much magic, so thick, but behind it I can feel something... foul. It is on the air, and below the ground. Foul... and, perhaps, familiar." Concern filled Red's face at those words. Anything familiar to a Ki'rai could be nothing but bad news for everyone else.

"You suspect something." That drew a laugh from the smaller woman; as sharp and mirthless as her hollow grin.

"Always, Red. Always. But this... what I suspect ought to be impossible." Her smile faded into a dark frown as she continued to regard the city below; eyes burning with molten gold as she saw it for what it really was. "Unfortunately, my experiences with impossible things tell me they rarely care about the fact that they are so."

Red nodded, but didn’t respond. She was one of the chosen of the Gods themselves on top of all of her other accomplishments. Her life was nothing but a series of what lesser men may have called impossibilities; particularly the specific one that had brought them to this world.

“... Kenneth should be in there.” She inclined her head towards the city beyond in lieu of continuing their discussion. Most likely, Yas’dei thought to herself, she was unwilling to pry into anything that could visibly rattle the Entitled Ki’rai. “From what those ‘elves’ knew of the human lands, it sounds like this ‘Germania’ would most appeal to him.”

Yas’dei nodded. From what little she knew of Kenneth Manson, which was obviously far less than his wife, he was liable to gravitate towards a country that had a language he was particularly comfortable with. It would be eerie how similar this ‘Germanian’ was to the Dwarvish tongue she was familiar with if it weren’t for the simple fact that Yas’dei found almost nothing to be so these days.

She’d seen far too much for low-class linguistic contrivances to unnerve her.

“Let’s go.” Red started down the hill; unslinging her warhammer and holding it near the head as she broke into a run again. One hand gesture from Yas’dei brought her Ki’rai to her side. As the hero drew away from them she pointed them at different targets and gave instructions with her other hand. One by one they flickered away as crimson blurs towards their appointed tasks and the Entitled One nodded with a faint smile. Then she pulled on her own mask and set off behind the crusader.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

It was the noise that first roused the gate guards. At the time it was still within the early hours of the day; dawn was imminent but not yet arrived and their shift had been a long one. Anyone, save perhaps their rather demanding Captain, could have forgiven them for being a little slow on the draw.

Could have, but would not have to; for the first cracking sound from down the road brought both of them quickly out of their stupor and into a ready position with muskets in hand and bayonet-spears fixed. Yet neither man was prepared for what he saw approaching them from down the road.

A titan of steel was descending upon them. Their first thoughts were that one of Halkegenia’s increasingly rare giantkin had descended from the distant mountains to attack their city. Yet this was impossible for a number of reasons; chief amongst which was the aforementoned steel that clad this figure from head to toe.

Heavy plate armour on their legs and arms. Brigandine and lamellar adorning their chest. A snarling wolf’s head embossed on to the full helm. All topped up with a massive warhammer held lazily in one hand. The cracking noise that had roused them was plainly seen in the surface of the road; the huge, land-devouring strides of the thing approaching them shattering the paved surface at every impact.

A shot rang out; surprising even the guard who fired it. He’d only meant to level his weapon at the potential foe and call out a warning. The reverberation underfoot had unnerved him, however, and his unsteady hand had accidentally pulled the trigger. Even more shocking was that his errant shot was, even at the great distance the figure was approaching from, still on target.

Yet the greatest surprise of all was that the shot struck the figure’s suddenly outstretched palm and ricocheted off it into the road below. Followed by their rate of approach inexplicably increasing. Before either man could think to shout and sound the alarm the titan had arrived; skidding to a semi-halt as they quickly adjusted the grip on their hammer and, rather than swinging it, thrust it forward.

The head hit the closed gate top-first and exploded in a blast of blue light. And yet at the same time not light but fire, not fire but glass, not glass but water. Flowing and shattering and burning all at once as it translated magical energy into raw kinetic force that saw the momentum of the strike pass beautifully into the wood of the gate until it reached its limits and then, rather unceremoniously, surpassed them.

Inside the city the confused guards at the first watch post, who had just started to prepare for their day when they’d heard some sort of commotion from outside the gate that had culminated in a shot being fired, suddenly heard a tremendous crash upon the gate; followed by the foot-thick wooden beam used to secure it cracking loudly and then snapping in the middle. The gates exploded open with enough force to cause the massive hinges to warp; thus bringing each huge door to a screeching halt almost as quickly as they had jerked open.

Stepping through them, flagstones cracking beneath their feet, came a three-meter tall figure clad all in armour and pulling a hammer back into a rest position on their shoulder. Outside the gate were two guards standing still with their weapons slipping from their hands; each as broken as a man could be while his body was still whole.

“Ah… alarm! Alarm! Open fire!” The soldiers lowered their muskets and shot as best they could at the already departing figure, to little effect. Those shots that were accurate seemed incapable of piercing the armour worn by the monster. Bullets bounced off at sharp angles if they hit the plates, or else struck the lamellar to no discernible effect.

Nevertheless, the cries spread faster than even the monster assailing their city could run. Guards were mustered, Knights were rallied, and the forces of the city sallied forth in defense of their home.

When the metal behemoth reached the inner wall, and with it the gate to the palace, they were confronted by an armoured pike hedge. The sound of hoofbeats could be heard from the streets to either side; still some distance away but maneuvering for a charge from the rear to drive this foe into the waiting pikes. Yet more important still were the Nobles.

They were not amongst the rabble; having used their various magics to acquire higher ground from which to bombard this most curious foe. One chanted in the ancient tongue; calling upon the elements and their founder to incinerate their enemy. However, nothing would come of it. Just as they were finishing the spell there was a flicker of movement, a memory of colour and then a thick spray of blood from the man’s throat.

His fellow Nobles who had happened to be facing him felt suddenly disoriented; a memory of something moving incredibly quickly in their minds that lasted a moment before a similar fate befell them. Not a one among them was able to get a spell off as crimson spectres descended upon them like the shadows of death.

Below them their target had not even slowed its stride. It sprinted directly into the waiting polearms; shattering their shafts under the force of its charge as it went directly through the obstacle. Men and weapons alike were pushed aside with contemptuous ease until, at last, it reached the doorway.

A wave of flaming blue light exploded outwards from the roaring figure. It moved like water and shattered like glass and cleared a wide circle around its origin by literally flinging men out of its way in the manner of a far more physical wave than its appearance would imply.

The Germanian soldiers could only watch in horror as the thing adjusted the grip on its greathammer and swung it in an almost lazy arc that nevertheless made a sharp whistling with its passage. When the head struck the wood the sound was thunderous; force transmitted down the weapon’s handle into the armour, down the arm, down the body and straight into the ground. The stones beneath them snapped outwards in a spider-web pattern just as surely as the middle of the gate was rendered into so much kindling.

And there, standing beyond the gate, was their new Emperor.

None of them had seen the Crown Prince in weeks. Longer, even. He’d left to ‘find himself’, as many knew, and returned only a few days since in a fine carriage yet concealed from the public eye. Then his father had perished suddenly and the palace had been sealed to visitors save the most loyal courtiers and nobody knew what was going on.

Now that they saw him the assembled soldiers, and few remaining Nobles, wished they had not.

His appearance was frightful. They’d always known the Prince to be a somewhat homely lad with a certain fondness for baked goods that had lent him an almost porcine appearance that was, in its own way, almost charming. In spite of this, or perhaps because of, he was known to be studious and more-or-less kind and at the very least rather earnest.

What stood before them was sallow-faced and sunken-eyed; wearing the ceremonial armour of his station but without any of the gravitas of his father. There was a dark coldness in his eyes now, and he looked like he’d lost a great deal of weight very quickly. In his right hand was a long, thin-bladed sword that looked to be an estoc made of black glass while in his left hand burned a fire so dark that it seemed to create shadows in place of smoke.

“Who dares trespass upon this domain?” The voice was familiar to those who’d met him before. Familiar while being so very wrong. Surely their Prince had not been that sharp of tone, that harsh of manner? “If you bend the knee, savage, I shall ensure your death is a painless one.”

No. This was not their Prince. But now it was their Emperor and they were duty-bound to serve; mustering as best they could to surround the figure from behind. The Emperor’s own bodyguards, wearing full-helm and plate, stood ready at his side. They were wielding the same unfamiliar weapon as he did; swords of black glass that looked sinisterly serrated. Like instruments of cruelty rather than weapons of war.

“No quarter to heretics. No mercy to the unrighteous. No parley with evil.” To their great surprise their silent enemy spoke; with a voice full of power and pride and even for all that, recognisably female. That this titanic being was a woman of some sort did nothing to soothe the wounded egos of the soldiers. Indeed, many bristled even harder with the knowledge. For his part the new Emperor frowned and then raised his flaming hand.

“So be it!” He gestured, and searing flames leapt the distance betwixt them; eating up the light to form a swirling vortex of ruin. His expression of disinterested contempt faded in an instant when a curious golden light shone from the woman’s eyes, when the blue glass-fire surged forth and coated their armour and when she swung the hammer in a wide arc that harmlessly dispersed the incoming darkness.

She said nothing more in the moments that followed. They were mere moments; the Emperor’s guards utterly unable to react to the rush that further broke the stones beneath her feet as she pushed forward. That wide swing was brought to an impossible halt and redirected into an overhand smash that shone with azure light and golden energy. The last thing the Emperor saw as he stared in mute disbelief was the monstrous face inscribed on the hammer’s head before it introduced itself to his skull, brain, spine, collarbone, rib cage, pelvis and feet.

In that order.

While the soldiers stared mutely at the bloody, metallic smear that had been, seconds ago, their Emperor his personal guards reacted with fury. Black fires leaked out of helmets and on to their weapons as they moved to attack; only to find that they could not, in fact, move.

Figures in red cloaks were standing around them; each one having neatly pierced one of the six Royal Guards through the heart with a weapon of some description. Nobody could really say where they had come from, nor where they went to afterwards, nor if they had even truly been there. All they could really recall where that there had been someone in red, and then the Royal Guards had all collapsed while the titan made her way, unopposed, up the stairs to the palace.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

“He is not here.” Red spoke again as soon as she’d finished kicking open the front door to the palace. Yas’dei could tell she was frowning under the armour. Honestly, the Entitled One was doing the same behind her mask; but she wouldn’t let Red know that.

“How do you figure?” She asked with only the vaguest hint of curiosity as she dropped down from above; having already entered the room through one of the now-broken windows above. The same scent she’d gotten from the Wights and that… whatever the ‘Emperor’ had been was thick here.

“Kenneth would have killed all Wights already.” There was a note of pride in her voice as she spoke of her diminutive husband, but nobody present would disagree with her. For all his many, many, many flaws as a dwarf, a husband, and a person in general nobody could gainsay Kenneth Manson’s combat record.

This was, after all, the same individual who had decided to propose to the foremost smith in all of Kelicho by presenting her with the severed heads of a dozen Ashwalkers.

“Fair enough.” Her eyes burned golden again as Yas’dei stared at the ground, then back to where the Emperor had died. That distinctly unpleasant theory was getting stronger and stronger the longer she stood there. “So, now what?” Red hoisted her hammer on to her shoulder and strolled calmly through the entry hall; eyeing up the finery with an air of distaste.

“Ask if anyone has seen him. If so, I will go there. If not, the next capital city. In the meantime, kill anyone who tries to stop me.” For all that she said that, it was notable that she’d not slain anyone yet. Well, except for the so-called ‘Emperor’; but the Ki’rai didn’t count unholy abominations as people.

“... we’d better hurry, then. Because I think I just found my impossibility.” The tone of Yas’dei’s voice was notably higher pitched and made Red pause for a moment. She then turned to see what the Entitled had seen and let out a low oath to her Goddess.

There, on the banners hanging from the wall on either side of the doorway, was a brand new image burned overtop the Germanian symbol. One that filled both women’s stomachs with thick knots of rising dread as they took in exactly what that meant.

For there, clearly inscribed, was the sigil they knew as the Dawn of a Dying Sun.

The profane mark of the First Grave of Kelicho.

The unholy seal of the Death of Old.

The Symbol of Kormat: Dead God of the Dead.